Elijah's Chariot (The Forgotten Children Book 1) (15 page)

The
tires hummed ominously as the car glided across the asphalt streets interrupted
only occasionally by large puddles or patches of slush. Sean gripped the black
steering wheel tightly, his hands spaced as far apart as his shoulders, as he
stared intently at the empty road disappearing underneath the vehicle. 

He
leaned slightly forward on the wooden box underneath him and adjusted the
volume knob on the dashboard radio. Soft static floated through the air,
interrupted only as Sean punched through the various frequencies. Shaking his
head, he turned the volume back down and returned his eyes to their duty of
scanning the empty road. 

Despite
the numerous street signs and the Seven Sister landmarks looming in the
distance, he had no idea where he was. The thought that it might have been a
good idea to plot a course before driving off into a large unknown city had
briefly crossed his mind, but he’d quickly dismissed it because it dredged up
thoughts of his father. He’d tried so hard to prepare Sean in every way he
could think of before he died – he couldn’t have considered everything.
Besides, Sean had decided to stick to the strategy he’d arrived upon a few
minutes after leaving the Russian boys at the hotel: just go in a straight line
until you get there. Since it didn’t matter where “there” was, then it didn’t
matter how he got there. Any one direction was as good as another to get him
outside the city and to a smaller town away from more bullies where he could
stay for a while and make his plans, just as his father had told him. 

His
only problem right now, besides the painful grumbling in his belly, was that
he’d been driving for almost an hour and still didn’t seem to be getting
anywhere near the edge of the city. The gray buildings and empty streets seemed
to stretch on forever and, soon, Sean was unable to tell if he was actually
driving in circles and had already been through this particular neighborhood
before. The only thing he knew was that he’d made no turns unless he’d had to
and that if he just kept on a straight course he should eventually leave
Moscow. 

It
was a clear morning with only a few clouds in the sky. The temperature had
risen sharply and Sean now wore only a light jacket as he drove, watching
sunlight bounce off the occasional chunk of melting ice on the side of the
road. He was driving high on the bank along a large river in what appeared to
be one of the warehouse districts. The river has to lead somewhere, he thought
to himself. 

Above
the buildings in the distance, Sean saw a plume of billowing black smoke rising
into the sky. Two voices inside his head chimed simultaneously. The first,
which, as always, sounded very much like his mother’s, hinted that smoke could
mean trouble and that he should avoid it. The second voice, which usually
sounded like his own when he did his Gollum imitation, suggested that a closer
look wouldn’t hurt and might even turn up something that he could use later. As
the car’s engine purred along, Sean wrestled with these voices and finally
decided that since the road he was on was headed toward the smoke anyway, then
it probably wouldn’t hurt to continue on in that direction. 

A
tall, walled compound appeared along the bank on the opposite side of the
river. Sean could see the roofs and windows of several buildings behind the
wall and he noticed that a bridge was coming up that led to the other side – to
the source of the smoke. 

Stretching
his legs to depress the brake pedal, Sean kept his eyes on the smoke as the car
slowed. The smoke was thick and poured out of one of the buildings at the edge
of the compound. As he approached, he could see that the building had multiple
towers with onion-shaped domes at the top. St. Basil’s Cathedral – he
remembered the name from one of the hotel guidebooks he’d read. He was
approaching Red Square. 

Nearing
the bridge, he could see that the cathedral wasn’t inside the compound at all,
but just outside it at the edge of the large, cobble-stoned square. He slowed
the vehicle almost to a crawl as he turned onto the bridge – he still wasn’t
very adept at turning the sedan’s large black steering wheel. 

There
were a few cars on the bridge, mostly lining its edges. Their sides were
smashed in, apparently with great force. A body lay face down beside one of the
cars, its ankles crossed casually one over the other as if the person had just
been taking a nap in the middle of the bridge. Sean tightened his grip on the
steering wheel and drove on. 

