October 10, 1998
11:58 P.M. EST
His teeth gnashed, grinding and gritting as his elbow slammed hard into the soldier’s nose. He heard bone shatter, cartilage crushed with the impact and afforded a moment’s grin as he spun. The tails of his long, black leather coat whipped and flapped as he whirled, his arm snapping out that a black-gloved fist would drive into the jaw of another attacker, exactly as anticipated.
It was like a dance practiced to perfection and ingrained on his mind’s eye. He could see the movements of the Stormwatch soldiers that had been sent on his heels to take him back, images flitting into focus as he moved fluidly in their midst, avoiding blows and dodging bullets. He had the advantage of course, even though they had the numbers, and the firepower.
Bendix wanted them alive.
Midnighter brought his knee up into the soldier’s groin, smirking as the man’s expression twisted into shock and pain as the blow shattered his cup and probably his balls. A short jab to the soldier’s jaw sent him sprawling back and skidding across the rooftop, unconscious and singing tenor.
He leaped to the left as a hail of bullets churned up the tarpaper roof, dust spewing in the strafing rake. He stood inverted and extended on his hand, his right arm locked as he kicked out with both legs and spun, the heels of his steel shod boots smashing through the tinted visors of two more over zealous assailants. Two heads spun and two necks snapped as Midnighter swirled into a crouch.
“Pansies,” he hissed as he eyed the rooftop, taking numbers and counting names. He saw red-hot streamers arching skywards, the rattle of machine-gun fire thundering in the distance. He counted five lacing the sky with hundreds of bullets, desperation making them crazy and panicked as their target floated earthward like a fucking dandelion fluff.
Apollo looked like a candle’s flame flickering silver and gold as he descended. His hair was wild in the rising winds, whipping about his smiling face as bullets bounced from his massive chest. His arms were outstretched, like some god come from on high, his muscular body perfect, his features immaculate.
“Please surrender,” he cooed, and Midnighter heard the silky soft tones as the man’s gaze swept left and right. As expected, the Stormwatch fodder kept firing.
Midnighter was charging forward even as Apollo’s eyes flared crimson. There was a flash and explosions as unspent bullets exploded in chambers and clips. Screams as Midnighter skipped and leaped, flipping for momentum, then snapping into position as his flying kick connected with the closest of the screaming, burning soldiers.
He hit the ground and rolled, arm sliding up and the heel of his palm shattering another jaw. He kicked off the dying man and slammed his shoulder into the chest of the next, cracked ribs piercing lungs and skewering heart. He rolled and spun, the heel of his boot smashing a kneecap, then tipped to his feet even as another fell. A roundhouse right smashing into a woman’s face melting in firelight and a spinning back kick to crush the larynx of the last.
Midnighter stood in the midst of death and destruction, barely breathing hard. Sweat trickled from the confines of his thick, leather mask and he flicked it away in annoyance. In all ten members of Stormwatch lay dead or broken on the rooftop of the Flatiron Building, some burning away in agony. Midnighter strode through their ranks and put them out of his misery.
“You’re such a brute,” Apollo said as he floated down to the rooftop glowing in a silver nimbus of light, all golden-haired and perfect white teeth. Midnighter lit a cigarette, watching his erstwhile partner as he glanced about at the carnage. “Such a waste,” he said sullenly, shaking his head in regret, golden locks swirling about his shoulders.
“Their choice,” Midnighter said as he blew a long, roiling cloud of smoke out over the dismal scene. “They chose to follow Bendix, blindly I might add. I got no regrets. Maybe now he’ll think twice about tryin’ to take us back.”
“He hasn’t thought twice yet. How many does this make?” Apollo said, and Midnighter felt his partner’s hand on his shoulder. Midnighter shrugged, but the steely fingers pressed, massaging.
“I stopped countin’ in Chicago. After that fiasco…”
“You’re tense,” Apollo said, his other hand finding Midnighter’s other shoulder, rubbing. “We should go somewhere. Relax. Someplace Bendix can’t find us. I can- “
Midnighter spun, slapping Apollo’s hands away, his own knuckles stinging from the impact against invulnerable skin. He ignored the pain.
“Stop it!” he snarled, stepping back and away, his cigarette butt spiraling over the roof’s edge. “I told you not to do that! Don’t touch me!”
“I’m sorry,” the fair skinned man said, his dazzling blue eyes sparkling mistily. “I… I just wanted to make you feel better.”
