Chapter 3

October Twenty-third

The Greyhound bus from Portsmouth, Virginia arrived in Pittsburgh at quarter after four in the morning. The bleary eyed passengers slowly stood, milled around for a few minutes, and then awkwardly pushed their way out onto the stained concrete of the terminal to collect their baggage.

Balathu of New Sippar patiently awaited his turn to collect a duffle bag and a set of golf clubs. Of medium height, he was a bit on the thin side, but was in excellent physical condition. He had dark eyes and the dark hair for which his people, the sag-giga, had named themselves millennia before. His facial features could easily pass for Caucasian, and his skin was light enough that it could be mistaken for a tan. In part, he had been chosen for this mission because of his appearance and the resulting ability to blend in without notice. This was a necessity, given the paranoia that Americans presently exhibited towards people from his region.

Slinging his luggage onto his shoulders, he walked to the ticket counter, where, as promised, an envelope was waiting for him. Inside was a single key and a piece of paper with an address written on it. The sects of Utu, the sun god, and Pabilsag, god of the trees, had been waning in numbers and influence for thousands of years, but some things they could still accomplish.

After quickly checking the address against a map of the city that hung on one of the terminal walls, Balathu strode outside. The city was still in slumber. Other than the stairwells, only a few windows of the tall buildings that surrounded the intersection were lit. Glancing around curiously, he closed his eyes and performed a mental exercise. One that he had been required to repeat multiple times each day since he had begun his training at the age of three. In response to his internal mantra, his mind purged of emotion. His breath came out in a long, slow sigh as his body relaxed.

When he again opened his eyes, the city pulsed with color and light. He carefully studied the flows of zi, of life, of spirit, that suffused all living things. At this early hour, most of what he could see were mere shadows of what had transpired in the days, weeks and months before. Gorge rose in his throat at the sight of the remnants of the twisted black lines that marked the one time presence of his enemies. The abominations, the seeds of the Outsider, had been here and in great numbers. At this very intersection, between the federal building and the federal court house, a powerful abomination had performed atrocities that he dared not imagine.

Tentatively, he drew in a deep breath and tasted the zi. The city's collective spirit was tainted by the sour and sickly sweet flavor of fear, but it was an old terror. There was nothing to indicate that his enemies were still present. If only he could have gotten here sooner, but it had taken months for news of the events to be received, analyzed and, finally, believed by the heads of his sect. He couldn't blame them for their doubts. What had occurred was almost without precedent. In fact, there had only been three such occurrences in all of recorded history. The first had occurred in what was now known as Slaghtaverty Dolmen, another in fifteenth century Europe, and the third, and most recent, on Roanoke Island in the seventeenth century. None of those instances, however, had even come close to reaching the magnitude of this one.

There had been further delays even after the decision had been made to dispatch him. The tramp freighter on which he had found employment had taken several months to get from Zayed to Portsmouth. It had steamed slowly from port to port, exchanging one cargo for another until even his well trained patience had been near the breaking point. It would have been so much better if he could have taken a plane, but that which he carried could not be risked to the corrupt hands of customs officials or the inept fumbling of baggage handlers.

He pushed such thoughts aside. The past could not be changed, and it was pointless to lament that which might have been. There was still much he could accomplish here, such as tracking down the abominations that had survived the battle and escaped the city. He did not believe for a second that a people as soft, decadent and willfully ignorant as the Americans could have destroyed them all.

He checked the street signs and began hiking to the address that he had been given. Twenty minutes later, he stood in front of a run down apartment building in an area known as Polish Hill. His key unlocked both the lobby and the door of an apartment on the sixth floor. The place had formerly been leased by Thomas McNelly, a man who, if the reports they had received were correct, had been at the center of the resistance of the abomination offensive. Unfortunately, again if the reports were correct, McNelly had died as a result of his efforts.