St.
Basil’s Cathedral was burning on the opposite side from where Sean was. Smoke
was still pouring out of the building, but no flames were visible. A large
green truck, its open bed blackened, was parked at the base of the building,
its front grill pressed firmly against the bottom of one of the towers. 

There
were more cars parked on the road on the other side of the bridge, some with
damage matching that of the other vehicles. Sean carefully made his way along
the crowded street until he was about parallel with the cathedral before he had
to stop the car. Many of the cars were burned, the seats inside reduced to
blackened metal frames with the tires looking as though they’d melted into the
road. 

Sean
had been able to smell the smoke as he’d neared the square, but it was nothing
compared to the stench that met him when he opened the door. A wave of burned
rubber assaulted him, forcing him to cough several times as he stepped out of
the car. 

He
still couldn’t see much of the square from where he was – almost directly
behind the smoking cathedral. Pocketing his handgun, Sean placed a scarf over
his nose and mouth, then began winding through the parked cars toward the large
cathedral.   

At
least a dozen dark tanks and a few other large trucks were strewn about in
front of the Kremlin walls. A couple of the vehicles were tipped over and
several were charred and still smoking slightly. Sean could see a few dozen
bodies lying around the immense doors that lead to the interior. Some wore
uniforms, but many did not. Many were still clutching rifles, machine guns,
sticks and rocks. 

The
remaining shell of an exploded tank was parked in front of St. Basil’s
Cathedral. There were words spray-painted on the front doors and along the
cathedral’s base. A woman with a dark green shawl covering her head lay in
front of the doors, a can of spray paint still clutched in her hand. 

A
cool spring breeze pushed against Sean’s jacket as he stood staring down at the
destruction all around him. For a moment, he imagined the crowds amassing on
Red Square, could almost hear their angry chants as they demanded protection
and answers from government leaders who were able to provide none. It didn’t
look like anyone had made it through the gates. They’d tried to get into the
Kremlin walls, had probably started pushing against the soldiers, throwing
rocks and burning torches or bottles. The young men in uniform had probably
started firing in fear and self-defense, but there were just too many.   

Sean
was filled with an overwhelming sadness as he looked at the scores of dead. So
many people had died afraid, unable to understand what was happening to them or
their world, not knowing whether or not they would wake the next day or, if
they did, who would be left alive with them. Everything must have happened
within the last two or three days. Both the soldiers and the people must have
assumed that they would be dying soon anyway, neither group really having
anything to lose. Dying in the streets or in bed at home – what did it matter?
It was all such a terrible and futile waste. 

Sean
felt the grief begin in his stomach, spreading quickly into his throat, filling
him and causing his shoulders to shake. He sank to his knees on the dark gray
cobblestones that were stained with blood and fire, as tears poured from his
eyes and a whimper escaped from his now uncovered mouth. A deep sense of
loneliness seeped into him as his mind attempted to wrap around actually how
many people in the world had died. So many fathers and mothers and sons who
would never wake again, would never be able to simply walk away from this
nightmare, but would lie in the open for years until the wind and rain finally
washed them away forever. 

He
thought of his father lying cold and alone in the bed back at the hotel and
wondered why he hadn’t been able to do anything to stop this. Nothing had ever
seemed to get in his way before, there was nothing that his father couldn’t
overcome. Why couldn’t he stop this? Why couldn’t he figure this out? A brief
memory flashed through Sean’s mind – the look in his father’s eyes once he’d
hung up the phone with Elizabeth, after finding out that his wife was dead.
That’s when it happened, Sean thought as he stared down through tears at the rough
stones beneath his feet. That’s when he gave up – when he stopped caring and
resigned himself to the fate he knew he couldn’t escape. What was the use of
fighting to live in a world where she was no more?          

And
what about the rest of us, Sean asked himself. What happens to us now that
they’re all gone? What is left for us? A dead world full of used up bodies and
the orphans they left behind? No way to communicate with anyone far away, no
way to get anywhere really – especially across an ocean. Elizabeth’s long hair
came into his mind – an image of her running through the house, checking all
the doors and windows like she always did when their parents went out for the
night. How long will she keep the doors closed, Sean wondered. How long can she
keep herself safe?

