Wesley Julian: Omega: War and the Supernatural

“It is not his time,” she said quietly.

“I don’t understand.” We rounded a corner to the second floor. We emerged at a vacant and trashed hallway. It smelled of must and distant warfare. The whole city ranked of that stench.

“Don’t try.” She opened another door, revealing more stairs.

“I — I can’t.”

“You must.”

I nodded. I readied myself for the pain of pressing on and grasped the railing. The girl did more good for me than I could. The rail creaked until it snapped. I collapsed, but she stopped my fall. I wanted to scream, but kept my composure. She shifted me and carried me on.

When at last we finished the first flight, she set me against a wall facing the stairs and said, “This is far enough.”

I fought for breath. Even the slightest gesture hurt. I asked again, “Why weren’t you there? Where were you?”

She sat against the wall beside me and said, “I was here waiting for you.”

“For — for me? Why?”

She did not answer.

“Who are you?”

“I am that which you love.”

“I — I love you, but-”

“What do you love?”

“I love-” I stopped. I thought. I could not find an answer for her.

But she said, “You love the kill, you love the culmination of patience and precision. You love me. And you love the fame. You love to be feared. You love that which I give you.”

“You are the kill?”

“No.” Her cold, black eyes met mine. “I am the Whisper.”

“No, I am the Whisper!” I protested. “It is me they hunt for! I am the one who-”

“And apart from me, what are you?”

“I — I am-”

“I am that which they fear. And now, you will know their fear.” She took my hand and held it, not tightly, but not loosely. It was enough.

“I — I’m cold,” I said. The world darkened.

“Yes,” she said. “Be at ease.”

“You are death, aren’t you?” I asked. “You’re the Reaper.”

“I am known by many names, but to you, I am the Whisper, for your world ends not with a bang, but a whisper.”

From below I heard shouting and shuffling boots. “They’re here to kill me.”

“They won’t.”

“So, I live?”

“No,” her voice quieted. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t — I won’t want to die.”

“Hush,” she said, her voice finally a whisper. “It’s all fading away. Let it go.”

All I could ponder was her and her swarthy beauty: the black hair, the black eyes, the black clothes, but the pale, ghostly skin, and her cool, gentle touch. The Whisper was everything to me in that moment. From the back of my mind, the boots marched closer, but it was as an echo without the sound.

I looked into her eyes once again. She was the last I saw. My eyes closed. I lost the strength to hold them open. Still I saw her in my mind. Slowly away she faded. She disappeared into the shadows of death until there was only darkness. And with the Whisper, so my life ended….

When soldiers die on the field of battle, they are not judged. So long as they remained true, that being that they did not betray or desert, all soldiers go to the same place upon death. It does not matter on which side they fought, only that they performed their duty. All warriors are placed aboard the Train of Soldiers where they ride for the greatest battlefield of all. They ride the Train of Soldiers bound for the gates of Hades, where they will join in the great siege. They are armed with the weapons they bore when they left the land of the living and with them they will fight demons.

I am one such soldier. My name is Sir Frederick and I fought for the Holy Land of Jerusalem during the Great Crusade. I was killed by a one of the Islamic soldiers. I was stabbed through my heart. My flesh is healed, but my armor still bears the wound. In my hand is my longsword and on my back is my shield. Curiously, I am not surprised by any of this. I sit on a bench in one of the cars of the Train of Soldiers. Somehow, I know all that I need to know. That car is made from steel, there no windows, and it is illuminated in red by a pair of overhanging oil lamps.

All around me stand warriors from other times. I recognize a Norse Viking from folklore and I spy a French knight. And there are other men I cannot recognize armed with weapons I cannot identify. Next to me is a man wearing a tattered cloth uniform, a helmet that resembles a pot, and a stick made from both wood and steel. I ask, “What is your name?”

“Private Nigel Turner of His Majesty’s Army,” he tells me with a proud grin.

“So, you are a Briton?” I ask.

“I am.”

“And from when do you come?”

“1917, from what we keep calling ‘The Great War,’ though there’s a Yankee chap in the back who insists his was bigger. You look like a Crusader, is that right?”

“I am, yes. I come from the order of the Knights Templar.”

“Please to meet you — eh, what’s your name?”

“I am Sir Frederick,” I replied, unsure if I should grant him my trust.

“Sir Frederick, then. Are you excited?”

“Excited?”

“About the battle! We’re going to storm Hell itself!”

“I know not what to feel,” I replied truthfully. I looked at his stick and asked, “I am curious, what is that?”

“What, this?” He laughed. “Of course, how could you know! It’s a Lee-Enfield standard-issue rifle! It’s a bit like a bow that, eh, shoots small bits of metal at very high speeds. Very deadly and very long range.”

“Fascinating.” I stroked my beard as another man sat beside me. This man was dressed head to toe in cloth and he wore a great object of steel, not unlike Private Nigel Turner’s ‘rifle.’ I assumed it was a similar contraption, though this one was more fearsome. I asked, “Who are you?”

“I am Faddel bin Solamin, soldier of Allah.”

Remarkably, I felt no hostility towards him. This man, somehow, was my comrade. So, I kept up the conversation, “I am Sir Frederick, a Knight Templar. From when do you come?”

With nervousness to his voice, he answered, “To your western mind, I am from the beginning of the second millennium. I committed Holy War against the Americans.”

“Americans?”

Turner answered, “From well after your time, Sir Frederick.”

“Ah.” I was unsure where to proceed from that point, so changed the subject. “Do you know when we will be arriving? I am eager to disembark.”

“Eh, I, uh, I don’t know.” Turner removed his helmet and scratched his head. “I suppose we should ask, but I haven’t got any idea of who we should bother.”

I stood and glanced around, but saw no one who looked any less confused than we were. “I see no one free of our own predicament.”

“Perhaps we should be patient,” Faddel suggested.

“Yes, we should,” I agreed.

But this did not satisfy Turner, who stood and walked over to the far wall. “Here, a ladder. We can climb up and look for answers!” He climbed, but once he reached the trapdoor and pushed, he told us, “It’s bloody locked!”

“Then sit down,” I told him. “We will know soon enough.”

We sat for a long time without speaking. I cannot tell you for how long. It seemed as though more joined us in our car during the passage of time, but I cannot recall ever stopping. There were no more from my time, but I saw a man dressed like Turner, but I could not tell if they were from the same time. Instead of satisfying my curiosity, I sharpened my sword. Until, finally, Turner broke the silence, “I’ve got a thought.”

“Pray tell.”

“Let’s think about this for a minute.” He licked his lip. “Time. Apparently, time has no meaning here, right? I mean, look around. You’ve got soldiers from all time waiting for the same thing and everyone knows exactly what they’re doing here; exactly what this is. There are even people who shouldn’t have any idea what a train is, but they aren’t questioning it.”