Midnighter stared at the golden-haired Adonis, caught somewhere between fury and confusion. Apollo looked hurt at his outburst, actually on the verge of tears. Why did that bother him? He wasn’t no Fag, and Apollo just couldn’t seem to understand that.
Midnighter shivered. Jesus, he thought, why am I hard?
“Listen…” he started to say, but his words died in his throat as a burst of intensely hot energy blazed out of the darkling sky to blast into Apollo’s back. His partner’s shrill cry of agony ripped at his soul as Apollo went spludding across the rooftop, his white and golden uniform smoldering and crackling with radiation. Midnighter afforded a quick glance to his friend then shifted his gaze skyward as a being of pale green energy soared up into view overhead.
“Well now,” the energy man spoke, “Int’ this cozy? Always figured Apollo for a ‘Poof’. Should’a known ‘is best mate for a pansy boy too.”
“Hellstrike,” Midnighter spat. “I was wonderin’ where the muscle was. Should’a known Bendix’ number one brown nose would be on the job though.”
“Sticks n’ stones, Mate,” Hellstrike sneered hovering, his body radiating energy, heat and unbridled power wanting release. “I’m supposed t’ offer you a chance t’ surrender. Please say ‘No’.”
Midnighter glanced at Apollo as his razor sharp mind analyzed the situation, predicting and discarding the various contingencies that a battle with Hellstrike would produce. He could see the flow of the fight, what he would have to do to survive and eventually take down his overconfident opponent. He had the high ground because he could fly, but like most energy projectors he was too cocky for his own good. Midnighter saw Apollo stir, moaning.
“Never surrender, bitch!” Midnighter leaped…
There was a flash of light, golden and glorious that seemed to rip through the very fabric of Reality. Hot, humid air roiled outwards as a tear appeared behind Hellstrike, the winds howling through the rift and buffeting the Stormwatch ‘hero’ from his flight, slamming Midnighter to the ground. Energy seemed to ooze and drip from the rip, and even as Midnighter scrambled to his feet, settling into a defensive crouch he could see shadowy figures taking shape and coming into focus.
“What the fuck…”
Midnighter stared as four beings came through the tear in space, dropping lightly to the roof of the flatiron building. There were three women, two in robes and skin-tight leotards, the other dressed in black and carrying a sword. The fourth was probably an armored man, though his head was a blazing skull crackling with atomic fire. Who they were or where they had come from Midnighter did not have a clue, but he knew just by looking that they were going to be trouble.
“Where…” the blazing skull man asked, peering about the rooftop, his gaze passing over Midnighter then settling with malice on Hellstrike.
“New York by the look,” said the woman with the sword. She was eyeing Midnighter, though her gaze flitted quickly taking in everything.
“We are locked in an eddy,” one of the robed women said, and Midnighter saw that her skin was mottled green and gray, her body twisted. “Caught up with our adversaries in a Time Lock. We must break free, lest Void catch up again.”
“Back into the Rift?” the other robed woman asked, but before any of her compatriots could answer, Hellstrike soared up, glowing and puffing up with energetic importance.
“You all need t’ stand down,” he said giving his best glower. Viridian energy rippled from his form as he gathered his power about him. The three women seemed unimpressed Midnighter noted, and the man even less so, ignoring Hellstrike’s posturing.
“Delphae, get us out of here,” he said glancing at Apollo who was struggling to rise. “Elian, Hesta, eliminate these monkeys if they choose to be a nuisance.”
“Monkeys?” Hellstrike said sounding offended. Energy crackled in his hands and Midnighter quickly looked about for a place of safety. “Now ‘old on…”
He did not even see the woman with the sword move, but she was suddenly in the air right beside Hellstrike where he hovered. Her lithe body was extended fully, her sword arcing away and trailing a bloody green pulp that was probably something important to Hellstrike now splayed and dissipating on the saltry wind. She landed softly, crouching and spinning to face her foes with her sword up and ready to strike or defend. Hellstrike squealed.
Midnighter looked up to see verdant energy gushing about the fingers of the hand that the Stormwatch ‘hero’ had clamped over the gaping wound slashed across his belly and side. His eyes were wide with shock, and the green fire dancing about his body was flickering and paling with every heartbeat.
Enthalten!
