Elijah's Chariot (The Forgotten Children Book 1) (23 page)

The
image quickly faded away in a wash of light and brightness. Sean closed his
eyes and reopened them again slowly on the quiet courtyard in front of him. He
stared at the inert form lying in the middle of the pavement, helpless and
pitiful. Her face was hidden, turned away from him with only the back of her
brown-haired head visible as the wind blew through her skirt. The absurdity of
a perfectly normal person lying outside on the ground reminded him of a few of
the bodies he’d seen at Red Square – their mouths opened in silent screams and
eyes turned upwards toward heaven in mute supplication.    

No
one had answered the prayers that had died on their lips when the last breath
of life leaked out of their broken bodies. No one had come to save them at the
last moment, to protect them from the inevitable approaching death they knew
awaited them in sleep. No angel had come down to save little Zhenya, to deflect
the bullets before they pierced her small, defenseless body. No one had been
there to comfort Elizabeth when she found herself alone that morning, crying on
the edge of her mother’s bed for her to wake up, to say something. And nothing
but the dead body of his father had been there to comfort Sean as he cried
himself to sleep repeatedly during the night, each time waking, hoping that it
had all just been a dream, wanting his father and mother to still be alive. 

Sean
felt a hotness pulsating through his neck and coursing down his legs and arms,
warming his toes and his flexing hands. His jaw began to clench tightly as he
turned his head away from Zhenya’s body to Ivan standing at his right. Sean
could see tiny flecks of sweat that had formed on his pale, sunken cheeks,
could smell the blood slowing in his veins and heard the faint wheeze of breath
as it passed over his lips and down his throat. Right at that moment, Ivan’s
eyes turned toward Sean.

They
were small and dark, seeming to blend in with the rest of his face, so
lackluster was their appearance. Suddenly, Sean detected the faintest gleam, a
spark in the depths of Ivan’s eyes that was barely reflected in a twitch of his
lips. Even without the color of emotion that his power allowed him to see – a
deep, bubbling pink surrounding Ivan’s being – Sean knew what the boy was
feeling. He’d seen that same expression and gleam in the eyes before – in the
faces of Kyle and Paul, in the bullies at the hotel: enjoyment. 

Sean
felt a slight sliding sensation in his mind, as if a precarious section of
cliff behind his eyes had suddenly given way, falling unstoppably to the depths
below. Rage began to well up inside him, a swelling sensation that filled his
stomach and seemed to feed on itself. His fingers dug into the palms of his
hands and his knees began to tremble. 

Several
seconds had passed since the last echo of the gunshot had died away, but
somehow that abrupt sound still resounded in Sean’s boiling mind. He glanced
down at the machine-gun in Ivan’s hands. The white-haired boy saw his glance
and began to bring the gun around to point at Sean. 

Sean
waved his hand quickly to the side and the gun flew out of Ivan’s grasp,
landing with a clatter several yards away. A savage scream erupted from the pit
of fire swirling in Sean’s stomach and he launched himself forward, bringing
his right hand back in a fist. 

At
the same moment, the rushing sensation filled his mind like a powerful river of
sound and energy. It seemed to be flowing into him straight from Ivan who was
quickly attempting to bring his hands up in defense. 

As
Sean brought his fist forward, he felt a surge of power course through his body
like he’d just been struck with lightning. Ivan wasn’t able to back away or get
his hands up in time to block Sean’s punch. The blow caught him right below the
left eye. 

Sean
felt his hand sink quickly into the boy’s face like it was a lump of bread
dough and he was faintly aware of the sound of bones snapping beneath his fist.
Ivan’s head snapped back sharply and he immediately collapsed onto the ground.
Sean’s momentum carried him forward and he landed on top of the Russian boy. 

A
mindless scream still tearing out of his throat, Sean grabbed Ivan by the
collar and began shaking him harder and harder, as if shaking him hard enough
would somehow undo Zhenya’s murder. Tears poured from Sean’s eyes and nose as
his scream turned into a miserable wail, punctuated by the limp motion of
Ivan’s head as it flopped back and forth.

Sean
released Ivan’s collar, dropping the boy’s head to the ground, and he began
pounding on his chest with his fists, painful sobs wracking his body with each
strike. He knew the boy was dead. He’d known it the second he’d felt his fist
connect with Ivan’s face, feeling his hand almost go all the way through. Now,
his previous grief and rage were being compounded by what he had just done, by
the finality and irreversibility of his act. Still, he beat the boy’s body in
anger. As he began to raise his hands for yet another strike, someone grabbed
his wrists. Viktor locked his other hand onto Sean’s shoulder and pulled the
boy toward him, hugging him close from behind. 

