torg 01 - Storm Knights Page 2

  What he saw was his own reflection.

  His bulbous nose and red beard were visible beneath his Totes hat. His coat collar had slipped open again, revealing the white of his priestly collar. Thirty-four years old, Bryce thought, and my face carries a mark for every year. He clasped the collar of his secular outerwear, covering up the evidence of his priestly calling.

  Calling, Bryce thought as he gazed at his unimpos-ing reflection. What did "calling" really mean, he wondered, and would he ever get an answer? Wasn't that the crux of his problems?

  Bryce turned to go when a book cover caught his eye. It was a book on Arthurian legends, all about King

  Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table. The illustration on the cover was of a regal Arthur, decked out in his finest armor, his mailed hands resting on Excalibur's mighty pommel. Such a simpler time, when knights battled for chivilry and honor. In those days, you knew the good guys from the bad.

  A bolt of lightning illuminated the sky, startling Bryce. The rain was going to begin falling soon, and the priest did not want to get caught in the open. He resumed his walk, hurrying to beat the storm.

  He would never make it.

  As he hurried through the streets, Bryce continued his private reverie. He was currently on leave, back home visiting his parents, as he awaited his next assignment. His missionary work as a Jesuit priest had taken him to Australia, the Middle East, and Europe over the years. He, like the knights in the bookstore window, followed vows. Only Bryce's were vows of poverty, chastity and obedience. His was the duty to act upon any command the Holy Father put to him, to work for the glory of God and defend the Roman Catholic faith from heresy, to educate the young.

  But recently he had begun to doubt certain things, not the least of which was his role in the Great Plan. Recently? No, not recently. Bryce's doubts started back in college, at Loyola, and later at Georgetown. They followed him through every foreign country, forcing him to seek answers to unasked questions. But answers, if there were any, always eluded him.

  In a few days he would get called back for a new assignment. He was sure that, instead, he would ask to leave the order. Perhaps on his own he could discover the true meanings behind those areas that most fascinated him — and frightened him.

  He was still quite a number of blocks from his parents' house when a wave of energy rippled through the streets. Bryce turned to watch as the glowing wave rolled down the block. As it passed, store lights snapped off, car engines died. The wave hit Bryce and threw him to the ground. Before he could pull himself up, large drops of rain began to splatter the sidewalk.

  In a matter of moments, Father Christopher Bryce was soaked to the bone.

  4

  In his walk-up apartment on Flatbush Avenue, Mario Docelli snarled one last brutal snarl at the television as he kicked in its picture tube. The TV, the lights, the digital clock in the radio — everything had stopped working at once. And the storm had finally broken outside, dropping huge amounts of dark rain onto the Earth.

  So much for the ball game, Docelli grunted.

  He flung his window up and stuck his head out into the rain. The foul water soaked his head, plastering his hair to his skull. He roared at the elements, not even aware that only minutes before he would never have done such a thing.

  Docelli turned to look in the direction of Shea Stadium and saw the jungle bridge. It appeared to drop straight out of the storm itself, one end lost behind houses, buildings and other obstructions, the other end hanging in the sky. He wasn't sure what it was, but it was calling to him, touching some primal place in his soul.

  Docelli walked down the three flights of stairs and out into the street. As he made his way past stalled cars and screaming people, Docelli changed. His shoulders hunched, his jaw thrust forward, and his knees bent as his shambling, knuckle-dragging walk carried him toward the ruins of Shea.

  5

  "... ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Amen."

  Andrew Jackson Decker let the rose fall from his hand into the hole. He watched it drift down, a burst of red against the black of the hole, the gray of the day. Then the dirt was shoveled in, and the crowd started to depart. Most paid their final respects, heads bowed as they repeated some words of comfort to Decker, then moved on.

  That was the way of the world. Live, die, but life goes on. Decker felt the crumpled paper in his suit pocket and pulled it out. It was a telegram, from President Douglas Kent, expressing his sorrow over the loss of Victoria Decker and regretting that he could not attend the funeral in person. Decker let the telegram go. He didn't notice which way the wind took it.

  "Ace?" Decker looked up. Standing beside him was Jonathan Wells, Speaker of the House. He was one of the few people who remembered Decker's old nickname, and one of the few that still used it. "Come on, congressman," Wells said, "you'll have time to mourn later. Right now we have to go."

  "Go?" Decker asked. "I have to go home. There are people waiting and ."

  Wells gripped Decker's arm firmly. "Ace, I know what you must be feeling right now. Vicky was a wonderful woman, I'm not denying that. But we have an incident. There is going to be a special session of both Houses to discuss it in half an hour."

  "Incident? John, what are you talking about?"

  Wells looked up at the taller, younger congressman from Pennsylvania. "New York has been ... well, we're not sure what. Terrorists, a foreign power, youth gangs, a simple blackout, we just don't know. All communications have ceased over a rather large area of the northeastern United States, including portions of your constituency. Ace, the President and Vice President are in New York. We . have no word yet on their condition."

  A possible attack on the United States? The top elected officials in danger? Decker couldn't focus on the concepts. It was unthinkable, unreal. "I don't understand ."