Sean
didn’t remember how long he’d been kneeling there on the cobblestones of Red
Square when his eyes finally stopped letting out tears. They felt dry, unable
to cry anymore. His hands resting helplessly in his lap, he looked around the
square again at the silent vehicles and faces everywhere. 

A
flicker of movement at the opposite side of the Square caught his eye. He
strained to see what it was, but could only make out some type of frantic
flapping – maybe it was a bird. Sean hoped that the scavengers hadn’t started
already. 

Pushing
himself to his feet, he trained his eyes on the figure or object that appeared
to be getting closer. The figure’s arms were discernable now – they were
pumping wildly, as were the legs as it sped across the ground. Several others
were following quickly behind – all of them headed in Sean’s direction. 

His
fingers fastened around the nine millimeter handgun in his pocket and his feet
began to back up, his eyes still locked on the figures in the distance. Whoever
was coming was getting closer as Sean started into a small jog back toward his
car, craning his neck over his shoulder as he moved. There were three boys
running toward the cathedral, the first one he saw was in the lead, his white,
oversized sweatshirt sleeves flapping around him as he ran. Sean counted three
additional figures in pursuit, wielding weapons of some kind, possibly rifles. 

Now,
Sean focused all his attention on running back to the car-packed street. He
heard a series of fast gun shots and glanced back in time to see that the boy
closest to the pursuers had stopped to return fire with what looked like a
handgun. The three pursuers scattered and hugged the ground temporarily, until
he turned and began running again. The boy with the handgun had gone only a few
steps before one of the chasers paused and fired a couple rifles shots at him.
Sean saw the boy clutch at his back and trip, falling quickly to the ground. 

For
a split second after reaching the street, Sean stared in confusion at the
silent traffic jam of vehicles – which car was his? They all looked the same!
Feeling panic beginning to rise in the back of his mind, Sean quickly scanned
the area, his eyes sweeping to the right where he spotted the large black sedan
at the back of the line. He ducked around an old compact car and started
running up the street toward his vehicle. 

Suddenly,
he heard a loud blast from the direction of the boys. He stopped and crouched
behind a gray car to peer through its windows at the boy in the white
sweatshirt running past the cathedral. His pursuers rose quickly from their
positions of cover and began running again. 

Feet
slapping against the ground to his left alerted Sean in time for him to turn
and see a boy about his age dart around a fender two cars away. The boy’s eyes
were wide as he stared at the group moving closer toward him. He was several
inches taller than Sean and unusually thin. His head jerked to the right and
his gaze locked immediately on Sean. They both paused for a split second in
shock and surprise, before Sean glanced down at the black handgun in the boy’s
hands. The boy noted Sean’s hands by his side, checked the advance of his
pursuers as they drew closer, then looked back at Sean. A split second later,
three distinct pops sounded across the square and both boys jumped as a car
window exploded a few feet behind Sean. 

Sean
was the first to move. He dodged around the car to his left and began running
across the street away from the square, weaving between the motionless
vehicles. The thin boy stared for a second at the approaching group now only a
few dozen yards away, then ran across the street in the same direction as
Sean. 

Sean
could feel the heavy weight of the pistol bouncing against his side as his legs
and arms pumped wildly. His breath had already been coming in ragged gasps even
before he’d started running, but now Sean felt as though a giant machine was
sitting on his chest, squeezing his lungs open and shut. His mind turned back briefly
to his car, but then quickly focused on the ground in front of him. I would
have never made it, he thought. And I can’t go back now. Feet pounding on the
sidewalk, he rounded a corner onto an empty street between some shorter
buildings. 

Sean’s
eyes raced over colorful displays in shop window fronts and blockish Cyrillic
signs plastered above doors. The street was narrow and strewn with yellowed
newspapers and continued straight for several more blocks. There were numerous
side streets branching off from the main one and Sean stopped briefly at an
intersection, ducking around the corner of a building to try to catch his
breath. 

