Terry Brooks - Armageddon’s Children

The boy said nothing for a long time, sitting back, looking at nothing.

"She told the judges that she was carrying my child," he said finally. He looked up again, meeting Logan's gaze. "I don't know if it's true or not." He shook his head slowly. "Doesn't matter, I suppose. None of it matters. Even if I am who you say, even if the bones are my mother's, it doesn't change what's going to happen to me or to Tessa."

"Or to the Ghosts?" Logan asked. "They seem to believe in you. The boy and his children. They mentioned that right away when I told them I was looking for the gypsy morph and what the morph was expected to do. They say you are a family. What happens to them?"

"I don't think I can do anything for them." Hawk's words were laced with bitterness. "I can't save them or Tessa or anyone. I can't even save myself from this."

He looked at the floor again. "Or my child, if there is one."

Logan gave him a minute, and then said, "Take the bones. Hold them. Let's see if they give you any answers."

"No," Hawk repeated. Then his eyes lifted and met Logan's. They stared at each other for a long time. "All right," the boy said finally. "Give them to me."

Logan leaned forward and dumped the bones gently into the boy's palm. Hawk looked at them, a glimmer of whiteness against the dirt–streaked flesh of his hand. Then slowly he closed his fingers over them.

Logan waited expectantly.

"Nothing," Hawk said finally. "It's all a …"

Then his eyes snapped wide, his mouth fell open in shock, and his slender body went rigid, his muscles cording, straining against what was happening to him. Logan started to intervene, then checked himself. Better to let this play out. The boy was shaking now, his body jerking in whiplash fashion. He was trying to say something, but the words came out as small whimpers. He clasped the fist that held the finger bones to his breast, hunched over as if to find a way to absorb the bones into his body, and began to rock forward and back.

"Hawk?" Logan whispered to him.

A white light bloomed from the center of the boy's body, a small blossom at first, and then a bright cloud that all but enveloped him. Logan backed away despite himself, edging toward the darkness, not understanding why, but feeling that his presence was invasive and perhaps even dangerous. He watched the light steady and then begin to pulse in a rhythm that matched the rocking of the boy.

Hawk continued to make indecipherable sounds, lost to everything about him, gone completely into whatever catharsis the bones had generated.

The rocking and the pulsing continued for a long time, and then died away in an instant, leaving the boy hunched over like a fetus, pressed down against his hand and the bones and the floor with the wash of the electric torch casting his shadow in a tight, dark stain across the concrete.

"Hawk?" Logan tried again.

The boy's head lifted slowly and his face came into view, his features stricken and his skin damp with his own tears. The green eyes were filled with a mix of wonder and recognition, of understanding that only moments earlier had been lacking. He stared at nothing, and then at Logan without seeing him. He was looking somewhere else, somewhere only he could see.

His throat worked. "Mother," he whispered.

OWL WAS SUPERVISING preparations for moving, organizing and dispatching the others on tasks designed to gather together their stores and belongings. She had decided that morning, when Hawk failed to return and Logan Tom set out to find him, that whatever else happened the Ghosts were leaving. She no longer trusted Pioneer Square, no longer felt safe, no longer believed they belonged in this part of the city. She had half decided this before, after their terrible battle with the centipede, but now she was determined. They would move to higher ground, farther back from the waterfront, up in the hills behind the city where they were out of the underground tunnels and sewers and away from the tall buildings. There might be less concrete and steel to protect them inside the residences and low–rises, but there might be fewer monsters, as well.

Besides, she thought, they were at the start of the journey Hawk's vision had foreseen. The boy and his children were about to set out, just as she had told them in her stories. There was no reason to think about staying any longer.

She glanced around their temporary living quarters, trying to determine if she had forgotten anything. She regretted having to leave some of what they had built and scavenged, the heavier appliances and equipment, the things that had made their lives marginally easier. But they would find and build others and make new accommodations. She looked at Cheney, lying in one corner, head lowered between his paws, one eye partially open and staring at her. Nothing wrong with Cheney; he was back to his old self. He looked asleep, but he wasn't. Sometimes she thought the big dog never really slept, that he only half slept and was always just this side of dreaming.

Panther trudged through the door, dropping a pile of blankets and clothing in front of her. "Got us two wagons, carts, whatever, to haul this stuff. Can't take too much, though. We got to pull it uphill, and even the Bear can't do that for long." He looked around expectantly. "Any news? He back yet?"

She knew whom he was talking about. "No. Can we take some of the drinking water containers off the roof? We might have trouble finding new ones. Or even drinkable water."

Panther shrugged. "We can take what we want. We just have to make choices." He paused. "What if he don't come back? What if something's happened to the Bird‑Man?"

She started to answer him, already knowing that she didn't have the answer he needed, when she saw Cheney's big head lift from the floor, his dark muzzle pointing toward the open door. Then he was on his feet, his look expectant and eager.

Hawk, she thought at once.

Panther, seeing the shift in her eyes, turned to look. "What?" he said.

Logan Tom appeared in the doorway, holding the black staff of his order in both hands, his visage dark with knowledge and foreboding.

"Hawk is the gypsy morph," he announced before the question could be asked. "But he's also a prisoner in the compound. Tessa, too."

"You couldn't get them out?" Owl asked, wheeling her chair forward until she was right in front of him.

Logan Tom shook his head. "Not without a fight. They caught Hawk trying to meet her, but they already knew about them. They found out about the medical supplies she was stealing for him. They held some kind of trial. They've sentenced both of them to be thrown from the walls at sunset."

"Today?" Owl exclaimed. "That's only four hours from now!"

Panther stalked forward. "You said you was supposed to protect the morph!

What happened to that?"

Logan shrugged. "They were expecting me to try to break him out. Maybe they were even hoping I'd try."

"So you gonna do nothing, Mr. Knight of the Word?" Panther was furious.

Logan met his gaze and held it. "No, Panther, I'm going to do what I came here to do. I'm going back and get Hawk out. Tessa, too, if I can manage it.

Because now they won't be expecting it."

He reached out and tapped the boy on his shoulder. "And you're going to help."

ANGEL PEREZ AND Ailie were three hundred miles up the road on their first day after starting north to find the Elves when the tatterdemalion said, “Something is following us."

Not anything Angel wanted to hear. She was hunched forward over the handlebars of the Mercury 5, the throb of the engine rippling through her body, wind tearing at her face. Even at the slower speeds they were forced to travel on the dangerously debris–strewn highway, her eyes were tearing.