G Taylor - The Forsaken

“I’m sorry,” she cried. “I’ll never do it again.”

“It’s okay, Dawn. You’re here now. And you’re all right.” Dawn felt a hot tear strike her cheek. “You shouldn’t be sorry. It’s not your fault we live in a world like this. Where a little girl isn’t safe. Not even a little girl who’s big inside.” She felt his hand stroke her hair. “I’m glad I found you.”

“I’m glad too, Mr. Jay. I was so scared.” Dawn was caught up in a steady stream of sobs. All the while, Mr. Jay stroked her hair and held her.

“It’s okay, Dawn. You’re here.” He kissed her cheek. “I shouldn’t have brought you to the City. It isn’t safe.” Mr. Jay pushed her away so that she was perched on his thighs blinking at him. “But we won’t be here long, I promise. Then I’ll take you somewhere safe.”

“Would you really, Mr. Jay? Back to the Nurserywood? I really miss it so much, and I don’t like it here. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.” Her little brown cheeks were soaked. Mr. Jay swabbed at them with a corner of her quilt. “I’m more than just a little girl, you know. But I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

“I know.” He hugged her again. “I promise you we won’t stay here long.” She felt his whiskers prickle her scalp as he kissed her. “Will you promise me you’ll be careful while we’re here.”

“I promise. Cross my heart!” Dawn’s voice was sore and coarse. “I won’t ever do that again.”

“We’ll get out when it’s daylight.” He chuckled then, and tickled her under the arm. She couldn’t repress a giggle of relief. “Then everyone can see how pretty you are!”

Dawn pressed two hands against his chest and pushed away. She focused her eyes on his. “Do you think so?” She frowned. “Because I don’t know what pretty means. I’ve read books and books and books about it. And I only guess it means pretty like a flower or cute sort of, like a bunny.”

Mr. Jay laughed, “That’s it! Cute as a bunny.”

“With the chubby cheeks.” She pressed two fingers up against her lips like buck teeth and blew her cheeks out. Mr. Jay exploded with laughter again, a nice rich sound full of relief.

“Come on now. Change out of those wet clothes.” He picked her up and set her on her feet, then climbed wearily to his own. She followed him wrapped in her quilt. He said over his shoulder, “I don’t suppose you found us any supper out there on your little jaunt.” Mr. Jay turned and caught her lips quivering. “Dawn, it’s okay-I’m joking. I brought some things that we can eat. Some bread, and some sort of fishy stuff that spreads on…”

“Fishy stuff…” Dawn took her index finger and pretended to make herself vomit.

Mr. Jay laughed.

The City of Light was the safest place in Westprime and its reputation drew survivors from what remained of civilized North America and the safe-towns on the southern continent. For the first decades following the Change as the City took its initial steps skyward, its inhabitants clung to the past out of fear. A world of Change with different ground rules was unfolding, and none knew how long it would last. Even though the first years revolved around the resurrection of the dead, walking and talking corpses suggested redemption over damnation. There was hope then. More so when these walking dead demanded employment, equal rights and answers. Science had no explanations for them and where science cannot speak, religion will.

But times change and the decades staggered passed. As the City grew skyward this defiance of the dead took on threatening proportions. There were clashes and riots so municipal government restricted the dead to the City’s lowest levels. Isolated in darkness, they wandered through memories of what they had been-hopeless; awaiting a doom they had not escaped in death.

For the living, it became apparent that the Change allowed them to enjoy virtual immortality with their natural aging arrested or slowed to count years as months. Since time no longer took them, they ran a higher risk of a violent death. And as fear grew in the living populace, defensive and retributive violence became a way of life. But the dead did not care. The prejudice was irrelevant for a much crueler fate awaited them. Time and dehydration would reduce their bodies to lumps of hardened leather. Cries for equality would be twisted into the howls of the damned.

But the City of Light lived on. The powerful, the wealthy, and the popular all made it their home for the dead were kept out of sight here, and it had become a place of Angels. Those Divine messengers of God were rumored to fly from the highest spans of concrete on the City’s tallest structures-where the sun still set on the day.

Archangel Tower was the City’s centerpiece. It rose a half again higher than the tallest building, slicing through the metropolis’ highest Levels. The Tower was built as a meeting place for the world’s religions. The vast monetary holdings of Catholicism, Christianity, Judaism and Islam had underwritten its construction. The Change had initially caused a polarization of the religions but as decades passed the larger and more powerful among them focused on the similarities in their beliefs.

The Tower’s many-windowed surface was polished marble, and its design combined the best and loftiest aspirations of the many religions represented within its walls.

Its massive main entrance was found on Level Three. Many argued that the Tower should be accessible to all Levels, while others-influential investors and powerful municipal decision-makers-suggested it be approachable only from the highest. Its architects compromised, placing the main entrance on Three: just high enough to avoid the great unwashed on the lower levels, while retaining a respectable declination in elevation that looked like humility. Later compromises included entrances on Levels Five and Six; but these deferments to class and wealth were masked as additions for the purpose of fire safety.

The main gates on Level Three were formidable, rising forty feet at the apex of their spear-point design. Before them were the Tower Grounds. An enormous disk of concrete and steel constructed and suspended from the Tower’s megalithic body encompassing four square miles of property. The Tower Grounds’ perimeter included manicured gardens and a lake for baptisms and meditation. All around this ran the Tower Wall built of marble thirty feet high. A single gate, a scaled down version of the Tower’s entrance, allowed the pilgrims in and kept the unbelievers out.

The Tower burst through all the City’s levels, before puncturing the Carapace, charging into the constant overcast and flying skyward. Its upper reaches were obscured by cloud and accessible by invite only. The two hundredth floor was honeycombed with luxurious offices. One of these belonged to the Reverend Able Stoneworthy.

He was a man of slight but sturdy frame approaching six feet in height. A loose fitting black suit hung on his angular body like a blanket. Its all-encompassing darkness hid his true dimensions. His head was large and round-ill-fitting partner to the thin neck that propped it up. The eyebrows that squirreled restlessly on his forehead were dense and darker than the thick curly hair on his head. They scurried about over bright blue eyes-pausing only to squeeze the penetrating orbs for some finer discernment. His nose, like his body, was thin and straight. It traced a long practical line to a thick-lipped mouth that hung down at the corners-the frown caused more by gravity than sentiment.

Stoneworthy pulled his fingers from the depressions they had made in the thick synthetic leather covering the arms of his chair. Awkwardly, he uncrossed his long legs, pulled them from under his desk. Leaning back, he drew in a breath, and then wiped a hand across his brow. By degrees his heart stopped racing. The air still stirred from his visitor’s departure.