Afterworld (The Orion Rezner Chronicles Book 1) (5 page)

“Master Wizard Kronos,” said the center wizard, “we have granted Wizard Rezner his title on your recommendation, and your voice has been heard. Please sit.”

Kronos shook his head and sat grudgingly.

The eldermaster looked me over and then conferred with his peers in hushed whispers. Finally he looked back over his crooked nose. “Wizard Rezner, during the exorcism, what did the demon do to try and rattle you?”

“Sir?” I asked, trying to avoid the question.

“Demons battle the mind when attempting to forcefully possess a body. What did the demon do?”

I was getting annoyed and starting to feel cornered. “I assume Father Killroy has told you all about it in his report. With all due respect, Eldermaster, why ask me a question you know the answer to?”

“To gauge your sensitivity to the matter, of course.”

Guess I failed
that one.

“Your sister…Does your pain and a sense of revenge guide your decision to join the next search party?”

Shit
!

I couldn’t lie—it was pointless against centuries-old wizards—but I couldn’t tell the truth, either. “Of course it has to do with it. It has everything to do with it. We all lost loved ones in the Culling, and we all have a sense of revenge. I am no different.”

“You believe her to still be alive, do you not?” He asked the question as if saying checkmate.

I shuffled where I stood, though I tried not to move. Every action seemed obviously awkward. “I don’t know.”

“She is Cain, is she not?” He cocked an eyebrow, and my nostrils flared as I felt myself redden.

“I don’t know for sure.” Technically I hadn’t lied, but I wasn’t about to tell them what the demon had told me, either. They whispered among themselves once more, and I’d nearly had enough.

“Very well. You shall go with the next search party and accompany the hunters. You will obey the party leader as if he was your master, and your main objective shall be to keep safe the party members.”

“Yes, Eldermaster.” I bowed to the elders and they rose to leave. After I turned on my heel to do likewise, the eldermaster called to me again.

“Wizard Rezner.”

“Eldermaster?”

“The party will be bringing no Cain back to Boston.”

I
left the Temple of Light eager to report to the Boston Militia, housed at the old Coast Guard base. Behind me, Master Wizard Kronos yelled as a father might to a kid who was in trouble. I had hoped to outpace him.

My Russian master came with long, purposeful strides to stand before me. All that could be seen of his face were two beady eyes of gray and a wide, flat nose. His large, bushy mustache and gray, tobacco-stained beard left his mouth hidden, and his full head of scraggly hair hung in clumps about his forehead. He was the only wizard I had ever seen who wore a cloak made of animal furs…in the summer.

“You make me hot just looking at you,” I said.

“I’m coming with,” he told me, his accent as thick as Russian snow.

I knew there would be no discussion on the matter. He never budged.

Bartholomew Kronos had been born in 1922. He became a wizard at the age of forty, after twenty years as an apprentice. I’ve been told he served the Russian branch of the Council of Light as a bounty hunter, searching out and taking, alive or dead, renegade wizards and witches. He likes long walks on hot coals, nights alone with his knives, and watching snakes eat their prey.

In mother Russia he was known as Monotok, which, translated, means Hammer. He wears a hammer on his belt, and it is one of the most beautiful works of art I have ever seen, though I had yet to see him use it. The metal shaft is as long as my arm from elbow to fingertip and leads to a head the size of a cinder block, which is housed in twisting metal bands. At the top is a lone, two-inch spike.

He once told me—during a rare moment of bonding, and after many shots of vodka—that the head of his hammer was made from the remains of a shooting star which landed deep in the forest near his village, and that it held the power of a comet. He’d named it Starkiller.

I raised my eyes from the hammer to Master Kronos and shook my head. “Haven’t you been riding my ass long enough, Hammertime?” I was annoyed. I wouldn’t have dared speak to him that way yesterday, but I had been promoted by the council, and I was hoping to never have to put up with his crap again.

For the two years of my apprenticeship he was colder than a Russian winter and less forgiving than a cheap vodka hangover. Never have I received a compliment or kind word from the man—only how bad I do everything and what a waste of time I am. But I never stopped trying to please him. It was so bad the first year, I wanted to quit daily and thought for sure I was failing miserably. It wasn’t until I went out on a few field tests within the city that I realized I was kind of good at wizardry—compared to the other apprentices, at least.