Midnighter’s eyes went wide as a crimson soap bubble appeared about his one time teammate. Hellstrike looked worried as he blasted at the containing sphere, but his fiery green energies just seemed to explode back into his face causing him more damage than the bubble. He writhed and screamed, as his body simply seemed to dissolve, fading away like an after image emblazoned on the mind’s eye. Within seconds he was gone…
“No…”
All eyes turned towards Apollo who was now standing, though shakily. His usually serene face was twisted in a grimace, and Midnighter could still see the whisper of smoke rising from his back. He was glowing; a pristine light caught somewhere between snow crest dawn and midday radiance, pure and powerful.
“I don’t know who you are,” he said wincing, “but you’re up to no good. Your evil stops here.”
“Please…”
The man with the blazing skull raised his arm and almost casually gestured towards Apollo. A blinding white light exploded from his hand searing the air with a foul stench of burning, rotting flesh, the blast encompassing Apollo. Midnighter gasped to hear Apollo’s wails of agony as his body erupted in white-hot conflagration. His partner screamed and writhed, bathed in the fiery energies that enveloped him, his body staggering. Midnighter saw Apollo’s eyes glow, twin beams of burning energy arcing out only to flash upon the rooftop in impotence. Apollo dropped to his knees, clawing at the tarpaper roof even as Midnighter dashed forward, his heart in his throat.
Offnen!
Another rift slashed through the sky, swirling cold knocking him off of his feet. He slammed to the rooftop in a daze, his ability to predict his enemy’s attack totally thwarted. He stared blankly, trying to catch his breath as the two robed women stepped through the rip in space, gold oozing and drooling in their wake. The blazing skull stepped to the tear but hesitated, looking at him…
“If I killed you now, would this be avoided? Let’s find out.”
Midnighter squirmed on the ground trying to suck in a breath, trying to get the strength to move as blazing white fire erupted about the man’s hand again. The man raised his arm, hand splayed wide and pointing…
But the woman with the sword slapped his hand away. The armored man snarled, but the woman ignored his rant, pointing with her sword at a third tear in the firmament. “They follow,” she said coolly. “We should move on.”
The man seemed annoyed, but the fire died about his hand. Finally he nodded and stepped through the Rift following the two robed women. The woman with the sword hesitated, looking at Midnighter, and then she turned and followed as well.
The rip that they had stepped through sealed, even as the other seemed to tear to greater lengths. Midnighter did not care as he stared at Apollo, or what was left of him. A charred and smoldering skeleton bereft of gleaming smile and golden locks, bleached bone fingers digging into the rooftop. Midnighter’s eyes were wide and oddly full of tears as he realized that his friend… his love was dead.
Midnighter…
He barely heard his name as he gathered the charred and bleached bones of the man that he only realized just then that he had loved into his arms. His heart was aching and there were tears in his eyes, a huge hot rock lodged in his throat, burning.
You are needed.
He said nothing, cradling what was left of Apollo in his arms, rocking on his knees, moaning.
“He’s done,” a voice said. A woman. “Forget him.”
“You just don’t have a heart, do you?” A man.
He’s needed.
Midnighter looked up and saw the trio standing before him: a woman dressed all in silver, pulsing with energy, another dressed in black and shimmering crimson and carrying a sword, an old man dressed in purple with a bow and a mechanical arm. He looked back to Apollo…
Vengeance, if for nothing else. Helspont must be stopped.
“Helspont,” Midnighter whispered, laying Apollo’s remains aside, taking a deep, racking breath. “He did this? The guy with the blazing skull?”
Yes…
Midnighter took a deep breath and stood, gnawing on his lower lip. “He’s dead.”
The silvery glowing woman extended her hand and without hesitation Midnighter took it.
And the world faded away…
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“Two Minutes to Midnighter”
Egypt;
The Valley of the Kings
Now…
The sky was cloudless, pristine and blue for as far as the eye could see. The golden orb of the sun blazed high in its arch, beaming down in garish, blinding light and searing heat that reflected off of the endless leagues of sifting, shifting white sand. There was no shelter, no succor against the desert glare, the all-consuming radiance offering no mercy until Ra slept and Khonsu rose…
Khasan stared out over the vast rolling, roiling dunes, wiping at the sweat beading his forehead and drooling down his stubbled, dusty face. He was well aware of the torturous environment of the open desert, having grown up in Cairo and spent many years as a worker in the digs of the foreigners that came to his land to steal his heritage. Yet even dressed in the traditional white cottons of his nomadic forebears; the kaffiyeh headdress, the abaya cloak, brussa shirt and wide legged, blousey tombon, still he was awash in sweat and broiling. He had water aplenty, and provisions of course back in his tent, but until the sun dipped below the far western horizon he had to remain, alert and vigilant.
