The Forsaken - The Apocalypse Trilogy: Book Two by G. Wells Taylor Page A

whom thou didst joyfully carry
to Elizabeth . At the sound of the outer office door latching,
she climbed slowly to her feet, knees aching.
    She muttered, “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray
for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen.” She pinched
her thumb where the crucifix in her grip had bitten into it. Moving
to her desk she dropped into her seat with a fragile sigh then
pushed her coif back to rub her temples. Sometimes she wished they
still wore the elaborate, heavily starched head covering that was
once synonymous with nuns. It would have been better for hiding her
bleary bloodshot eyes and pale skin than the modern headband and
small veil that was now in use.
    It was too early in the morning for Able’s
earnest nature, too early for a woman who had consumed as many
shooters as she had the night before. She couldn’t even remember
leaving the bar she’d staggered out of, Casey’s or Carson’s on
Level Four or Five, her wounded memory let the information go.
Dragging herself in to work had required Olympian effort, and when
she had looked up over her hot black coffee to see Able Stoneworthy
standing there, fear disintegrated the last veils of her
morning-after numbness.
    Mortal . Venial . The difference
in sins was a few thousand years in purgatory give or take. That
was nothing. True purgatory was having a job that wouldn’t let her
recognize her own G-spot. A guilty grin appeared on her face but
was wiped away by a painful throb in her temples.
    Then Able started in about an Angel visiting
him. Smiling idiotically about it had come easily to her. That was
the worst part of loving him; the lies were coming so easily to
her. The irony was his trust hurt her more than his discovering the
truth ever would. She set her rosary and crucifix aside, then
leaned back in her chair pressing the backs of her hands to her
aching eyes. “Oh, Able.” O kind and good Mother, whose own soul
was pierced by the sword of sorrow, look upon us while, in our
sickness...
    The deceit had not been so easy when Able
first brought her into his mission. Then, she had been deep in the
cups of her own penance, and his religious fervor had been an easy
crutch to grab onto.
    She had traveled from South Africa to the New
York on her 23rd birthday for a United Nations New Millennium
conference on feeding the poor in developing countries. All so long
ago now, but she had special interest in the topic since her
country had been in dire need of such assistance. The new regimes
that followed Apartheid were behaving no better than the worst of
Africa’s despots. That on top of years of inequity had left her
country grossly out of balance. Most of her black countrymen
remained poor and were now being joined by thousands of whites.
Competition for oil company revenues fueled the pirate governments
and the distance between rich and poor had grown to almost
insurmountable proportions.
    How young she had been then, how idealistic.
Then she said aloud: “How naïve.” Everyone involved was naïve. When
the news hit about the pedophiles in the church and Rome’s
complicity in their crimes there had been a mass exodus among
parishioners. And Cawood’s faith had started to die.
    An unnerving thunderstorm en route to New
York City had filled her with dread. The pilot announced over the
intercom that their landing might be delayed. Rainwater flew from
the wings in spraying torrents as they landed at JFK International.
She waited an hour for the ride she had been promised, and finally
hired a taxi to take her into the city.
    She could still remember the vehemence with
which the rain fell, how it tore at the pavement around the car.
Its froth formed a violent film on the windows reducing the entire
world to a flat gray wall. Pedestrians moved past like shadows,
flitting from blurred doorway to blurred doorway.
    The Change came while she was wrestling her
bags through the door of the Venture Inn. The television in the
lobby asked people to standby