Master Kronos took my cheeks in his hands and squeezed until I was giving him fishy-kiss lips. “I will ride your ass long after I am dead.” He slapped me twice…hard.

“Son of a bitch,” I said, rubbing my face.

He turned and left without a word.

The last thing I wanted, on my first time out of the city, was his old ass eyeballing my every move.

I looked down at Dude, who was making himself crazy trying to catch a butterfly. “Look on the bright side, bro. We’re wizards now. Hammertime can’t own our asses forever.”

He jumped up and down and did circles around me, nearly slamming into a woman who was walking toward the temple. She reared and nearly jumped out of her skin as she seemed to notice the chimpanzee for the first time.

“Watch out, Dude!” I said.

The woman jerked her head to me and lifted her too-big sunglasses. “I’m a woman, you moron.” Disgusted, she turned and hurried off on her way.

“I was talking to the…”

She disappeared inside before I could finish.

I looked at Dude and we both shrugged.

“Jinx, you owe me a soda,” he said in sign language, before I could even speak the words.

“Damn, you win. All right then, we’ll hit the pub, but first we go to the armory.”

I walked home with a new pep in my step, good ole Roaring 2020s jazz playing in my head. I was finally a wizard of the Order of Franklin, which meant that I could go to the armory at Harvard and choose from a variety of magical weaponry, and also not-so-magical weaponry.

Wands, staffs, trinkets, and medallions would normally be handcrafted by their wielders, but these were different times. Much like my katana, the weapons were crafted by elder masters to be used by all wizards of the order. There was no time these days for patient creation of one’s own tools. And unlike the spells that had to be read precisely from spell books, magical items were created by enchantments that could be used indefinitely.

As I walked on top of the world, I looked around for Old Ben. There was no sign of him. He shows up whenever he wants, and leaves likewise. It takes some getting used to, especially when he appears while you’re dropping a deuce.

When I reached the apartment, he was sitting on the stoop, writing in a small book, but he promptly stashed it in his pocket as I approached. He was a bit more translucent than usual, and though the sun had much to do with it, I suspected the light show against the demon had taken a toll as well. I found myself worried about my old mentor and shuddered at the thought of going into battle without him.

“Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing,” he said, beaming. It was his way of congratulating me.

I smiled back. “Thanks, Ben.” He was really the only reason I got through Bartholomew “The Hammer” Kronos’s teachings. I was lucky to have him.

“Sup, Rez.”

The voice came from the part of the stoop I was blind to, but it belonged to my friend and fellow wizard Johnny Mushiro. He stepped into view and I yelled, “Mushi!” and gave him the old Class of 2040 handshake. Johnny and I had been roommates up until a few weeks ago and had both been busy studying for our Final Rite of Passage since.

“So?” he asked, apprehensively.

“What do you mean ‘so’? Why does it have to be me who might have failed?”

Johnny stood and raised his shoulders. “Because you suck, little Nikita.”

I busted a gut—he does a perfect imitation of Kronos.

When the Culling went down, he had gotten stuck here on a college out boarding program from Japan. When the Elders decided to begin testing the general population, he passed as well. We’ve been best friends ever since our first year.

“Sooo?” he pressed.

“Yeah, man, I passed my test. Had to help exorcise a friggin’ demon.”

“No wayyy,” he said longingly, as if his own test hadn’t been so exciting.

I hit him in the shoulder. “What about you, man? Out with it.”

“I passed, no big deal. Had to fight and subdue a werewolf without killing it.”

“Holy shit, Mushiro, you took down Master Wizard Drake?”

“Yeah, man. It was easy—he couldn’t use any spells, just straight up werewolf style. I did a mimic spell, cloaked myself in a tree above my illusion, and then trapped him in binding spell. It was awesome. He freaked out and went ape shit. Sorry, Dude. No offense.”

I unsheathed Inazuma with a ringing of metal. Mushiro nodded and produced a sheath of his own. On his insistence, I had trained in swordplay with him for the last two years. I was getting pretty good, but had yet to land a killing blow against him—he kicked my ass constantly. When we learned that, upon completion of training, we would receive a powerful magical weapon of our choice, Mushiro and I had set our sights on the two blades.

