Wolves in the Night: Wrath & Righteousness: Episode Seven

  WOLVES IN THE NIGHT

  WRATH & RIGHTEOUSNESS

  [Episode Seven]

  CHRIS STEWART

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used factiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locals or persona, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  Cover design by Richard Yoo

  “It is best if an enemy nation comes and surrenders of its own accord.”

  —Du You (A.D. 735–812)

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Coming In Episode Eight...

  ONE

  New York City, New York

  Despite all of its grandeur, beauty, influence, and power, it took less than two weeks for the city to die.

  For more than a hundred years it had reigned as one of the greatest cities in the world, a center of business, finance, trade, media, and law, serving as one of the world’s great cultural centers as well as the home of the United Nations, making it the diplomatic center of the world. One point seven million people lived on the tiny island of Manhattan, another six million within the five boroughs, almost nineteen million in the surrounding metropolitan area, making it one of the most densely populated spots on the earth.

  Power. Focus. Money.

  For more than a hundred years, it had it all.

  Pulse. Action. Demands and rewards.

  The city was as animated as any living thing: breathing, growing, exerting an undeniable force, never sleeping, always moving.

  For more than a hundred years, New York City had shone as a jewel in the crown of mortal glitter.

  More than a hundred years to reign, but only two weeks to die.

  Drexel Danbert could see that it was dead now—or, if not dead, certainly convulsing in its final throes.

  Once the ultimate symbol of wealth and power, the awesome skyscrapers that surrounded him were empty skeletons, icons of human accomplishment protruding meaninglessly into the smoky sky, old bones jutting from a decaying battlefield, awful reminders of a tragic fall. The streets below, crammed with dead cars, buses and semi-tractor trailer trucks, were ghostly and still, occasional wind-blown papers and a few ragged stragglers the only things that moved. And there were rats. Lots of rats. He was amazed at how quickly they had scurried from the sewers to reclaim the land. From where he stood, forty floors above the city, he couldn’t see them, but he had been on the streets enough to know they were there.

  Drexel Danbert, founding member and senior partner of Danbert, Lexel, Taylor and Driggs, the greatest and most secretive international government relations firm in the world, stared down on the empty city from his penthouse overlooking the Financial District. The windows around his apartment reached from floor to ceiling, offering a magnificent view, and he leaned his head against the pane as he looked down wistfully on the empty streets below. From where he stood, facing east, he could see all the way down the man-made canyon known as Wall Street to the East River. Right and right, William and Broad Streets ran north and south, much broader and more imposing than the narrow street below the window where he stood.

  Of the millions of people who used to live around him, few remained. There were a couple of homeless wretches who had chosen to die out on the street, as well as an unknown number of vagabonds who daily crossed the bridges between Brooklyn and New Jersey, looking for food. But that was about all. Everyone else was gone.

  Well, not all. There were the gangs. The filthy gangs. He’d heard the reports: the things they’d done, the things they were eating now, some of the things they would do for food.

  He shuddered as he thought.

  Was this was the world they’d created?

  Had they gone too far?

  He shuddered once again.

  Time passed. He didn’t move. Looking out his window at the dying world, he felt the gloomy doubt inside him growing thicker and more oppressive.

  Had they torn it down too quickly? Did those who were left hate each other too much now to rebuild? Was there any hope of reconstruction or would people accept things as they were? Tribes and bands of friends and families—was that all that existed anymore? In their determination to break them, had they simply gone too far?

  That idiot King Abdullah! The old man said that he would stop him, but he hadn’t been restrained.

  Thinking of the Saudi king, maybe the single most powerful man left in the world, Drexel Danbert shook his head. The king and the man who grew no older might have destroyed their entire plan.

  The dark fear grew inside him when he thought of the old man. Who was he? Where had he come from? And why had he betrayed them so?

  The Grand Plan had never called for the destruction of his country. Why would they want to rule over a Stone-Age people struggling through nothing but devastation and starvation? They had wanted to break it, not destroy it. Break the government and people down to such a point that there would be no resistance to the Brothers when they moved in to institute a government of their own.

  But, looking upon the dead city, he had to wonder now. Had they taken out too much of the foundation, making it impossible for the United States to rebuild?

  His partners didn’t think so.

  He was certain they were wrong.

  He took a weary breath and held it, listening to the silence in his ears.

  His penthouse was cool and quiet. No electricity. No running water. No sound of life anywhere. Like most of the other New Yorkers, he had had no choice but to drink out of the Hudson and East Rivers, which were toxic with floating filth. Three days before, he had run out of food. A plastic bag had been his toilet. A couple of disposable wet wipes the only way to wash his hands. The elevator in his high-rise was not working, making it a major commitment to go down to the street, but nothing like the commitment it took to climb the stairs again.

