Merciless (34 page)
Daniel looked up; an elderly woman stood over him, leaning on a cane not unlike the one Daniel himself used to rely on.
He used one hand to brace himself against the ground and extended the other to the woman above him. With great effort, he was able to get to his feet, but he couldn’t lean on her; she was too feeble. The nausea intensified, and he nearly doubled over from the abdominal pain.
This brought him at eye level with the old woman’s cane.
“Borrow this?” he asked, grasping the cane with his free hand.
He threw it and it spun circles in the air. It clunked against Trevor’s legs, and the boy went down.
Swallowing a fresh taste of bile, Daniel half-ran, half-crawled. Lurching toward Trevor, he made it just before Trevor got to his feet again. Daniel’s powers finally kicked in and the queasiness immediately vanished.
Daniel pulled a sharp piece of the Dominion Stone out of his pocket and slashed Trevor across the palm of his hand with it. The Stone made contact with the boy’s blood.
Trevor gasped, blinked, shook his head violently as if he were waking from a bad dream.
“You all right, son?” Daniel asked, catching his breath.
Trevor picked the cane up from the ground and returned it to the old woman. He was battered and weak, but he stood tall and looked Daniel in the eye. “Never better,” he said.
Daniel appreciated the boy’s attempt at bravery through his pain, but knew that finding Hector needed to be their first order of business.
“Come on,” Daniel said, leading the way.
“Stay back!” a voice ordered over a bullhorn as Wilhelm led Alex and the others to a reconstruction encampment. “We do not wish to shoot you, but we will if you force us!”
A small city of tents had been erected where the cultural center of town had once been, but now was little more than black dirt with remnants of buildings piled on top. Parked between the tents was a row of military trucks and Jeeps that had seen a lot of hard use since the city’s collapse. Spotlights running on portable generators shone on collapsed buildings where workers had recently been sorting through wreckage, cleaning up and trying to find bodies. Tens of thousands were still unaccounted for.
Alex guessed that the searching had stopped when Oblivion came to town.
She looked up; Daniel came hobbling onto the scene with Trevor in tow. He took in what was happening and wisely chose to stay back, out of the way.
One of the bright lights had turned at their approach and now Alex and the others were staring directly into the beam, making it hard to see much of anything else.
“Amiel! It’s all right!” Wilhelm shouted back. “My friends have come; they’re here to help us!” He stepped out from the crowd and walked forward, directly into the light.
The ground shuddered again, much harder this time, opening cracks and fissures in the earth and sending Alex and many of the others down to their knees. Alex could only wonder what was happening to Oblivion right now to cause him to lose control like this.
She looked to the skies, saw tiny holes opening in the boiling clouds and the raging fire beyond it, ready to pour down upon them.
“Wilhelm?” called out the voice on the other side. “Are you yourself again?”
“The others found a way to free me, to free all of us!” Wilhelm replied.
The light turned away, and when her eyes cleared, Alex saw a line of twenty men standing at the edge of the tent city, each of them holding a semiautomatic rifle. But they stood at ease, weapons pointed at the ground.
A short man Alex remembered from the last time she had visited Jerusalem stepped forward, welcoming them into the camp. His name was Amiel Yishai, and he’d quickly become friends with Grant after the city’s collapse when Grant and the Loci had arrived to help with the cleanup.
“It’s Alex, yes?” Amiel asked, a smile on his face.
She tried to smile back, but couldn’t conjure up any semblance of happiness or warmth. “It’s good to see you again, but I’m afraid we don’t have much time. We’re going to need your help . . .”
Her voice trailed off when she caught sight of Wilhelm carefully approaching a frightened-looking child, who sat nearby. Slowly, cautiously, he knelt and allowed the girl to approach him. Wilhelm knew this kid, Alex realized. But the girl was no doubt frightened by what had happened to Wilhelm when Oblivion overtook him, and was unsure of whether or not to trust him.
Wilhelm smiled and made a silly face, tugging on his ears and sticking out his tongue.
The girl’s face broke into a timid grin, but she kept her distance. “Willuhm?” she said. Some sort of nickname, Alex supposed, or the girl’s best attempt at pronouncing his name.