His scabbard looked like sheer black ice, and was inlayed with pearl whirlwinds and storm clouds.

“Arashi, Storm Blade,” he said, clearly in love, and unsheathed the beauty. The song of the sword echoed throughout the street with a long pristine ring.

Much like wands or staffs, the swords were enchanted to be conduits of certain spells. Mine had been imbued with lightning. Mushiro’s would enhance his wind and water spells.

“What do ya think, Dude? Is it me?” I asked.

He shook his head, staring longingly, and signed, “No, Dude blade please.”

“Well then, Mushi, this calls for celebration. Wanna hit the armory with me and then the pub?”

“The armory,” he said dreamily, as if he had forgotten that he now had a right to its contents. “Oh, hells yeah, Roundeye!”

M
ushiro and I, being the badass wizards that we are, jumped on our solar-powered scooters. We cruised across the Charles River and headed to the Harvard armory.

A pickup truck approached from behind and the driver began blasting his horn. Mushiro and I were in the right lane, and he had more than enough room. I waved him on, but the horn blared again. “Get outta the way, dorks!” the driver yelled, leaning out his window.

The passenger—and three guys standing in the back, leaning on the roof—laughed and started throwing empty beer cans.

“Go around, dickweed!” Mushiro yelled back.

The driver laid on the horn and revved the big engine, coming within inches of our scooters. Mushiro began screaming what must have been Japanese obscenities and pulled out a wand.

“That’s a really bad idea,” I warned him.

“So is screwing with me!” he yelled back at the truck.

I finally convinced him to move over some more, and the truck full of douchebags blew by.

We get a lot of crap from the meatheads who survived the Culling. Unfortunately, assholes can also have a natural immunity. And we, being wizards, can’t put them in their places with magic—it’s against the code. So we have to take their shit like Amish dudes with superpowers. It’s a bit frustrating, but I hear it builds character.

We cruised toward Harvard looking like Japanese Fonz meets a Bee Gee—okay, I’m pretty much in love with the whole latter half of the twentieth century—the whine of our scooters pronouncing our awesomeness to the world. It was a short ride due to the lack of traffic, and the fact that the city’s thousands of abandoned cars had come in handy when building the protective wall before the spell shield was enacted.

We reached Harvard and raced, pushing each other to the armory like kids fighting over Easter eggs. Laughing, we crashed through the doors of the small building and came face to face with Kronos.

In his right hand, my master wizard held an old-school, western-looking six shooter. I found its twin holstered on his other hip. Across his back he carried a mean looking shotgun.

“Out there is every nightmare that ever scared child. Prepare yourselves well,” he said cryptically, getting closer with every word.

“That’s a good idea, Hammertime. You think we should go to—gee, I don’t know—some sort of armory?” I asked.

Mushiro chuckled.

Dude pawed at the pistol at Kronos’s side, but the wizard put a hand on his head, keeping him just out of reach.

He gave me the stink-eye and then looked at the chimp. “Why you no listen when I tell you choose animal well? This one no good—cause more trouble than any.”

“Well,” I said, looking down at Dude with him, “they were all out of cats, and owls are just too Harry Potter.”

Kronos pointed into the distance. “Vampire, werewolf, demon, armed drone, robot dog, Cain—these await us, boy. Silver bullet, wood-stake crossbow, rock-salt-loaded shotgun, wand of fire and of wind, protection spell and wards—these you will need.”

Duh
.

I murmured parts of what he had said, as if determined to memorize the list. “Check and check. Are we out of bread or milk?”

Kronos sneered, disgusted, and leaned in—with what must have been rotten-reindeer-meat breath. “You are a funny man, yes? Just remember, dead is not funny, funny man.”

He turned and walked through the swinging glass doors. Stopping just outside the threshold, he looked to the sky. Within seconds a huge falcon came and landed on his outstretched arm. He glanced over his shoulder, knowing exactly how cool he looked, and stalked off into the twilight.

“Man, Rez, that dude is never gonna let up.”

I sighed. “Probably not.”

