The Purging

Newborn God

A small contingent of people standing in the doorway of a nearby apartment complex have witnessed his arrival. The few that were armed were now slowly advancing on him, weapons trained on his head. Mo puts his hands above his head and prostrates himself, “Don’t fire I’m with the marines. I’m not here to hurt you.”

Signs of life. This was good. A dishevelled man at the front of the group answers him, “We see a huge ball of lightning flatten Detroit. Then you show up, not twenty minutes later, lit up like a goddamn Christmas tree, punching holes in the sidewalk. I don’t know who or what you are, but you need to get out of here right now.”

Mo knows that the situation could be volatile, but he asks anyway, “Just relax. I’m not a threat. I need to get access to some kind of communications device. A radio, or maybe a satellite phone. Do you have anything like that?” The request does little to allay the fears of the petrified humans. Most run back into the perceived safety of the building. A host of new faces and new guns begin appearing in the windows above them. Angry murmurs pass back and forth within the crowd.

“Even if we did have one, we’d never help someone who just killed a million people. Last warning man, get out of here or we will shoot you.” Civilians in that frame of mind can’t be reasoned with, so he flees the scene as quickly as he arrived. Mo makes sure to put a good amount of distance between himself and the agitated humans before coming to a stop in a secluded alley. Getting evac would be much harder than he’d originally surmised.

“Idiots. Goddamn, now I know how Mitchell must have felt when I drew down on him.” Leaned up against the wall to catch a breather, the mass of dust in his lungs comes back to haunt him. The hacking fit that ensues causes arcs of lightning to jump from Mo’s body to every metal object in the alley. Dumpsters melt and awnings sizzle as waves of electricity rip through them. It takes him a few minutes to properly right himself. Slumping to the ground wheezing, he holds his hand over his heart. The sound of papers crumpling snaps him to full attention.

In the confusion caused by the explosion, he had completely forgotten the envelope that Mitchell had given him at the bunker. Producing it from within his jacket he opens it up to take a look, “Let’s see what my friends died for.” A folder marked ‘CIA’ with a large red classified stamp across the front slides out.

The primary subject matter inside is a personality and professional profile of one Esteban Medina. A name Mo recognizes from his previous work in black ops. Esteban is a notorious South American drug lord, with worldwide connections to the highest echelons of organized crime. The United States and the rest of the civilized world had been after him for years.

Charges would never stick despite how blatantly reckless he was. No matter how much evidence was brought against him; witnesses, video footage, DNA, no judge anywhere would convict. Assassination attempts failed every single time and his operation seemed totally bulletproof.

This specific file seemed to be focused on dealings with a particular associate of Medina in Nigeria. Next to Esteban’s picture was a photo of an animi with bright green eyes and silver fur. Ledgers detail massive deliveries that have been made to African territories in the past few weeks. A sheet of paper with a strange chemical formula Mo doesn’t understand and a list of illicit narcotics under the heading ‘happy juice’ is at the bottom of the pile.

Geographic coordinates are scribbled on scraps of paper mixed into the stack. The most intriguing part of the personality file is a warning in large print directly underneath his medical data. ‘DO NOT APPROACH. CLASS 1 TRACTATORI. ALL PHYSICAL CONTACT IS TO BE AVOIDED.’

The relevant data is committed to memory and the papers are slid back into the envelope. In the distance, the sounds of approaching military units can be heard. Mo decides his best bet is to try and rendezvous with them. Looking down as he walks, he catches his reflection in a murky puddle.