The fearful way the little girl looked on Wilhelm was having a profound effect on him; he was near tears. He looked helplessly at Amiel, who walked over and held the little girl’s hand.
Amiel said something in Hebrew. It sounded comforting, reassuring.
Wilhelm faced his young friend with sorrow in his eyes, an unspoken request there. She said something soft in reply, looking down at the ground.
“She asked why you were so angry before,” Amiel said.
“Oh . . .” Wilhelm moaned. “I wasn’t angry, sweet girl. I wasn’t angry. I . . .” He didn’t know what to say. “I was . . . I was
sick
. My heart, it was . . . it was sick. Diseased. I didn’t know what I was doing, I couldn’t help myself. I’m sorry, little one, I’m so, so sorry.”
She turned loose of Amiel and stepped forward into a hug by Wilhelm’s welcoming arms. Wilhelm looked as if he’d just been brought back to life, and she squeezed tears from his body with her tiny embrace.
Alex moved a little closer, watching as the girl said something else.
Amiel translated. “The ‘bad man,’ ” he said, “she wants to know if
he’s
angry, or if his heart is sick like yours was?”
Wilhelm smiled through his tears, bittersweet at her innocent question.
“I . . . don’t know, little one. He’s just . . . he’s not himself.”
She replied, and Amiel translated again.
“Can you stop him, Willuhm? Will you make the bad man stop?”
Wilhelm hugged her harder, but cut his eyes across at Alex.
We’ll stop him,
Alex vowed.
One way or another, we’ll stop
him.
The Tower of David, also known as the Jerusalem Citadel, rested inside an ancient fortress that touched the far western edge of the Old City.
Payton followed the main vehicular road through a gap in the ruins of the Old City walls. Inside, he moved southward, following the outline of where the walls had once stood, until he came upon the fortress. Largely medieval in design, with stone parapets and stairs, the structure was multileveled and tiered. Modern metal walkways and stairs had been added in various spots, providing tourists easy access to otherwise unreachable rooms and lookouts. The entire structure was crowned by a pinnacle tower that showcased Muslim architectural influences.
The Tower itself was a perfectly cylindrical minaret. Miraculously, it showed few signs of damage from the recent cataclysmic earthquake. Payton was amazed it hadn’t collapsed, as it looked extremely old and fragile. But looks could be deceiving.
Payton’s feet carefully navigated the uneven cobblestones atop the old structure as he directed Devlin toward the minaret. They stood on a grass-lined stone walkway, above ground level and so untouched by the DarkWorld’s effects. To his right and above was a narrow white archway made of white stone— most of which was barely still standing.
Shortly after entering the Old City, he’d torn an entire sleeve off of his black jumpsuit and fashioned a gag for Devlin to prevent him from alerting anyone to their presence. He maneuvered them through the central courtyard until they faced the minaret.
Payton crouched low beneath a higher platform of stone and elbowed Devlin in the face. He lowered his old mentor to the ground, unconscious. But Payton did not rise to his feet once more.
Instead, he decided that it would be here, well out of sight, where he would watch and wait.
Ethan opened his eyes and found himself sprawled on his back near the top of the Dome of the Rock. The burning clouds seemed nearly on top of him, being up so high. But that view only held him for a second because the next thing he saw was an Israeli army truck rocketing through the air directly at him.
He jumped with all the enhanced might his legs would give him, barely making it out of the way as the truck slammed into the massive gold Dome. He heard a horrific crash behind him as the truck plunged through the roof and crashed onto the floor below.
His jump had taken him too far down the side of the Dome to get a handhold, the gold tile set too close together, and he tumbled on. Finally, at the bottom, a wide ledge separated the lower walls of the building from the Dome, and Ethan’s feet found purchase there.
He glanced down at the ground. Oblivion was not where he’d last seen him; he couldn’t spot those fiery eyes or that slate gray skin anywhere.
He turned to get another look at the gaping hole above, and saw Oblivion standing there, up the side of the Dome.
Ethan kicked off against the ledge, his superpowered legs sending him fifty feet high before gravity took over and he began to descend. He collided with Oblivion on his way down and gave him the best sucker punch he had.