  "Neither do I, Ace," said Wells. "But they need us to figure it out and decide what to do before someone else makes a terrible mistake."

  Decker nodded. "All right, John, all right. Just give me a second, okay?"

  John Wells smiled reassuringly. "Take two, Ace. Then we've got to go."

  6

  Bryce ran through the rain-slick streets, slipping and sliding but never quite losing his balance. He didn't know what was happening, but if this was the end of the world, he wanted to spend the last moments before the Judgment with his parents. He splashed through deep puddles and sped past men and women who were acting more like animals than people. Finally, after an eternity of running, he turned onto the tree-lined street where he grew up.

  And Christopher Bryce, ordained priest of the order of the Society of Jesus, went insane. That was the only rational explanation his mind would accept.

  The houses on the street were demolished. It reminded the priest of news footage taken after earthquakes or bombings. But no force of nature or man did this. The creatures responsible were certifiably demonic.

  The largest of the beasts were the pair of armored lizards, each roughly twice the size of a tank. Their heavy-plated shells were covered with sharp spines, and each had three spiked tails that swung back and forth to smash houses and telephone poles.

  Directing the monsters — yes, directing them, Bryce was certain of that — were six demons. They were reminiscent of lizards, but very tall and muscular, much broader than men, and they stood on two legs. One rode on the back of each armored monster, driving them forward with strangely-shaped staves. The others followed after them, dragging their long lizard tails behind them.

  As Bryce watched, the first of the great beasts smashed into his parents' home, knocking it apart as though it were made of match sticks. At the same moment, the second armored monster crashed into Saint Ignatius, the church and school across from the house where young Chris Bryce spent so many years learning and growing up. The sight of both memories collapsing beneath the weight of creatures from hell was more than Bryce could take.

  "No!" he screamed, raising his voice above the sound of the falling ra
in. "Nooo!"

  The four walking lizard men turned in response. Now Bryce could see the oddly-formed clubs they wielded. He could see their rain-slicked green scales. Worse, he could stare into their yellow eyes. The closest lizard rocked back on its long tail. It pointed its club at Bryce, and the priest saw that the club still had leaves and roots. Did the lizard simply pluck some strange plant from the ground to use as a weapon? Bryce doubted that even the smallest of the lizard men, who stood over six-feet tall, needed any sort of weapon to rip the short priest to pieces.

  Then, an amazing thing occurred. The lizard, still resting on its tail and pointing its club, opened its tooth-filled, beaklike jaws wide, and screamed, "Ssstormer!"

  If he were mad, Bryce reasoned, he could stand here with no worry. These horrifying figments of his ill imagination would fade away even as they reached out to touch him. If he were mad.

  Father Christopher Bryce turned and ran blindly into the storm.

  7

  Rick Alder watched the dinosaur men set up a crude camp at the base of the tram station, on the Manhattan side of the 59th Street Bridge. They covered the street and stretched back across the bridge, a seemingly unending stream of upright lizards. The entire mass of creatures rocked back on their long tails, excitedly gyrating their lizard bodies and chanting a hissing, raspy hymn.

  They seemed to be celebrating. The lizards were having a party, for God's sake!

  Alder moved away from the window and backed into the darkened room. He was in an office, somewhere on the sixth floor of a building overlooking the tramway. He remembered when they put the tram up. It must have been over ten years ago, when Alder was still in high school. It was such a big deal then, a fancy cable car to connect Manhattan with Roosevelt Island. He even remembered riding it back then, waiting on line with the others just to travel back and forth to a little island between two boroughs. But that was the old world. Alder didn't understand what was happening now, but he was sure that the old world was over, its items put away for another time.

  He settled down on the floor, his back against the wall so that he could watch the door. The police officer was lucky to make it into Manhattan ahead of the dinosaurs. They moved fast for big creatures, quickly spreading out from Shea. He would have made it farther if his horse hadn't gone lame on him.

  Poor Simone saved his life back in Queens, galloping away from the jungle bridge while Alder merely watched in dread and fascination. But he had to leave her on the 59th Street Bridge after her hoof caught in a broken patch of grating. The horse went down hard, and he was lucky to escape without further injury to his knee.

  He unconsciously rubbed it as he remembered, trying to force the pain away with his hand.

  It was starting to get dark by that time, and he was wet and miserable from the constant rain. It was either find a place to hole up or try to make it through the dark on foot, with the dinosaurs right behind him.

  He decided to hole up.

  This building was perfect. It was apparently empty when he arrived, and he had found no evidence of occupation since. Also, it overlooked the bridge. Alder figured it would be prudent to watch the monsters and try to find out all he could about them. His survival might depend on such information.

  A quick check revealed that he still had his utility belt and its accouterments, including his service revolver, flashlight and nightstick. His watch, a black Seiko with gold hatch marks, told him it was ten minutes to seven. He tried his walkie talkie again, but all that came over the speaker was static. He let the box drop to the floor and tipped his head back. In moments he was nodding off, sleep finally claiming his tired body and mind.

