Prometheus and the Dragon (Atlas and the Winds Book 2) (51 page)

The fighting had raged for the last night, sounding like distant thunder, but finally it’d gone silent. Eerily silent. The last four ships, along with two of the small ones, had leapt skyward just before the battle had ended, taking with them their last chance of rescue.

Tandy sat against a rock, leaning back and holding her daughter in her lap, trying not to cry. She rocked, humming a lullaby and stroking her innocent girl’s face.

“Here Tanny,” Regan said, walking up and holding out a small plastic cup. He was twenty-five but he’d never lost the speech problem that made him sound so much younger. It was why she’d been taking care of him since her parents died, nobody would hire him, even though it was just his speech that was slow. “I took mine.”

She reached out for the cup, looking down into it and sniffing. Grape. “My, that’s traditional,” she said, almost smiling at the irony.

“I’m thirsty Mommy,” Lexxi said, sitting up and grabbing for the cup.

“Ok, but you gotta share,” she said, handing the cup to her daughter and closing her eyes.

“It tastes funny,” Lexxi said, making a face and handing the cup to her mom after taking a huge gulp.

“It’ll be fine,” she smiled at her daughter, finishing the drink herself. It did taste funny, like it had been made with peanut oil instead of water. “Pretty soon it’ll all be ok.”

She leaned back against the rock, pulling her daughter closer and hugging her tightly. She started humming again, but this time the tears came anyway.

“Don’t cry, Mommy,” Lexxi whispered, reaching up to touch her mother’s face. “It’s ok.”

“I know,” she said, looking up into the angry eye of Antu. “I know.” She closed her eyes and laid her cheek against the top of her daughter’s head, listening as Lexxi’s breathing slowed, and then finally stopped.

She drew in one last, deep breath and letting it out, followed her daughter into the light.

***

A thousand miles above the Earth:

Antu had changed since it had first appeared in Carter Anthony’s telescope, and not just because it was now so close to the Earth that they were virtually inseparable, in a cosmic sense. The surface of the asteroid had been fused into a hard shell from the relentless frying of Prometheus. Deep grooves had been cut through the ends where the beams had dug deeper into the surface. It looked less like an asteroid and more like a piece of modern art, sculpted and carved by the chisel of God.

Most of the dust that had once covered the surface had been blown away by the nuclear fury of the guns, but small patches remained, in the bottoms of some of the eons-old pockmarks that still remained near the poles. At this altitude, Earth’s atmosphere was almost non-existent, measurable only to the most sensitive instruments, but at its speed, there was enough gas passing over its surface to begin pushing the remaining dust around. Small eddies of fast, very low-density wind, picked up the finest particles of regolith and swept them into spiraling whirlwinds that rose like wispy snakes into the dark sky. Bending as they rose into a stream, like fine hair flowing up and back, almost invisible.

***

150 miles southwest of Juarez, Mexico:

Juan Carlos DeVega stood outside in the warm sun, watching the herd milling around in the corral. It was just past noon, and even in the middle of winter he was sweating. Ordinarily he enjoyed working his horses, but today he felt there was an underlying urgency that had taken the joy out of the work. He’d been trying to get them gathered into the barns all morning, knowing the storms would hit by early afternoon, and if they were out in the pastures they might be lost.

He was a little chaffed from the ride, but at least now they were where he could keep them safe. He and three of his ranch hands had just gotten the last of them into the corral.

He pulled his hat off, and wiping the sweat off his brow, he glanced up toward the sky. Shading his eyes, he watched as a spark split away from the sun’s glare. Within seconds it became so bright he had to look away.

Two suns. One standing still as always, and the other streaking toward the north. “El loco Sol!” he hollered, pointing up at Antu.

The Crazy Sun.

***

Outside Stormhaven:

The Army of the Holy Right had been defeated. One hundred thousand men and women, driven to fanaticism by the words of a holy man. One who was now conspicuously missing.

Nathaniel Sommerset had become a casualty, but unlike Erik Michaels, there had been no witnesses. The fires of his followers had cooled quickly without his words to reinforce their faith. In the face of Mica’s rage, they had been drowned out under a tidal wave of sheer violence.

The survivors, now demoralized and unsure, milled about trying to decide whether to regroup or just sit and wait. They knew their end would only be changed by the manner in which it arrived.

A distant thunder rolled from the clear blue sky. The voice of God’s coming judgment.

***

Colorado City, Arizona:

The Fundamental Church of the Latter-Day Saints had long stood in defiance of the ways of man, struggling to hold true to the path their Prophet had set for them, believing they were following the higher law of God. They had faced hardships, along with their brothers and sisters of the mainstream Mormon Church, but unlike them, they had continued to face them after they had left the church.

Colorado City was a haven, a stronghold for them. A surprisingly modern town driven by a two hundred year old tradition. It was a place where they could belong, in their huge polygamous families, without having to face the ridicule and scorn of the world. Isolated on the high desert far north of the Grand Canyon, only accessible by a single highway.

Like the mainstream Church, they shared in the understanding to keep supplies for the long, hard times that were coming. So this morning, gathered together in their Church to pray for those who were less fortunate, for those who had not been true to the Commandments of the Prophet, they were confident. Ready.

Only the very young screamed when the windows of the building shattered as Antu passed overhead.