The ground quaked immediately and a flash of sheet lightning lit up the city as Oblivion’s frame blasted through the Dome, creating another hole in its surface, and his immense dead weight silently plunged beyond it to the ground underneath. Ethan grabbed on to the lapels of Oblivion’s brown leather jacket, riding this ancient creature all the way. The impact Oblivion caused created a small crater in the building’s interior, and he was folded sickeningly within it.
Ethan got to his feet. He had one shot. Thankfully the many holes they’d smashed into the Dome let him orient himself to the rest of the city, and he grabbed Oblivion by the lower legs and began to spin in place.
Hope I gave this enough time,
he thought.
Hard to tell without
a watch that works. But I can’t risk dragging this out any longer.
He spun faster, twirling like a discus thrower, calling on every ounce of strength his superpowered muscles could muster.
Please let this work . . .
With everything he had, he finally let go and sent Oblivion soaring like a rocket, flying off into the dark, treacherous sky.
Oblivion met land again nearly half a mile to the west.
He made a spectacular crash into another ancient structure on the far edge of the Old City, digging another giant crater into its center. But he would not be deterred.
He wasted no time returning to his feet, taking in his surroundings.
He knew this place.
Oblivion climbed a cobblestone staircase to a secondary level and rounded a corner. He spotted a tall, narrow tower in the farthest corner of this castle and decided to walk toward it. Higher ground was always the best vantage point for his work.
But something wasn’t right. He heard hushed footsteps, moving rapidly in his direction.
Oblivion had just turned a corner, moving toward an opposite entrance to the interior of the Citadel, when he stopped in place.
A lone figure blocked his path, forming a dark silhouette against the harsh surroundings. Oblivion saw the tip of a sword touching the ground. The sword was held perfectly vertical, and his flaming eyes slowly traced its long, gleaming silver edge upward until he found the hand that held it. A hand with a golden ring attached to it, a burgundy gemstone inset in its center.
Oblivion recognized this man, just as he recognized the weapon he wielded. Was he surprised to see this one alive? Not really.
This one had a particular knack for survival.
“Thresher,” said his piercing, booming voice, an aberration of nature.
“Bringer.”
Payton burst forward with his liquid speed, sword in both hands, before Oblivion could meet the oncoming attack with his burning eyes.
Payton fell upon him, slashing as hard and fast as he could with his powerful blade.
“The Bringer shall be slain at the hands of the Thresher,” Payton said as he followed through, breaking away and slowly rounding catlike on Oblivion.
Oblivion had suffered a vicious, disfiguring diagonal gash across his face, but it didn’t faze him. A tiny flicker of his head and Payton was zooming through the air. His body crashed against a stone wall behind Oblivion and was held in place there.
Delirious from the crash, Payton held stubbornly to his sword as tightly as his broken body would allow.
“That’s what the prophecy says,” gasped the Thresher before spitting on Oblivion’s face. His words came in a fast exhalation as Oblivion sent crushing pain throughout his body. “Funny how the prophecy was so concerned with your arrival, but it said nothing at all about how long you would
stay
. I’m here to let you know: Time’s up.”
The sky flashed with terrible thunder and vicious lightning, and Oblivion flung Payton against another wall. Whether this went on for minutes or for hours, Payton could not tell, but on it went.
And yet. In the midst of the torture, he’d noticed something.
The curved scar on the back of Oblivion’s hand had expanded into a circle. It was a circle that lay flat, wrapping around his wrist until one edge of the curve touched the other. It looked different somehow than the rest of the granite.
Payton swallowed bile and willed himself to stay awake. He was certain he had broken bones throughout his body, and imagined he had a good deal of internal bleeding. But he would not give in to death, not this death, not now. His part to play was not over yet. And he would refuse Oblivion this prize for as long as he could; every additional second Payton drew breath was a victory, and remaining alive was the only way he could fight back against Oblivion’s merciless beating.
They were still outside in the courtyard, though Oblivion had dragged or thrown him from one end to the other and back again. He sneered at Payton repeatedly, an unusual display of emotion from this all-powerful being, and Payton was forced to wonder how much Oblivion knew of the prophecy about the Bringer and the Thresher.