Five
seconds later, the taller, skinny kid came running up the street, his white
face held high as his arms and legs pumped wildly. His shoe caught on the rough
pavement and he went down, his outstretched hands skidding out in front of him.
He bounced up a second later, drops of blood and bits of gravel falling from
his palms, and continued running. The boy made it another few yards, up until
the side street that Sean had turned down, then tripped again, this time
landing heavily on his side before rolling over onto his back, his chest
heaving. 

Sean
shoved his hand into his jacket pocket and gripped the handgun. The boy lying
panting on his back hadn’t seen him yet. Sean paused, crouched by the building,
unsure of what to do. Had they lost their pursuers? Had any of them even seen
Sean? He wondered if he should continue down one of the side streets and try to
double back to his vehicle. His head turned in the direction from which they’d
come, straining to detect any sign of the rifle-wielding chasers. 

A
door on the other side of the silent street creaked open. Two girls, huddling
together, crept out and down the steps to the cracked pavement. The taller one
was about twelve years old – her younger companion was probably five or six.
Both wore faded dark blue coats and scarves wrapped around their heads in a
peasant woman fashion that Sean remembered his father had found charmingly
quaint. The older girl held the younger to her side as they made it halfway
into the street before stopping suddenly at the sight of the boy lying there. 

The
older of the two girls gasped at the sight of the thin boy’s bleeding hands.
Her frightened eyes jumped up to see Sean crouching in the side street, hand in
his pocket. Before either the girls or Sean had a chance to move or speak, the
boy in the large, white sweatshirt rounded the corner, his long sleeves turning
like tiny windmills as he ran.  

His
eyes were fastened on the ground in front of him, so he didn’t see the two
scared girls until he was about six feet away. His feet skidded to a halt and
he fell onto his butt as he gaped in confusion at the girls. Right at that
moment, a tall, grim-faced, dark haired teenager sprinted around the corner, a
compact machine gun clutched in his hands. Two other younger, armed boys, one
with a thick neck and broad shoulders and the other smaller with white, spiked
hair, came running right behind him.   

The
tall, dark-haired lead teenager, or Dark-hair as Sean thought of him, halted
when he saw the four youngsters in the middle of the street, two girls staring
at him in fright and the two boys on the ground trying to scramble to their
feet. 

“Svyeta!”
yelled the armed boy with white, spiked hair. He was staring intently at the
twelve-year old girl who was still clutching the younger one by her side.

The
girl blinked in confusion at the boy. “Ivan?”

Sean
felt a rushing in his ears and what seemed like a hand or something brushing in
front of his face, very similar to the sensation that he’d experienced back at
the hotel with the young toddler reaching for the pastry. Dark-hair looked
quickly into the faces of all four kids in the street, pausing for a brief moment
on each, before glancing away, a hint of confusion flashing across his face.
His dark hair was close-cropped and his eyes were brown, set deeply in a wide,
strong face. A black wool military coat trailed down to his knees, resting on
bony shoulders framed by a tight-fitting black t-shirt. 

The
strong, brown eyes scanned the street and store fronts as the armed boy with
the thick neck and broad shoulders, or Muscles, ran past him toward the group
in the middle. Suddenly, Dark-hair jerked his head toward Sean, still huddling
at the edge of the building. 

Sean
leaned into the wall as his head began to swim with different shades of color
and light. He felt as if he were plunging headfirst down the constantly
expanding tube of an enormous kaleidoscope, thousands of rainbows and intricate
patterns colliding before his eyes. At the edge of his vision, he saw Dark-hair
start toward him. 

Both
the boys on the ground were having difficulty getting to their feet, the thin
one because of his scraped and bleeding hands, the other in the
white-sweatshirt because he was caught between two girls and his pursuers and
was unsure of which way to start moving. The younger girl was crying and the
older, Svyeta, started to scream in fright as Muscles advanced quickly toward
them, his assault rifle leveled.   