We were let in by the guards after they cleared us, a process that took too long. My anticipation of the wealth of crazy gear that waited consumed my thoughts. Once we were given the go-ahead, a hidden door opened. We went through and stepped into a sleek room of shining black.

A grizzled-looking guy in his fifties, wearing an eye patch, greeted us and our wide-open mouths.

“Welcome to the armory,” he said from the shadows, and hit a button on what looked like a TV remote control. Lights gleamed to life, illuminating the empty room. With another click the room began to change. Sections of the smooth walls parted and slid open, revealing an astounding array of weaponry.

“Holy shitballs,” said Johnny, and Dude cooed his agreement.

“Holy shitballs is right,” said the eye-patch-wearing old guy. He looked at us with consideration. “Name’s Clarence Shepard. I’m the guy who knows every weapon in this room. You’re welcome to look around, but I already know what you need.”

He wasn’t a tall man by any means, but neither was he short. He had the air of a Texan, and the strut and confidence of a man who carried a gun on a regular basis—and knew how to use it. There’s no law against being armed in the Boston refuge, but still, most people do not carry. Like many old habits from before the Culling, learned helplessness was hard for many to overcome. Shepard looked like a dude who had been packing heat since before he could walk. His gray camo shirt did nothing to hide his solid form, and I couldn’t help but notice his many scars.

The tour started with the smallest pistols and continued on to huge-ass machine guns. We spent the better part of an hour gauging and drooling over the weapons. Hot out of training and ready for some blood, we were bulletproof and we knew it. Our hands couldn’t fondle the instruments of our vengeance fast enough.

“You boys are new wizards, right? Well, you can eyeball that big stuff all day, but you gotta remember your load. You need a free hand for wands and staffs and whatnot, right? That means one-handed guns are preferable to these beasts—though they’ll clear a room fast. Besides, you guys are just going into FEMA Zone 1, Sector 8—your team will be carrying some heavy weapons. I would guess a minigun—and they’ll probably bring some armored rigs.”

Shepard was right. The search party we were heading out with would be armed to the teeth. Still, I wasn’t trusting anyone else to save my ass when my energy and ability to cast spells ran out, and he had magical rounds for every caliber. I grabbed a pistol-grip, sawed-off shotgun from one of the walls and returned to the handguns. I had enough close-up power with the shotgun; now I set my eyes on accuracy. The old Glock 27 would do just fine. It was a weapon I knew well, and it could hold a twenty-four-round clip. During our time at Harvard we were grilled in combat wizardry, which included using both your head and guns whenever possible. We also, therefore, spent a great deal of time in the study of ammunitions enchantments. I grabbed two Glocks and a double holster, to boot. As a second thought, I snagged a small .357 Magnum—you never know.

Dude was being uncharacteristically good. I was glad of it. While he can be a pain in the ass off duty, he takes his work very seriously. Across the room I noticed Old Ben admiring an eighteenth century musket. Our eyes met, and his told me he yearned to be able to recount the tales of his time. Instead, he just laughed to himself, lost in nostalgia.

Done with the regular gear, I nudged Johnny with a grin. “Hey, Shepard, where’s your magical loot?”

The good Shepard clasped his hands together and wrung them with a devious grin. “I was hoping you would ask me that.” He clicked another button on his remote, and the displays of guns rotated to reveal an all-you-can-eat buffet of magical weaponry.

“First things first, men.” He patted us both on the back and walked behind a table of ammo. “What is your cal. and what is your flavor?”

I told him the calibers and what “flavor” they should be. There were three options: silver bullets, wood-tipped bullets containing capsules of holy water, and explosive ultraviolet rounds. I took some of each—after all, I had three pistols. The bullets were meant for werewolves and vampires, but they would work just as well on the Cain. For the shotgun I went for rock salt cartridges infused with holy water and iron shards.

Johnny loaded up and we moved on to the wand display. What we were looking for were the basic, all-purpose variety. All wands acted like a focal point and greatly amplified the power of a spell, but some were also enchanted or specially crafted to enhance certain kinds of spells. There were very powerful wands for focusing only fire, water, or wind, for example, but those were better in the hands of more experienced wizards.