  But a new sound forced his eyes open. He quickly became alert and listened. The chanting outside had changed. It was more excited than before, if possible, more intense.

  Alder crawled back to the window and peered outside. It was darker now, and the rain made it even harder to see, but there was light down in the alien camp. Glowing balls of fire hung in the air throughout the camp, providing enough light to see by.

  The camp had grown. Now giant starfish floated over the crowd. The creatures were strikingly beautiful, as though made of stained glass, and the light caused them to sparkle as they moved. In addition, humans were now part of the camp, singing and gyrating with the lizards as though they belonged to the alien festivities. What few details he could make out startled the police officer. The people appeared more brutal, more . primitive, than your average New Yorker. What clothing they still possessed was in tatters, plastered to their bodies by grime and rain. Alder watched, and for a moment he almost wanted to go down there, to throw off the chains of civilization and run naked through the rain. He had to concentrate to push the image out of his brain.

  Suddenly the crowd parted to allow a new addition to emerge from the bridge. It was the great one-horned beast Alder had seen earler, and atop it was the huge lizard man who seemed to command these masses. The lizard man raised his clawed hand high into the air and the crowd went wild. Lizard and starfish and human alike responded with frenzied dancing and shouts of raw emotion. It was so . primal.

  Alder felt his blood pumping and his heart racing. It was like being at a rock concert, only ten times — no, a thousand times — more intense. Even if you didn't like the music, you couldn't help getting caught up in the emotions. He could feel himself moving with the crowd, bopping to the primitive beat the lizard camp was keeping. He wanted to raise his voice, to join their exhilirating song. The scene was so . real.

  The great lizard man reached behind his massive bulk and pulled a young woman to the forefront. Alder realized that she must have been sitting there the whole time. She was as human as any young woman the police officer had ever seen. She wore what remained of a Mets sweatshirt and jeans, but her clothes were in no way comparable to the humans' in the crowd. Hers still resembled clothing. She tried to struggle, but her strength was nothing compared to the lizard man.

  Alder could not stop his swaying body, could not draw his eyes away from the scene in the street below. The tension was almost sexual.

  The lizard man lifted the young woman high above his head, turning her so the crowd could see. Even in such a precarious position, she continued to fight and squirm. This only made the crowd more agitated, and they danced faster in their lizard way. Even the humans among them swished non-existent tails in time with the frenzied beat.

  Alder kept time in his darkened window, letting his body respond as it wished. He watched the young woman battle with all her strength, and a part of his mind admired her defiance. But his body simply shook, vibrating while he stood in place. Then the woman's struggle ceased.

  With a roar, the great lizard man pulled the woman apart with one mighty snap and raised his snout to catch her raining blood. The crowd went wild, and total pandemonium took the streets.

  Alder stopped moving, his mind shocked back to who he was and what was happening. The silent numbness became silent rage, and the officer found that he hated the lizards and their leader. Hated what they were and what they did. Hated what they did to him. He would make them pay for that woman's blood. He swore it there in a darkened sixth floor office on 60th Street.

  He watched into the night, until the crowd finally collapsed in exhausted, exhilirated sleep.

  8

  Purposefully, Christopher Bryce moved from shadow to shadow, carefully avoiding the ruins that littered the darkened street. He had been running since that awful moment this afternoon when the demon spoke to him. He was wet and tired and angry, but his delusions of madness were gone. At least, if he had gone mad, then the world had gone with him.

  His running brought him back to his home, the place where he grew up. It was simple enough to lose the demons, as he was faster than they were. Still, they gave him a good chase, not stopping until he finally lost them in the maze of streets and alleys he had once navigated as a child. But they were persistent, and for all the priest knew they were still searching for
him.

  The house was shattered. The giant, armored lizards had done a thorough job. But before he could move on,

  Christopher Bryce had to discover the fate of his parents. He owed them that much. He stepped carefully into the wreckage. By habit he had entered by that section which was once the front porch. Now it was timber.

  As he dug his way through the debris, a glint of brass caught his eye. He went over to it, and saw that it was his mass kit. His mother had given the mass kit to him as a gift when he completed seminary. It was a black bag, much like a doctor's bag, which held the sacraments of his station. He never had the heart to tell his mother that the course he had chosen didn't call for him to administer mass very often, as he wasn't going to be assigned to a parish. But he had it filled anyway, and carried it with him from missionary post to missionary post. And, to his surprise, he found that he would celebrate the mass more often than he had imagined.

  He reached down to pull the kit from the debris. The case was heavy, a familiar weight in an unfamiliar time. He wiped the dirt from the brass name plate. Christopher Bryce, S.J., the plate read. Christopher, he thought. Christ bearer. Perhaps his parents had been prophetic when they gave him the name at his christening. They were perfect parents, his father once told him, whose only imperfection was their children. Bryce never understood exactly what the old man meant, and he never really wanted to. For all of their idiosyncracies, he loved them dearly.

  He placed the mass kit on the side and continued his search. He found his parents thirty minutes later, crushed beneath a roof beam. They weren't buried under tons of rubble as he had expected. They were both killed by the same heavy wooden beam, their bodies exposed to the rain.