Page 34 of The Godhead Complex
“What about them?” He slowed his speech to increase his patience, another trick taught him by Nicholas. He may as well have been talking to Cranks.
“They are . . . not well.”
It had been months since Mikhail visited the Crank Army. Was his memory already failing him? He thought of Nicholas’ tests for memory loss after trauma. The pain from his back amplified with his anger. “Take me there, now.”
Within walking distance of the Golden Room of Grief was an unassuming plot of land, stretched within the walls of their fortress. On the surface, it was empty and sparse, but ten feet below, a bunker held over a thousand Cranks. Within the underground was a complex tunnel system, filled with safe rooms and areas for supplies. Mikhail let the six Grief Bearers walk before him so they wouldn’t see the tear in his cloak. They walked like cowards, their backs stiff with fear.
“You’re sure we all need to go down there?” the skinny one turned to ask.
Mikhail simply nodded and motioned to the moss-covered hatch. One by one, the six men lowered themselves into the bunker’s entrance, as if they were lowering themselves to certain death. The Grief Bearers of the Remnant Nation were no better than the starving Orphans in Hell, but the cloaks made them think otherwise. Cloaks of power. None of the Bearers actually held any power, no, Mikhail made sure of that. They only knew as little or as much as he deemed to share during his masked visits to the Golden Room.
He climbed down the hatch, into the tunnel, walked to the lift.
“Sir. The Crank Army is very hungry.” The skinny Grief Bearer followed too closely.
Mikhail’s loss of blood made him dizzy. “Hunger for war is a good thing.” He shouldn’t have needed to tell the Grief Bearers that.
“No. They are not, how do I put this . . .” The Bearer stepped forward, ahead of the entrance to the bunker’s shaft. “. . . Satisfied.”
“Then feed them more.” Mikhail moved past him and into the small elevator but one of the men stopped him from pushing the lever to descend.
“I saw one eat their own arm yesterday, Sir.” The Grief Bearer let go of Mikhail’s cloaked arm.
Mikhail didn’t believe it. Self-cannibalism. Autosarcophagy? Cranks were cannibalistic, but they weren’t going to eat themselves for Flares-sake. No animal would. He lowered the lever of the lift once all six Grief Bearers were inside; the elevator clanked and grinded down, gears shifting and turning until they arrived at the bunker level. The others collectively took a deep breath as the gated door of the lift opened. The wound caused a clammy heat to coat Mikhail’s body and he welcomed the cooler air from the mine shaft. The smell, however, he could have done without. It smelled of stomach acid and bile.Had the Grief Bearers not been keeping up with maintenance of the Army?
“They’re chained in groups of eight?” Mikhail asked. Eight was a sacred number. Part of the digits Alexandra recited. She clung to those numbers for her sanity, and soon he would deliver her an army of eights.
“Yes, sir.” A Grief Bearer who’d brought a notepad and pen cleared his throat. “For the most part.” He clicked the pen nervously.Click clack. Click clack. Click clack.The sound of it made Mikhail’s eye twitch.
“What the hell does that mean? They’re either shackled together, ready to fight, or they’re not.” He stepped out of the lift, onto the bunker floor, suddenly assaulted by the sounds of chains, dragging. Metal on concrete.CLANK CLANK CLAAAANK. . . . Noises that somehow seemed both loud and quiet at the same time. Harsh and angry sounds, coming from back hallways out of view.
“Soldiers report!” a Grief Bearer shouted, but only the dragging and clanking answered him. “Soldiers report!” Still no answer. Mikhail had never come down to the bunker without one Orphan soldier being at the lift and another one standing guard in the hallway. Every entrance point to a path within view should have had a soldier standing near it.
“Something’s not right.” The skinniest of the Grief Bearers positioned himself at the back of the elevator, ready to return to the surface. Not a chance, Mikhail needed to know what was going on with these Cranks. Maybe the Orphans were already moving them to the Bergs.
He started to walk toward the loudest of the sounds, coming from a hallway off to the right, and realized he was walking alone. He turned to the Grief Bearers behind him. “If you’re going to be cowards, I’ll feed you to the army as a sacrificial war feast. How’s that sound?” Mikhail hid his own pain and doubt. Slowly, five Grief Bearers stepped forward. The skinniest, the weakest one, pulled the lever to go back up. The gears clanked as the mechanical sounds lifted him away.
Some people might call that dastardly.
“Griever Banks!” one of the men shouted at the elevator shaft.
“Long live the Cure!” The skinny, scared, Grief Bearer said as he rose from view.
Mikhail seethed. The Cure would live, yes, but the Bearer who turned his back on the Remnant Nation would not. One way or another that idiotic coward would die a painful death, reserved for those who betrayed the Nation.
Mikhail grimaced with pain as he walked from the main lobby of the bunker to the hallway. “Get both armies together. Make note of the coordinates,” he said to the incessant pen-clicker. “56.8125 degrees North and 132.9574 degrees West.”
“Wait, say it again?” The man scrambled to keep up.
Mikhail took a slow, deep breath. “56.8125 degrees North and 132.9574 degrees West.” He walked toward the sounds of dragging metal. “Pack the Bergs full of Cranks. You’ll land on the exact coordinates and send them to march in on foot from the south. The Orphan Army and the air strikes will happen from the north, and the two will meet in the middle to destroy the city of Gods once and for all.” The Grief Bearers looked to each other with something that could only be described as dark excitement, all wide eyes and suppressed grins. “Do you have any questions?” The clanking noises got louder. There had to be at least one group of Cranks loose from the pits.
“We have the coordinates. We have the orders. We just need to know the target day for the attack.”
“Sunday.” He hid his own smile. “The holiest of days. The Goddess will address her people in the square after Mass. When you see a woman more beautiful than Alaska herself, that is the Goddess.” He never wanted Alexandra hurt, just destroyed, and there were several ways to destroy a person without physical harm. But the way she’d boasted on and on of taking Nicholas’ head, he couldn’t afford a second thought. “Kill her however you see fit.”
“Long live the Cure,” the Grief Bearers said in unison.
Mikhail turned a corner in the hallway and saw an unnatural sight: a group of Cranks shackled together in a line of eight, working themselves out of chains . . .