***

St. George, Utah:

The highway south to Las Vegas had been empty for almost a month, the casinos closed and most of the population long since gone. In fact, a lot of the people from St. George and Hurricane had headed away as well. A few volunteers had stayed, like Alfonzo Ramirez, hoping if the city somehow survived they’d be able to return.

The government had come through telling people they were in a seismically active area and it wasn’t safe to stay if the faults let loose. Sure, there were earthquakes here once in a while, but the big faults along the coast were so far away Al didn’t think there’d be much chance of anything happening clear up here.

As a Deputy County Sheriff, he kept an eye on things that had been left behind. There were no real problems with looters, although he’d had to run off a few people who’d been trying to break into a store for supplies after the owner had left it behind. He sat in the parking lot of the Fry’s Electronics in his cruiser, listening to the voice of the EBS commentator reporting on the progress of Antu. The man had no personality, but he was a wealth of facts.

It had entered the atmosphere about a minute ago over Mexico, and was progressing northwest toward the impact site. People along the flight path were advised to not look directly at the meteor, and to stay indoors and wait until after it passed to go near any windows.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said to himself. He yawned and stretched in boredom, and maybe a little sleepiness. He was one of only six officers who’d volunteered to ride it out, so he’d been catching naps in his cruiser for the last three days, trying to be as visible as possible for those who had elected to stay.

Blinking his eyes, he focused on a woman who had appeared out of nowhere across the street. It wasn’t the fact she was standing there that caught his attention, it was the fact that she had two shadows. One pointing north and the other swinging like a second hand on an impossible sundial. She stopped on the sidewalk, waiting for the light to change, to cross. There were no cars anywhere around, but she was probably thinking he’d ticket her for jaywalking. He laughed at the thought.

When the light changed, she crossed the street and angled straight toward him, her shadows now pointing in almost opposite directions. She stopped, and swayed, like she was drunk. A split second later he felt it too. The ground beneath his cruiser was rolling, like an ocean. Street lights swinging back and forth, steel palm trees in a hurricane.

He pushed the door open and tried to step out but the ground was lurching at his feet. He glanced toward her, now down on her hands and knees. Around him he could hear the sounds of glass shattering, and the low distant groaning of the Earth itself. He pushed against the door again and threw himself out onto the pavement, rolling as he hit and trying to get his balance. He wanted to get to her, but it was impossible to stand.

Then the sky exploded around him, and he went deaf. It sounded like he’d stuck his head in the barrel of a howitzer. After that, there were no sounds in his ears except for a screaming whistle. His eyes were blurry, but he could see the woman now laying flat on the ground. He started crawling toward her as the shaking in the ground slowed to a gentle swaying.

Reaching her, he touched her shoulder and she jerked up, a small trickle of blood coming from her ear. She smiled at him, and touched the side of his face, pulling back a fingertip covered in red.

***

SeaTac International Airport:

The newest terminal hadn’t been finished when the evacuation orders had come, and now of course it wouldn’t be. It had been an architectural marvel of steel, glass and concrete. It would have been the crowning achievement of any architect’s career, but for Bill Greer this had just been the latest jewel in his collection of masterpieces. If only there’d been time to finish.

Now it stood as a miscarriage of creativity. Half framework and half imagination. Aborted before birth.

Mr. Greer sat alone on the fifth floor concourse, staring out the glassless windows, wrapped in a heavy coat and wearing dark glasses. He’d spent the last weeks wandering the airport buildings, trying to come to grips with his own mortality, and the inescapable knowledge that his creations would be joining him in the dusty moat of time.

He’d pulled a large recliner up the construction elevator shaft and had positioned it for the best possible view of the disaster. Beside him were the empty carcasses of a case of Chivas Regal, stolen from the VIP lounge in the old terminal building. He’d taken it a week ago, but hadn’t really started into it until after the last military chopper left yesterday afternoon. The pilot and crew had begged him to leave with them. They were heading to an evacuation center somewhere along the backbone of the Rockies.

He’d watched them fly off toward the east, and then settled in to get himself seriously anesthetized before morning. He glanced at his watch. Another few minutes. He felt a sudden urge caused by all the alcohol processing through his system.

Giggling at the thought of finally meeting St. Peter and the first question out of his mouth being, “Where’s the bathroom?” he decided he should wobble his way over to the edge and relieve himself before he went to meet his maker.

Staggering as carefully as a completely drunk human can, he edged toward a vertical beam that would have been a casing for a window. He looked down and swayed, feeling an almost equally strong urge to puke. A far less polite image of meeting St. Peter flashed through his head.

Before he could shake his mind clear, a sudden whooshing wind hit him in the back. It blasted against him like a jet engine, blowing him out the window. He twisted as he fell, watching in horror as his beautiful creation tumbled to the ground. The concussion of Antu’s passing, crushing both the building and his fragile human body with equal ease.

***

Seattle, Washington:

The party had continued until the last minute, perhaps a little more frantic, more passionate, as they all tried to avoid thinking thoughts of the unthinkable. “There it is,” Leo Walsh yelled, his voice rising above the music on a wave of adrenaline.

A blinding, bright streak sliced through the sky, a razorblade cutting the world in two. It dropped just over the horizon, but still close enough they’d be incinerated in the fireball.

Somebody kicked the jukebox and it died. The party was over.

“It’s beautiful,” Jocelyn Deurson said into the quiet. A rainbow of sparks, cascading trails of multicolored fire.

There was a second of silence after it disappeared over the edge of the world. And then blindness.

They’d reached their OH SHIT moment.

***