Read The Forsaken - The Apocalypse Trilogy: Book Two for Free Online Page A

worthy of God. For decades he labored, and
it was done.
    Stoneworthy felt the pang of his ancient
guilt rearing up to check his pride. Faith had done the
work. He reached out to stroke the office wall. The Tower had been
built. Through great sacrifice and determination, it slowly rose
above the midnight world of the Change. But that, like his
transgression, was all so long ago. Even this lofty accomplishment
could not overshadow his guilt. His conscience would not let him
forget that. Yet he had been given a new mission and though he did
not feel worthy, being chosen he would make himself so. He was so
deeply stained that he relished all opportunities for ablution.
    He could still smell the cinnamon in the air.
The windowed doors that led to his balcony were open. Wind toyed
with the filmy drapes that hung over them. A dim orange glow from
sunset sky illuminated the carpet. The adrenaline began to leave
his system.
    He rejoiced. That God had sent a being of
such power to visit him and for a sinner like himself to be
entrusted with such a task. This new mission promised things far
more important than the gathering of the Holy or the building of
the Tower. To redeem a fallen Angel .

    7 - St. Valentine’s Day Massacre

    Felon sneered at the idea that romance had
survived the Change. At the conclusion of the last Millennium,
Valentine’s Day had degenerated into another commercial undertaking
at a time when the true fabric of human relationships had frayed to
a thin veil of separation, confusion and suspicion. He growled at
the thought of it.
    The assassin pulled up to the curb in his
stolen car. The Davedi Club was located in a narrow three-story
building. It had been spared the indignity of being used as a
support column for Level Four that formed a heavy darkness
overhead. The Club’s front entrance was of antique design. Its
large rectangular window was painted black, with a clear circle
framing a neon sign that spoke the club’s name. Beside it was a
heavy steel door.
    The assassin paused to light a cigarette,
rolled the smoke around his tongue, and then spat it out. Felon had
a fully automatic M-16 to do the job. He would carry it into the
building slung across his back concealed under his black overcoat.
The weapon had a heavy smell of oil and old gunpowder. It was an
antique by military standards, but Felon found the new M-99’s to be
slower to load, and prone to jamming. When you throw ninety bullets
in a volley, the chances for a misfire were many and like most
things created after the Change, the M-99 was flawed. Felon
disdained such overkill anyway. It encouraged sloppiness and
waste.
    His M-16 was built somewhere overseas, a
knockoff produced by the Kalashnikov people using the original
pre-Change designs. He’d bought it on the black market twenty years
before and maintained it with rebuilt and salvaged parts. It could
be set for semi or full automatic. The choice allowed the assassin
an option that might save his life—and it gave him adaptability. He
thrust four full magazines into the pockets of his ammo vest and
hauled himself from the car. Polka music filtered out of the
building as he pulled his coat over his weapons. He snarled
convulsively, glaring at the building. The Davedi Club was holding
their annual Valentine’s Day Dance.
    Felon could sense the people inside. Their
crowded presence was like a pressure in the air. He snatched the
cigarette from his lips, flicked it to the ground and pulverized it
with a twist of his foot. The assassin climbed the single stair and
pulled the door open. The close atmosphere of the room enveloped
him immediately—stillness filled the space. A crowd of people faced
away from him; their focus on a stage and an ancient-looking man
with an accordion who stood there. He stood smiling between a black
guitarist and an older Asian woman with a clarinet. Applause flew
up into the dusty air. The ceiling was two stories above their
heads. Most of the second floor had been