“Sean,
Sean, Sean,” Viktor repeated in a choked voice as his own tears soaked his
cheeks. He held Sean, rocking the boy gently as the strength slowly drained
from his muscles and his wail quieted to spasmodic sobs. 

Kiril
had jumped out of the cab and come around the back of the truck just in time to
see Sean attack Ivan. He stood still, staring at the pair of boys clinging to
each other on the ground, crying. Svyeta stood motionless nearby, her blank
face fixated on Zhenya’s still form. Suddenly, Kiril turned back toward the
front of the vehicle at the sound of a metal track rolling over asphalt further
down the street. 

Running
footsteps echoed from the archway on the opposite side of the courtyard. The
group of boys and girls, still in stunned silence, turned to look at the
figures sprinting in from the street. 

Pyotr’s
long, black overcoat billowed out behind him as he ran into the courtyard, a
pistol clutched in his right hand. Two of his guards were right behind him,
assault rifles in hand. Pyotr slowed as his dark-haired head turned to stare
first at Ivan lying on his back, then to Zhenya just a few meters from the archway,
then back again at Sean and Viktor kneeling huddled on the pavement. 

Sean
inhaled slowly, the breath catching in his throat. He was shivering and he felt
like he was going to throw up, his lips and face aching as his mouth began to
open wide. His head rose toward Pyotr and he stared at the tall teenager who
stood by Zhenya’s body, an alarmed expression on his face. 

Viktor
slowly let go of Sean and leaned back to stare in fear at Pyotr. A faint smile
spread across the young gang leader’s face and he pulled back his shoulders as
he looked at the frightened children in front of him. His gun hand slowly began
to rise. 

Suddenly,
it jerked straight up and the cold barrel smacked into his forehead, the muzzle
pointed toward the sky. Pyotr’s face twisted in confusion and his eyes darted
about as he struggled to pull the gun away from his forehead. His hand, still
grasping the gun, darted to the right and back again, waving wildly around in
the air. Sean stared in fixed concentration at the bewildered boy as he caused
the infinite number of tiny particles in the weapon to be drawn to the walls,
the ground, the tree – anything that would pull it out of Pyotr’s grasp. 

The
two boys behind Pyotr stared at him for a moment in confusion as his gun hand
waved wildly around, then they saw Sean kneeling on the ground and pointed
their weapons at him. 

At
the same moment, Svyeta began to wail, as if finally coming to life. She hadn’t
moved at all in the last minute since her sister had been killed. Now, her
grief began to rise in her throat, transforming quickly into a piercing scream
that reverberated off the concrete walls of the courtyard. 

The
sound broke Sean’s concentration and he released his hold on Pyotr’s weapon.
The tall, dark-haired leader, hearing Svyeta’s dangerous scream, dropped to the
ground and covered his head and ears. The two boys kept their weapons trained
on Sean, staring in confusion at their cowering leader. 

Sean
quickly became aware of a swelling sensation within himself as Svyeta’s scream
grew louder. It felt as though something within him was amplifying her voice,
lending strength to her already powerful scream as the sound waves beat against
the two armed boys. 

Suddenly,
Svyeta opened her mouth wider and leaned forward, hurling out a shrieking force
of energy that felt and sounded like a high-pitched artillery shell exploding.
The boys on the other side of the courtyard were thrown backward several
meters, landing solidly on their backs. After the explosive scream, Svyeta’s
voice died on her lips.

A
painful screech of metal scraping across stone tore through the courtyard.
Everyone turned toward the sound coming through the large archway leading to
the street. Kiril, from his vantage point at the side of the truck, turned
quickly and screamed one word: “Tank!”

Pyotr
rose to a kneeling position and brought his pistol up again as he chanced a
quick look at the tank slowly rumbling through the just wide enough archway on
the opposite side of the courtyard. His grip tightened and his eyes narrowed as
he aimed it directly at Sean and Viktor still kneeling on the ground beside
Ivan’s body. 

Only
Sean heard the shots over the thundering of the tank’s engine as it echoed in
the tunnel. Pyotr’s head snapped to the side and the gun fell from his grasp as
he toppled forward onto the ground. Sean turned toward an open doorway that led
to the stairwell of one of the apartment buildings across the courtyard. Out
from behind the rifle barrel poking from the shadows stepped Ryan McCaney. He
held his weapon pointed toward Pyotr as he emerged from the darkened doorway
and glanced nervously at Sean and the tank that was slowly rolling toward the
front of the truck.  

The
large green armored vehicle stopped just short of the truck’s grill and the
large turret swiveled toward Private McCaney. Kiril and Aleksandr quickly ran
from their positions beside the truck to stand in front of the tank, waving
their arms and shouting. 