For He was coming…
It had been foretold ages a'gon, long after the false gods had fallen and the barren land was ravaged beyond redemption the One True God would return to reclaim the world. Or so the scriptures proclaimed. And there would be signs, as of olden times…
The dead would rise from the sands…
The sky would bleed…
Mlâyiki would herald His return…
“Angels.”
Khasan wiped the sweat from his cheeks and retied the agäl, which held his headdress in place, his gaze focusing on the far away valley where false gods and ancient kings had been buried millennia ago. Even from miles away he could see the flock of tourists scrambling through the hallowed lands as ants, the foreigners and trespassers digging through the ages of history to rob the land of wealth and honor. The eld tombs were desecrated, the riches of the past spirited away at the allowance of the fools that ruled the land now. The land was ravaged beyond redemption; the first sign.
And Khasan knew that elsewhere the sky bled. He had yet to see it, in person at least, but through the miracles of technology and the vastness of the media, the images had come to him via CNN and You Tube. The dead had risen elsewhere, in America, Peru, England, Japan; all across the globe. And he had seen the videos on his computer of the sky ripping wide, oozing golden rain and crimson fire.
And so he stood waiting in the high desert, enduring the blistering heat and blinding glare as his fathers had before him. Rakkan would come, he had been assured, and the devoted and devout would be rewarded. He would be rewarded for his vigilance and devotion if he survived the desert’s trials, Rakkan’s test.
But it was just so fucking hot.
Khasan glanced longingly at his small tent staked at the base of the foothill less than a mile down slope. It was enveloped in the shade now and he knew that it would be cool within, or at least cooler in the shelter. This was the sixth day of his vigilance and he had stood atop the rocky crag from dawn until dusk as was expected, waiting, baking in the unforgiving, merciless rays of the sun. Surely he had proven his worth by now, his devotion. Rakkan was a forgiving god after all.
Khasan licked his lips and fumbled with the cord holding his leather water pouch at his side. He raised the bagoda bag to his lips, savoring the tepid water as he drank sparingly, quenching his thirst in ration. With his head cocked back, his eyes went wide as the air seemed to ripple just overhead.
A dark line appeared, rending the stark blue and a golden glow seemed to ooze as blood from a cut, dripping to the white sand in radiant sparkles. Khasan dropped his water bag, the precious liquid evaporating into the arid sand as he staggered back in awe. The line widened, ripping silently as the golden light lessened the glorious rays of the sun, enveloping the hilltop with a new glow that pulsated, almost as though with a life of its own.
Khasan saw shadows flitting within as the tear spread and the glow brightened. He dropped to his knees, suddenly remembering his station and caste, his purpose. He raised his arms in reverence, chanting the ancient scriptures as he had been taught from childhood…
A woman stepped from the rent, exotic and beautiful dressed in heavenly lavender and swirling red robes. Her face was unblemished, alabaster skin smooth and beaming as she scanned the area, her eyes aglow. She glanced at Khasan and he averted his gaze, never seeing her smirk. He stared at the ground even as black booted feet touched the sand right before him.
Another woman, dressed in skintight black and black leather longcoat, carrying a sword. She was beautiful, Death personified as she scanned the surroundings. Angel of Death following the Angel of War; Harbingers of the New Age. Khasan wept as he stared at the Rift, awaiting the third, the Fists of Rakka!
And she was horrible as she floated free, her skin mottled, her body corrupted. Dressed in white and red she hovered, red raged gaze sweeping the land. Pestilence and famine, the third and last of the Heralds. Khasan prayed…
And finally Rakka appeared in all his glory. Golden flames enveloped his head, the mantle of his rule, the halo of his deity. Armored he was in scarlet and azure, his body massive and masculine, his eyes ablaze with the light of knowledge. Khasan debased himself, face to the dirt that he might show his devotion…
“Where are we now, Coda witches?” Khasan trembled, eyes closed and body prostrate to hear the voice of his lord booming, echoing over his domain.
“Egypt,” one of his angels spoke, her voice melodious and silvery.
“The western edges of the Valley of the Kings as the Humans name it,” said another. Khasan did not know which and he shivered fearing their wrath that he had even heard. “There is a temple near. Probably buried in the sands after all these ages. A Coda safe haven; I felt the beacon.”