  He looked down on the death around him and took another breath.

  Funny, he thought, why he had chosen to stay.

  He could have left the city; they’d given him plenty of warning. He could have been sitting drunk and lazy somewhere in London, Casablanca, even Paris, though he truly hated that pompous city. But this was what he’d wanted. He had wanted to see the end.

  The firm had started transitioning its operations to Europe almost a year before, then hurriedly relocated its headquarters to Paris three weeks before the EMP attack. Most of the other partners had already evacuated, except for those who were currently engaged. Some of their most productive partners still worked within the
government, and everyone recognized there was important work for them to do. But, like all of the others, he could have gone. He’d stayed, though. When his partners had demanded an explanation, some in angry voices, he hadn’t answered, though deep inside his empty soul he knew.

  He was old now. In a few weeks, he would celebrate—OK, observe—his ninety-first birthday, which made him very old indeed. His life was over and he knew that, and he didn’t really care.

  So he stood alone beside the window, thinking of his age. For a man of ninety-one, he was in remarkably good shape—his legs were a bit arthritic, but his mind was clear and everything else was going strong. Something about the partnership seemed to do that; all of the founders had lived into their nineties, a few even making it to a hundred. They used to laugh at their unnatural longevity, saying it was because they had far too much to live for. But Drexel knew it wasn’t so much what they had to live for as what they feared when they were dead.

  Looking down, he stared at the age spots that speckled the back of his soft hands. Despite their best efforts to hold it back, time had moved forward. One by one, the founding partners had passed away, leaving Drexel alone now in the world. He had already outlived three wives, one of whom he had actually cared about (though he couldn’t remember much about how that felt). He had six children, most of whom he hadn’t seen in years, an unknown number of grandchildren and great-grandchildren he didn’t even know about, let alone their names, sexes or where they lived. It was true that two of his sons would soon be partners in the firm, but even they were not close and he rarely saw them anymore. His other children had sensed his evil and avoided him for years.

  So he stood alone in silence, looking back on his life without a smile.

  Only blackness lay before him, only darkness left and right. And there was no reason to turn and look behind him—he knew the shadows that hid back there. Time had caught up and finally passed him, and he couldn’t change what he had done. Everywhere he turned now, the feeling was the same. Whether in this life or in the next, it was going to be the same.

  But it didn’t matter. He was ready for something new. The next stage might not be better but he doubted it could be worse. He’d been empty, dead and desperately unhappy for almost fifty years, and the will to keep on fighting simply didn’t exist inside him anymore.

  *******

  The dark spirit stared at the old man, looking deeply into his eyes. He knew the veil of separation lying between them now was so thin that the mortal could feel him when he was near. He took a small step toward the man and snarled.

  The mortal kept on staring, hunching his shoulders against his cold.

  How Balaam wished that the man could see him! How he wished he was more than just a wisp of smoke, a passing hint of darkness, a thought, a voice, a feeling of despair. How he wished that he was more than just a spirit, always sensed but never seen!

  He wanted substance! He wanted texture! He wanted to feel something. He wanted to be felt!

  Balaam reached out to touch Drexel Danbert, but his hand passed through the mortal like light passing through a wisp of smoke. Balaam shivered, cursing in frustration. No warmth, no sense of touch, no comfort or consolation could be found in the passing of his hand.

  Balaam looked at the mortal, hunger, lust and envy in his eyes. All of Lucifer’s servants worshiped flesh, and the closer they came to the end days, the more they desired what they knew they would never have. Ironic, Balaam thought, how so many of the mortals were willing to give up the one thing the dark angels wanted most. Control of their bodies. The ability to choose. Yes, the weapons the dark angels had developed to control the mortal bodies could be very powerful, and once people started down that path, they almost always slipped up in the end.

  Why they were so foolish, Balaam failed to understand.

  But they were. They had proven that for more than seven thousand years.

  Balaam knew the old man could sense that he was near, sense the cold and the hatred and the blackness of his soul. Balaam didn’t have to speak loudly for the old man to hear him anymore; they had so much in common, they almost thought the same. The same desperation and sense of hopelessness controlled their calloused souls.

  Balaam watched as the mortal looked down on the empty city where his fellow mortals used to live. “He doesn’t even know why he hates them,” the dark angel sneered as he watched. “His heart is blackened by emotion that his head can’t even understand. It makes no sense and he knows that, but he is so corrupted he can’t control his emotions anymore.”

  Leaning toward the man, Balaam leered and whispered to his slave. “You did it,” he hissed proudly to his faithful servant. “You taught them to hate each other. You divided them completely, tearing them apart. You did everything we asked of you and now your work is done.”