For
a split second no one moved. Svyeta’s breath caught in her throat as she stared
at the two boys frantically yelling at the tank to stop. McCaney stood frozen
in position, staring at the enormous barrel pointing straight at him. 

The
hatch on top of the turret flipped open and a young boy in a tight, canvas
military cap poked his head up to look out at the group of children.
“Everything alright?”

Kiril
and Aleksandr looked at each other in confusion. Beside the tank driver popped
up another head. Sean immediately recognized him as the boy who’d spewed forth
gallons of water when he’d originally been captured by Pyotr and Ivan. He
pushed his way up on top of the tank and quickly scrambled down its side to the
ground, his oversized military jacket hanging loosely on his shoulders. 

He
looked questioningly at both Kiril and Aleksandr who were staring at him and
the tank, their mouths hanging open. “Is Pyotr here?”

Kiril
gestured over toward the young leader’s body which was lying face down across
the courtyard. The boy quickly ran to the corpse, rolled him over, scrutinized
his face, then called out, “This is him!”

The
boy glanced at the two other Black Scorpion members who lay still on the ground
nearby. Holding his hand out toward one of the boys, he paused for a second
before a thin stream of water shot out of his index finger and hit the boy in
the face. The gang member on the ground didn’t move. The boy from the tank did
the same to the other one, with the same result. 

He
turned back to his tank crew. “Dead.”

Svyeta
didn’t seem to hear the news that she’d killed both boys. She was sitting on
the ground, staring at Zhenya’s body as tears poured down her cheeks. 

No
one else in the courtyard said a word, but just kept glancing from the boy in
the oversized jacket to the tank and back again. The boy walked over to where
Sean and Viktor were still crouched and looked down at Ivan’s smashed face. 

“Who
are you?” asked Viktor. 

The
boy blinked a few times, appearing surprised at the question. “I’m the Yozh.”

Viktor
carefully eased his left foot off the curb into the gutter beside the large
American SUV. The vehicle’s storage area was loaded with sturdy plastic
containers, long duffle bags and a large assortment of foodstuffs and bottled
water. He pulled the door open and slipped his olive backpack off his shoulder
onto one of the rear passenger seats. The frayed drawstring at the top was
loose enough to reveal the worn cover of an American novel translated into
Russian –
Earth Abides
. Viktor peered in at the book, shook the backpack
to resettle the contents and pulled the draw string tight.

A
squeal of terror drew Viktor’s attention quickly back to the hotel from which
he’d just exited. He watched as Kostya ran through the large double doors of
the Hotel National, a wide smile of pure delight on his face. Running behind
him were a couple of the other young boys, all about five or six years old.
They all were screaming in glee as they ran from Alyosha. He growled menacingly
and held up his thin, claw-like hands – one of which held a small red ball. 

“Alyosha’s
coming!” screamed the last boy through the door as the others ran out into the
street. As Alyosha shuffled through the door, affecting a slow, awkward gait,
he growled again at the group of boys that was waiting in a semi-circle in the
middle of the street, smiling. Suddenly, he darted into the middle of the group
and threw the ball straight at Kostya’s leg.

The
boy attempted to dodge it, but was too late. He grabbed the ball as it bounced
on the ground and carefully wound up his arm, aiming straight for Alyosha’s
chest. The older boy stopped in the street and slapped his thin, cadaver-like
chest. “Come on!”

From
three meters away, Kostya hurled the red ball with all his force, nearly
toppling over with the effort. Alyosha stood absolutely still as the ball
sailed toward him, a faint smile on his lips. It reached the center of his
chest – and flew straight through him, bouncing on the street. 

Alyosha
burst into laughter as a couple of the little boys’ jaws dropped in amazement.
But, Kostya, a petulant frown on his little features, cried, “Hey – not fair!
Using powers is against the rules!”

Viktor
smiled as he watched one of the other boys grab the ball and toss it to one of
his friends. They were so much more animated now, more like he remembered the
children who used to play out in front of his apartment building. He would sit
on his bed during the afternoons, watching from his window as the boys chased
each other around and the girls drew chalk figures on the sidewalk. When he’d
been younger, he’d whined for hours to his mother, begging her to let him go
out and play with them. And what’ll you do out there, she’d ask. How are you
going to play with those kids? He could never answer her and would just turn
back toward the window to watch until it got dark. Viktor looked down at his
backpack of books and let out a slow breath. Now I can, Mama, he thought to
himself. I can finally play like the other kids.   

The
hotel’s glass front doors opened again and Ryan McCaney strolled out, rifle
strap slung over his shoulder and a cherry lollipop in his mouth. 