“Then why are we standing here in this desolation?” his lord asked. “Why are we not within your ‘safe haven’, Delphae?” Khasan whimpered to hear the Angel of Corruption named, a Harbinger of Doom.
“After our battles and race to flee, I was unable to bypass the defenses, oh glorious one.”
“Save your sarcasm, witch and get us inside. I’m tired of running. It’s time to strike.”
Khasan felt his bowels move and he pissed himself as Rakka stepped and stood over him. “Who is this monkey?” his lord asked and Khasan fell flat to the scorching sand at his master’s feet.
“A local, by his looks,” replied one of the angels, and Khasan saw the black shod foot step by his face out of the corner of his eye. He felt a sharp pain in the back of his neck; the sword of the Angel of Death marking him. He whimpered. “Who are you?” she asked. “Why are you here?”
“I am Khasan, Mistress. Humble servant and follower of Rakka, his most devout slave.”
“Rakka?” his lord questioned.
“An ancient religion,” the last angel replied, her voice as pure and glorious as the others. “An off shoot of zealots that rose after Rao and his little group of Kheribum wandered off into obscurity. They worship the return of the One True God, whom they name Rakka, ‘who shall unite the world and bring a glorious age of reason and prosperity to all who follow his word’. That would be you, oh lord.”
Khasan heard his lord chuckle. “I call them monkeys, but they are more akin to sheep. I cannot believe we have not conquered this backwater world after all this time.”
“There has been opposition, Helspont,” the Angel of Death replied.
“Kill him, Hesta,” Khasan heard Rakka say and he started to whisper his prayers, tears in his eyes that he had been found wanting. A moment’s lapse when he had thought of his own needs and comfort had wiped away a lifetime of devotion. He mouthed the prayers of repentance, groveling in the dirt, ready to accept his fate.
“We need fodder, Helspont,” the Angel of War suggested. “If the safe haven hasn’t been looted, there are means within to augment the human into a usable distraction. Genetic splicing, bio-engineering, mechanical enhancements; the haven was well-equipped when it was abandoned.”
“Fine… whatever… Delphae?”
Khasan felt a wash of light roll over him as the pestilent angel mouthed ancient words of Power. He felt cool, stale air as a breeze from the depths of icy Hell shifted the sand at his face, a fetid, corrupt stench assaulting his senses as he whimpered.
“Finally,” Rakka said, impatience in his voice. “Hesta, bring the monkey. Let us away.”
Khasan saw shadows flitting and flickering in a new radiant glow. Suddenly he was gagging as a strong arm lifted him up, dangling him on his tiptoes as he scrabbled for purchase, kicking at the unforgiving sand.
“Peace, slave,” the Angel of Death said as she held Khasan high. “Rakka is pleased with your devotion and has chosen you to serve. Aren’t you lucky?”
Khasan sang his devotion, praises to Rakka as he was led to glory, into Heaven beyond.
Later he screamed…
London, England;
Picadilly Circus,
Now…
“Mother Fuckers!” SMASH! “God Dammit!” CHUK! “Shit eatin’ freaks!” SLAM!!
Midnighter swung in a high, overhead arch to bring the crowbar down with a wet crunch into the skull of yet another zombie. The creature stared dumbly for a moment, mouth flapping as blood and brain oozed and drooled down its cheeks before finally crumpling to the slick pavement. Midnighter spun.
He drove his hand forward, palm thrusting up into the nose of a young woman whose right ear was missing beneath a ratty mane of blood-matted golden hair. He heard bone shatter as his bear paw thrust drove calcified shards into the undead woman’s brain. She staggered backwards with the force of the impact, snapping a heel from her shoe as she toppled to slam against the sidewalk, dead again.
He was breathing hard, he had to admit as he spun about again, his leg slicing upwards and steel-shod heel bashing in the face of what used to be a pastor. The holy man’s head snapped sideways and he did a little dance as he fell in a heap. Sweating too in the blazing, humid sun.
“I really gotta rethink the whole leather look,” he mused as he jammed the crowbar into the eye socket of another of the seemingly endless undead. The once scrawny boy with the purple Mohawk groped with hand and raggedy stump for a heartbeat but dropped as Midnighter pulled the cold iron free, moving to the next.