  Moving, Balaam stood before him so he could look into his eyes. The change had already started taking place. Every pleasure the mortal had experienced, every indulgence, every sin, was poison to him now. He had no good memories to support him, no joy in looking at his life. Everything he had done, every decision he’d ever made, had brought him to this point, and now all he had was pain. Every fleeting moment of earthly pleasure only added to his suffering, the cumulative memory a bitter realization that he had damned himself to hell.

  Funny how it worked out in the end. For the righteous, thinking back on their lives seemed to bring them joy again. But for the evil, the memories of their failings created nothing but renewed suffering and pain. Even when it was over, it wasn’t over, and it all came back again.

  To the evil, it was a haunting.

  To the good, a joyful song.

  *******

  Standing by the tall window, Drexel took his glass of brandy, a clear, coconut-flower Mendis, tossed it back, let it burn against his throat, swallowed, poured another glass, tossed it back, then took the bottle and threw it against the marble wall. The liquid splattered like clear honey, then flowed toward the hardwood floor, mixing with the shattered glass. He sniffed the heavy smell of liquor, and then walked to the front door.

  Pulling it open, he hesitated and then turned. Walking back, he looked around his twelve-million-dollar apartment a final time, taking in all the things he’d spent his life collecting.

  He looked at his favorite possession in this world. Underneath six inches of fireproof, bulletproof, and airproof glass, one of the four existing copies of the original Magna Carta was on display, the only one in private hands, and the crown jewel of his collection. To the right of the display case was a set of original Shakespeare manuscripts. On the walls, multimillion-dollar paintings. Greek and Roman sculptures. Looking at these things was like looking at a week-old newspaper. The things meant nothing to him now.

  Sitting awkwardly on the single step that separated the marble entry from the main living room, he pulled on a pair of heavy boots. Standing, he looked around again. Then Drexel Danbert, one of the richest and most powerful men in the world, stepped out into the hall.

  He didn’t leave a note for any of the partners who might come looking for him. He didn’t take any of the cash or T-bills that were stuffed in the open safe built into the corner of his den. He didn’t take the jewels, watches, paintings, rare manuscripts, any of the things he owned. Leaving the penthouse door open, he started walking down the stairs.

  Going down was easy. Much easier than coming up. Two days before, it had taken him most of the day to climb the stairs.

  No worries now. He would never climb these stairs again.

  He paced himself, stopping every three stories to catch his breath. Fifty minutes later, he hobbled through the heavy door on the ground floor. Lots of brass, chrome and marble greeted him; the building’s foyer was as beautiful as any of the apartments on the upper floors, but it had been many years since he had noticed any of the splendors. Most of the windows that faced the street had been broken, leaving shattered glass scattered on the tile floor. Every step he took crunched brok
en glass under his shoes.

  Dressed in a pair of old slacks, a dirty denim shirt, and a battered coat he’d picked up on the street two nights before, he walked out onto the pavement. Stopping for a moment, he felt the swelling in his knees, then turned up the collar on his coat. The wind blew down the glass and granite canyons that surrounded him, and hundreds of cars still lined the streets. The vents in the sidewalks were dead now, no steam, no smells, no hiss of passing subway trains underneath. A stray cat walked across the sidewalk and onto the road, disappearing underneath the nearest car, a yellow cab with a couple of brightly wrapped FAO Schwarz presents still inside. Breathing deeply, he smelled it, the dank rot that drifted from the river. Cold air. The smell of rats. The stench of garbage in the streets.

  Turning, he started walking north on Broad Street and then west on Wall Street until Trinity Church came into view.

  Keeping to the opposite side of the street, he swung around the old church, feeling creepy as he stared at the ancient cross.

  A crowd had gathered on the far side of the church’s graveyard—a group of rough, angry, filthy men. He stared at them, hesitating, rage and loathing surging through his veins. Hot sweat started dripping against the back of his neck as a lifetime of raw emotion came crashing down on him. For almost seventy years he had gorged on hate and now it burst inside him, foul and full.

  And it was inescapable. Whether in this life or the other, the pain would stay the same.

  Looking up, he raised his fist and cursed his God. Then he shoved his hands into his pockets and turned toward the crowd to die.

  TWO

  Northwestern University Medical Center, Chicago, Illinois

  Sara Brighton sat on a small chrome and plastic chair in the corner of the emergency room. The place swarmed with people, all of them sick, injured or dying, and the chaos and confusion grated against her nerves. Ammon stood beside her, his hand resting gently on her shoulder. Their clothes were filthy, caked in dried mud and bloodstained, but they were dry now and warm, at least for the moment, and there was something good in that. The emergency room looked like something from a third-world country: dazed women; blood smeared across the floor; a child crying in the corner, apparently abandoned, her dark cheeks stained with tears. Four or five litters topped with bodies, some of them covered in disposable sheets, lined the walls. Several gurneys were clustered in groups of three in the center of the room.