“All
loaded up?” he said, his soft voice amiable and pleasant, his southern drawl
stringing the words lazily together.

Viktor
liked this new American accent. “All ready.”

A
jeep turned onto the street in front of the hotel and pulled to a halt behind
the SUV. The boy they called the Yozh and a couple older teens jumped out of
the back, rifles strapped to their shoulders. Viktor studied the young boy in
the over-sized military jacket. His face was calm, but his eyes darted about as
he walked, as if he couldn’t decide what to look at. Viktor had learned that
his name was actually Yevgeny, but his friends had always called him Yozh, the
hedgehog, because of a particularly short haircut he’d had a few years ago. Sean
had told Viktor about the first time he saw the boy. He’d been captured on Red
Square with Sean and had started spewing out water from every body orifice
because he was so scared. Pyotr had eventually let the frightened boy go,
apparently with instructions to carry an invitation to the other children of
the city: Pyotr and his gang would give them food if they’d come work. Oddly
enough, it was Pyotr’s own messenger who had proved his undoing. 

Viktor
watched as the three boys walked into the hotel, their steps casual but
determined. He wondered how they would be as leaders. He didn’t believe that
they would ever become like Pyotr and his bunch, but feared what they might do
in the name of preserving order. The tank crew had spoken of rival gangs that they’d
run across in the southern part of the city, describing crimes and atrocities
far worse than anything Pyotr and Ivan had managed to commit. The Yozh said
that his group controlled most of the area around Red Square now, but that they
would have to vehemently defend their borders if they were to maintain the
finite food supply. War has returned to Russia, thought Viktor. But then, had
it ever really left?

Sean
stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of the hotel, Svyeta behind him, a
backpack hanging from one shoulder. Viktor’s American friend had managed to
wash most of yesterday’s dirt and tear stains from his face, but a forlorn,
haunted look in his eyes had replaced them. 

He
nodded at Private McCaney who leaned against the Ford Expedition beside Viktor.
A squeal of laughter erupted from the group of boys still playing in the middle
of the street. Each of them glanced over to see a small ball of flame rolling
across the asphalt away from Kostya. The little boy stared at the ball that
he’d accidentally set on fire, his fingers tugging at his lower lip in
embarrassment. Alyosha was holding his sides, laughing the loudest. 

“I’m
ready,” said Svyeta. “How will we get to… where in America is it?”

Sean
pulled his gaze away from the group of boys to rest on the young girl standing
in front of him. He looked at her round face, punctuated by sharp cheek bones
that stuck out from beneath deep blue eyes. Sean couldn’t remember how old she
was at the moment, and wasn’t able to tell just from looking at her. He thought
he recalled that they were roughly the same age, but he almost didn’t believe
it looking at the young woman in front of him now. Thirteen year-olds don’t
look this sad and serious, he thought. 

“Pasadena
– it’s in southern California,” he replied. “Hopefully, my sister Elizabeth
hasn’t gone far.”

“But,
how will we get there?” She turned to Private McCaney and said in English, “Are
you a pilot?”

McCaney
shook his head. “No, miss.”

“We’ll
drive to the eastern shores, to the Pacific Ocean. We should be able to steer a
boat across the Bering Strait, then drive down through Alaska and Canada to
California,” Viktor said matter-of-factly. 

Svyeta
nodded and looked down at her feet, her mind drifting back to the brief
graveside funeral this morning. It hadn’t taken long for Sean, McCaney and
Alyosha to dig the little hole at the cemetery where her grandparents had been
buried a few years ago. Svyeta had covered Zhenya’s body in one of the
beautiful lace tablecloths from the hotel. 

“Are
you sure about this? This is where you grew up. California’s a long ways away –
and people talk funny there.” Sean smiled.

“There’s
no one left for me here anymore. And,” she paused, looking down the broad
street, “I’m afraid that staying here would always remind me of them, of how
they… went. I want to remember them from when we were all together.”

She
placed a hand on her backpack. “I have pictures for that.”

Sean
nodded, his weary eyes still staring into hers. The colors of her many, mixed
emotions swirled around her small body – sadness, longing, some fear. And
within all of it he saw a shade that had already been growing quickly in all of
them over the past twenty-four hours since the Black Scorpions had fallen:
hope.   

They
hugged and said goodbye to Alyosha and the others, then climbed into the SUV.
As Ryan McCaney drove them down the street, Sean, Svyeta and Viktor looked back
at the hotel, watching as the boys tried to dowse the still burning ball. 