And the next…
And the next…
Midnighter thumped up against the back of Shaft. He was impressed with the old man, still holding his own despite the fact that his mechanical arm was frozen and sparking, and he could not use his bow. As soon as they had dropped out of… wherever they had been, the zombies had converged like some leftover cast members of that old Romero flick. Shaft had drawn some funky machine pistol and just started shooting, dropping dozens, hundreds maybe before he ran out of clips. Then he pulled a little silver hold out and plugged four more right between the eyes. Now he was just hammering away with that arm of his and some weird ass karate that Midnighter had never seen before.
“How you holdin’ up, kid?” Shaft hissed out as he slammed his metal fist on a little nine-year-old girl’s head that was missing the left half of her face.
“I’m good, old man,” he lied smashing his crowbar on some fat-ass in a powdered wig and black robes. They had been bashing zombie brain for hours it seemed, and they just kept coming. “Be nice if Void would get us the fuck outta Dodge, though.”
“She’s trying,” Shaft said as his kick shattered a knee, his fist shattering skull as the zombie toppled. The old man waved upwards and Midnighter took a quick look.
He saw Void hovering about a dozen yards overhead, her arms spread wide and eyes blazing as she floated, rotating in that strange silvery rainbow nimbus that she created. It was bright, dazzling even considering that there were golden streamers of liquid light oozing from about a billion pinpricks in the darkling sky, bleeding gold.
They had been following Helspont and his Coda bitches through The Bleed when Void had screamed and the weird Star Wars Hyperspace looking universe had hiccuped and dumped them all here in London. They had barely escaped the pyramid when the Bleed scar there had erupted in Helspont’s wake, and none of them were 100%. Void had locked onto the Coda witches, following their trail through The Bleed, but then they had hit some ‘eddy’ she had called it. Helspont and crew had vanished and they had ended up here, battered and broken.
Midnighter had never been to Picadilly or London for that matter but he recognized it. There had been people milling about, but no one seemed to pay them any mind as they got their act together. He had noticed the shattered windows of store fronts, the lack of birds, the smoke rising in a black column not so far away, but he had been tired and addled after the fight at the pyramid and the signs just did not click into place. It was the chick with the sword noticed first, Nemesis.
“Something’s not right,” she had said with the understatement of the century. Her sword had flashed up defensively even as Midnighter noticed that the milling pedestrians- there were no cars running- started heading their way. Shambling…
“What the fuck?” he said, a match hovering midway to the cigarette dangling from his lips.
“They’re dead,” Savant had said as she backed up closer to the group. “Zombies!”
“Ya think?” the Quantum girl sneered right before she vanished in a golden flicker of light. Midnighter had cursed, then saw her reappear on the edge of a building, looking about. “There’s thousands!” she shouted, cupping her hands to her mouth. “And all coming our way!”
“Void!” Shaft had said, as they all turned to the silver suited woman that had gathered them, but she was already in the air above, body shimmering in pure radiance as she probed for their quarry. “Fuck,” Shaft had said, drawing his pistol and firing…
And he was still fighting the good fight. They all were, reminding him of his Stormwatch team before it all went to shit.
Before Apollo…
“Arrgh!” Midnighter screamed as he felt strong hands clamp down on his wrist and elbow, teeth digging in and ripping right through the leather of his black trench, into the flesh beneath. He felt the gnashing, gnawing bite as the zombie ripped into his arm, blood gushing as it pulled its head away with a dripping hunk of muscle bulging from his mouth, dripping blood.
“Mother fucker!” Midnighter shouted as the crowbar smashed through the zombie-boy’s head. The black clad undead grunted and fell to the concrete, rolling onto its back with Midnighter’s flesh bubbling red from its mouth. He saw the filed teeth and bleached white skin of the Goth, a gaping, rotten wound in the teenager’s neck. “Aw fuck…”
Midnighter stared at the gash in his arm, could almost see the parasitic disease multiplying as his blood gushed forth and dribbled to the hot blacktop street. “Jesus, fuck…” he spat, anger welling inside him as Shaft stared at his wound.
“We’ll fix it,” the old man said, sounding pathetic, cracking zombie skull in the process. Midnighter was shivering, rage building…
There was a zombie shuffling at him when he looked up. A little girl with golden locks and a green uniform, vacant blue eyes staring lustfully at the raw flesh of his arm. A Girl Guide with her left arm dangling by a tendon, shambling towards him…
His vision went red…
Savant was sitting on his chest screaming at him. He could see her mouth flapping, her shrill voice digging into his brain like an ice pick but he could not understand a word. He wanted to vomit. The world was swimming and he was sweating bullets. He could feel her slight weight holding him down.