The
swirling colors behind Sean’s eyes stopped moving and began to dissipate just
as Svyeta started screaming. Her voice carried through the street, echoing off
the squat buildings and reverberating against the windows. Sean suddenly felt
that same rushing sensation, only this time it felt like a river was slamming
into his head and ears and his entire being was filled with the sound of her
voice. He stared, helplessly fascinated, covering his ears with his hands as her
piercing voice began to crescendo higher and higher. The younger girl by her
side covered her ears, as did both boys on the ground.

Muscles,
who was running toward her, was just beginning to slow and bring his hands up
to his ears when her voice rocketed upward in a sharp spike, splitting the air
in front of her with a high-pitched crack. Sean watched in amazement as what
appeared to be circular waves of energy rippling through the air shot out of
her mouth and struck Muscles, now about ten yards away. The force took him off
his feet and slammed him into the ground on his back. 

The
high-pitched screech forced everyone to wince and groan as the sound tore
through their ears. A couple of store front windows to the girl’s left quivered
briefly before shattering, sending tiny shards of glass all over the sidewalk.
Finally, she ran out of breath and the ear-splitting scream died on her
quivering lips as she clutched the younger girl tightly to her side. 

Muscles,
still lying on his back, shook his head dazedly and began wiping the blood from
his ears away with his coat sleeve. Just as the boy in the oversized white
sweatshirt was attempting to pull himself to his feet, Dark-hair rushed forward
and slammed his boot into the smaller boy’s side. 

With
tears still running down her face, Svyeta stared in horror at Dark-hair and
began to open her mouth. Just as she did so, he clamped a large, long-fingered
hand over it and hissed “Molchi, Svyeta!” 

Sean
leaned heavily against the wall feeling as though his knees were about to
buckle, the strength slowly draining from him. He sagged down to a kneeling
position and placed his hands on the rough curb trying to keep himself from
sinking further. Ivan, the armed boy with the white, spiky hair, ran over to
the skinny boy whose palms were still bloodied and embedded with bits of
gravel. His face twisted into a scowl as he raised his rifle, threatening the
boy on the ground with its butt. He shouted some orders at the helpless youth
and kicked him in the back, gesturing in the direction of the two girls and the
white-sweatshirt boy. 

“Idi
syuda!” shouted Dark-hair as he pointed his snub-nosed sub-machine gun at Sean.
He waved it menacingly as he approached, eyeing the young American carefully. 

Sean
watched helplessly as Dark-hair advanced on him. He could feel his strength
returning, but was unable to even consider expending effort to stand and run
the other direction. Dark-hair reached him and hauled him to his feet by his
jacket collar and pushed him in the direction of the four other captives. 

As
the pounding of blood in his ears began to slow, Sean staggered over to the
middle of the street, dragging his feet as he went. Muscles jumped to his feet,
trying to hide a bitter scowl of embarrassment as he wiped the few remaining
drops of blood from his ears with his sleeve. He was a couple years older than
Sean, with a potato-shaped face. He began pushing the two girls and two other
boys into a line, shoulder to shoulder, cuffing the older girl on the side of
the head to get her to move. 

His
hand still on Sean’s collar, Dark-hair guided the skinny boy over to stand with
the others next to the boy in the white sweatshirt. All five of them were
quickly patted down by Dark-hair’s two cronies as the latter paced slowly back
and forth in front of the line of frightened faces, his weapon resting calmly
on his shoulder. 

From
under the white sweatshirt came two grenades and a couple of cigarette lighters
along with a pack of half empty cigarettes. Muscles stuffed the lighters and
cigarette pack into his own pocket and handed the grenades to Dark-hair. The
thin boy, his mouth slightly open, but still staring straight ahead, stood
frozen as Ivan emptied his pockets – a couple cigarette packs and a few unspent
rounds of ammunition.