- -

The
large, black sedan was right where he’d left it. Nothing had been touched –
even all the food was still there. From their forced forages, Sean knew that
there was still a great deal of food left in the city that hadn’t spoiled and
wouldn’t for quite some time. But, it would be increasingly more difficult to
find as the weeks and months wore on. Someday, it would all run out.

Sean
unzipped his suitcase and stared at the contents packed neatly in front of him
– his old clothes. It was all familiar to him, but still seemed a world away,
like it was part of something that had existed long ago. 

Viktor
stood patiently a few feet away, staring across Red Square. He tried to
remember the last time he’d been to Red Square, before this had all happened.
He knew Aunt Lydia had brought him here a few years ago on a sunny Saturday
afternoon, but he couldn’t recall exactly how the square had looked then. All
he could see when he tried to imagine how it would have looked on that day was
the destruction. It lay untouched like a monument to the final moments of
futility as most of the human race slowly died out. This is how he would
probably picture it forever. 

Sean
suddenly realized that he’d been staring at his suitcase for a while – he
wasn’t sure how long. He quickly glanced over at Viktor, then to Private
McCaney who was standing guard by the SUV, its motor running, with Svyeta in
the backseat. Sean grabbed a few changes of clothing and stuffed them into a
smaller bag. His Boy Scout knife also went into the bag along with his father’s
letter. He reached for the duffel bag in the front passenger seat and pulled
out the video tape of the scientists at the Jerry site. His eyes scanned the
rest of the car’s contents – mostly dry food, a few weapons. McCaney had loaded
down the SUV with all that it could carry of that stuff, along with quite a bit
of camping and survival equipment. He slammed the door and walked back to the
Expedition with Viktor. 

“There’s
one last thing, before we leave the city,” Sean said as they began to pull onto
the bridge leading away from Red Square. 

- -

The
door swung open lightly on its silent hinges and Sean stared into the hotel
room lit by the orange afternoon light streaming through the windows.
Everything was exactly as he’d left it. He walked slowly to stand at the foot
of the bed where his father’s bundled form lay. 

His
father’s arms lay straight at his sides, the blanket that Sean had wrapped him
in tucked tightly so that nothing showed. He stood silently for a moment,
staring at the mummified body as he quietly explored the few thoughts running
through his head. The overwhelming sense of loss and abandonment that he had
felt on that morning after his father had died was gone, replaced now only by a
small and abiding sadness at the reality he’d have to live with forever. Looking
at the inert form lying on the bed, Sean was completely unsure how to express
what he was thinking and feeling. The only coherent words that his mind could
assemble were “My father is not here – my father is gone.” 

They
dragged an undamaged couch from the ransacked lobby across the street to the
park in which stood the large metal statue of the Soviet workers. The perfectly
sculpted man and woman, holding their hammer and sickle, stood stoically by as
the three positioned the couch in the middle of the narrow expanse of grass,
amongst the trees. 

Sean
set the can of gasoline on the grass beside the couch, then wiped his hands
with a rag and stepped back a few feet to stand beside Viktor, Svyeta and Ryan,
the soviet statue behind them. The sun was just reaching the horizon in the
western sky, its straight orange rays causing the shiny metal surface of the
statue to appear as if it were on fire. 

Sean
stared silently for a few moments at the body of his father, lying on the
couch. Viktor shifted his weight carefully, avoiding putting too much pressure
on his left leg. His dark brown eyes clouded in concentration as he imagined
the bodies of his mother, grandmother, sister and Aunt Lydia lying in their
beds at home. At least they’d had that comfort, he thought. They were able to
fall asleep in their own beds, all the familiarities of their life close around
them, one last time. And that’s where they’ll stay, Viktor thought – forever. 

Ryan
McCaney watched somberly, his cap in his hands behind him, his head slightly
bowed. He still remembered the pressure on his arms as he’d laid Sean’s father
carefully on the couch. He wondered how it had been for his own mother at the
end – she was old and frail already, had warned him that she may not be around
by the time he returned from his foreign post. Just in case, they’d said their
goodbyes before he’d left – as much as any mother and son could anyway. 

Svyeta’s
mind turned quickly back to the image of her mother’s body in the hospital room
where they’d left her – the memory still felt so fresh like it had just
happened. Only now, these many weeks later, it wasn’t as overwhelming as it had
been before. Mixed with it and the oppressive feelings it had first caused were
the images of her father lying on the floor in their neighbors’ apartment,
Zhenya’s tiny form being covered in dirt in the ground. Somehow these other
images lessened the terrifying power of the first, as if knowing that her
parents and sister were now together in death was easier. She was the last one
of her family left, but she was good at managing on her own. And, now, with
these others who would be like family, she had people she could take care of –
and who could take care of her.