He smelled iron… blood…
“…help yo-“
A golden flare that was Jenny Quantum caught his attention. His head lolled to the side, staring at the girl blasting away at the legion, the horde of undead. Why hadn’t she done that in the first place? He wondered…
“…cure. Must be something…” Shaft was towering over him, purple fading, graying…
I have found him…
Midnighter winced as silver light flooded his vision. Tears welled in his eyes as everyone faded to shadow. “Nnnh… no…” he moaned, barely feeling Savant’s hand on his cheek. “…pollo…”
“I’ll end it quick.”
Midnighter focused as the woman, Nemesis stood over him, sword poised. Her eyes were steel, her face impassive.
“He fought well. He does not deserve this… death.”
“There must be something…” Shaft whispered, body pulsing red with blood.
A golden flare and the stench of burning flesh.
He is in Egypt.
The silver glowing woman was standing over him now. No blood, no flesh, no food…
What…
“He was bitten. He’s turning.” The black and red shade hovered over him with a glint of silver, pulsing…
Throbbing…
“Nnnngh,” he said, feeling the slight weight rise from his chest. Saliva drooled from his lips as he stared at the flesh. He was hungry. So hungry…
“… must … something… do.”
He tried to rise, his hand groping for the flesh, the blood. It backed away, out of reach. He stared dumbly at the stump where his hand had been, saw it lying on the ground beside him. No pain...
Hungry…
There was a flash of silver…
“He was one of us, dammit,” Shaft said as he stared down at Midnighter, the boy’s head lying a foot or so from his body. “There should have been something we could have done.”
“I did all that we could do,” Nemesis said as she flicked her katana free of lingering blood in a tight circular arch. “He deserved better, but all I could give was a quick release. I’ll mourn him later, when this is done.”
“You cold-hearted bitch,” Shaft said staring daggers at the ostracized Coda assassin. He looked about to attack, and Charis shifted her stance even as Jenny Quantum popped into their midst.
“I’ve bought us some time, people,” she said, glancing at Midnighter’s decapitated body, “but not much. We gotta go.”
Egypt, Void said, her body beginning to shimmer again.
“We can’t just leave him here,” Shaft said, looking up at the zombie horde that was starting to surge their way again. They would devour his body. He looked at the others, beseeching.
Savant squatted down and dipped her hand into the pocket of Midnighter’s black leather trench coat, withdrawing his Zippo. She sparked it to life and set it to the leather, standing it beside their fallen teammate’s clothes. In moments it caught fire and she stood even as Void floated skyward again.
“Best we can do,” Savant said, sliding her goggles into place as she glanced up at Void. “Time to go.”
The portal opened beside them, shimmering in silvery radiance, rainbows spiraling skyward. One by one they stepped through; Quantum, Nemesis, Savant until only Shaft and Void remained.
Terrel, Void said, her voice icy cold. We must go.
Shaft looked up and saw the horde of zombies roiling slowly forward. He looked back to Midnighter, his body now aflame. He sighed.
“I’m sorry kid.”
Shaft stepped into the shining, silvery portal and the world went away…
To Be Continued...
Next: Bet you thought Shaft was first on the hit list, hunh? Wrong! And it’s only gonna get worse! Join me next time as Void & Company arrive in Egypt on the trail of Helspont, where they learn the fate of poor, hapless Khasan. Maybe a new teammate, or maybe another loss. Writing in alternate dimensions is fun…
From the Author: Thank God for Wikipedia...
Like I said last time I came into this almost totally blind; nary a clue as it came to Wildstorm beyond the few bones that I read or Chris threw me. And now here I am; Issue 3 and one dead Midnighter. But wait, it gets worse...
Most all the info I have gleaned comes from TPB's and WIKI. I have not followed Wildstorm, I'll admit,but I am loving this. Writring 'What If' stories just beyond the Mainstream is fun, as there are few rules and boundaries. I get to play...
Why is Nemesis so lost?
What is Helspont up to?
Why is Jenny Quantum so aloof and cold?
Did you notice? Do you care?
Probably not, but I will keep pumping. And when this all comes to a head you will all be annoyed that you did not pay attention. The clues are there, and the villain has made her first move...
Who will save the day?
Curt
5/31/10
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