I selected a basic dark-cherry wand and liked its weight. I found a few more for back-ups, and grabbed leg straps for them all—a bunch of wands on your belt tends to hamper mobility.

I moved on past the staffs. They were more useful to seasoned wizards, as well, and I really had no room for one anyway. I grabbed a few hex bags made by elder witches, and other small tools of warding, and came to the armor.

Hanging on display were full-body suits of enchanted Kevlar with chain mail at the seams and joints. I chose a dark blue one, and Johnny went for black and red.

Next was a variety of enchanted cloaks in all shapes and sizes.

“Now, when it comes to these cloaks,” said Shepard, “you boys are gonna want to choose wisely. You got a wide variety to pick from. The strongest enchantments are single enchantments—as you know—so you got powerful single-enchantment cloaks, and then you got multi-use. There are two basic kinds for each. These will protect you from bullets, fangs, claws, blades, and all that, as well as fire and weight—like say a car happens to fall on ya. Now, against Cain and drones they’ll do fine, but mind, they have their limits. Over here you got your supernatural protection cloaks, which will shield you from spells and the like. If you’re facing something specific, then go single use. If you don’t know what you’re up against, go for the multi.”

I thought about what we might face out there. I already had the Kevlar body suit for bullets and blades, but could you really have too much protection against these things? It was possible, but unlikely, that we would run into a pack of werewolves or vampires, and I figured the biggest threats to be the Cain and the Elite’s highly advanced war machines. I decided against a supernatural defense cloak and went for one of general protection instead. Properly geared, I meandered over to the spell books while Shepard loaded all our crap into huge hockey bags.

“Not much to choose from,” I said, regarding the two spell books on the counter—“pamphlets” was more like it.

“You’re new wizards. This is all you get for now, killer. Come back alive—maybe they’ll let you at the big boom spells.” He wore a condescending smile, topped with mirth.

“I have the same spells in my own books at home.” Disgusted, I flipped through one of the two “books.” I’d hoped to get a chance to do some real casting. My disappointment was paramount.

“Never saw this one,” Mushiro pointed out.

I looked to where he indicated, stepping closer to read it. I translated the title softly to myself, and peripherally caught a small change in Shepard’s body language as he quieted to hear.

Molecular Zero, it was called.

I scanned over what was a freezing spell like nothing I had ever seen, with very little drain on the caster. Mushiro snatched the book from me, looked it over quickly, and we smiled at each other like kids with a new BB gun.

We left the armory, content and gliding on top of the world. We loaded up our scooters and cruised home to our respective apartments—with stupid grins and the wheeze of our bogged-down rides. Dude stood atop my hockey bag like a king claiming new land, fearlessly holding my collar and pointing me home. Beneath his Superman outfit he wore a Kevlar vest that Shepard had found for him, fitted for a small child. He was the happiest ape in the Afterworld.

I locked up all my loot and took a quick sponge bath—what, you think there are hot showers after end times?—and spiffed myself up nice. Within a half an hour I was parking my ride outside Fracco’s Pub & Grill, a nice quiet place that is never full.

The nice thing about the end of the world is the far less amount of stupid people in the way. And I really cannot express how good it is to overhear conversations about seed storage, herd maintenance, water conservation, music theory, the arts, poetry, philosophy—the list goes on, but basically: things that matter in our day and age. Back before the Culling, it seemed to be bad manners to talk about anything important, and when you did, you were bombarded with programmed responses that people didn’t even know they were regurgitating.

Walking down the steps to Fracco’s feels like coming home. It is a nice small pub, with a bar at the back wall that seats no more than ten. To the left are an old jukebox, a pool table, darts, and four booths. To the right are a small stage and seven scattered tables for two.

There was only a handful of people in the pub tonight, and they were all from our graduating class. Dude wasted no time and sprang across Fracco’s with glee. He knew what awaited him. Pushing Mushi aside, he scampered up a stool and stood with hands upon the bar, holding an invisible fork and knife.

“One mozzarella sandwich coming up,” said the owner and bartender, Paul Fracco.

Dude gave a screech and bobbed his head.

“And extra pickles,” Fracco added, with a wink and finger-gun bang. He turned to me. “Sam Adams Summer Ale? Fresh batch.”