So yes, he’s the first I find.
The White Horseman.
Chapter Seven
The White Knight
The Chosen
Year 2262
In the Good Book, he’s known as The Conqueror. It is written that after the great calamities that herald the end—after the wrath of God occurs and delivers His punishments upon the earth—there will be a time of peace, and in that fragile stillness, this Horseman will rise as a false shepherd.
This man is that.
His name moves through the city like a living thing, as if he’s more significant than the maker himself. There is a sense of unquestionable loyalty and fervor when he’s mentioned. And for whatever reason, he’s the primary topic of conversation wherever people gather.
He’s rumored to have been a great leader in the war that preceded the earthquakes. They also credit him with countless victories and accomplishments since the catastrophes struck, wiping out an untold number of people worldwide. They say he rose quickly to power inside the largest US underground bunker and seized leadership of this region the moment humanity resurfaced.
All useful information, but I need more. So I risk a visit to one of the local watering holes on the outskirts of the city.
It’s a popular place, but a dive really, with low ceilings stained with smoke, warped floorboards sticky beneath one’s boots, and the air peppered with sweat. It’s also where many go to participate in sinful acts—to drink, rub up on one another, socialize, or escape the ever-constant rain of death, as the ash is now referred to.
I’ve spent most of the night listening in as people chatter, but my attention eventually settles on a large, burly man occupying a corner booth. He’s spent the night drinking half his weight in whiskey. His broad shoulders sag with exhaustion, and more than an hour ago, his speech began to slur. When he’s unable to produce enough coin to pay for his drinks, the barmaid—arms crossed, expression unmoved—cuts him off.
That’s when I take my chance and slide into the booth across from him without invitation, the worn leather creaking beneath my weight.
Startled at my sudden presence, he nearly knocks over his glass. His heavy frame stiffens, and then he goes absolutely still as his gaze sweeps slowly over me. Wariness builds around his eyes when they meet mine. “Who the fuck are you?”
Tone even, posture relaxed so as not to come across as a threat, I say, “Not important.” Slowly, I slide several coins onto the rough, scarred wood between us. The metal clinks softly. “What is important,” I continue, “is that I have enough money for you to drink yourself under this table if you choose to…” Keeping my hand over the coins, I also raise a finger to state my reason for interrupting his night. “If you give me the information I require.”
His brows furrow. “And what might that be?”
“Any and all information you can give me about this Pollock fellow.”
“McTierney?”
I nod once. “Yes. I’ve heard plenty, but I need more concrete details. I’m new to this city and want to know more about how it’s being run before I decide to stick around.”
He leans back slightly, studying me with narrowed eyes. “And you're asking me because…?”
“Because you work as a guard,” I reply quietly. “At the new building on the hill that everyone is calling the Sovereign Tuath Hall. You see him, work with him on occasion, yes?”
His mouth twists into a hard line. Suspicion tightens his features, but his gaze drifts again to the money. “And that’s it, just information?”
I nod and relax back, crossing my legs as I do so. “Yes, tell me more about this supposedly great leader of yours.”
After a moment’s hesitation, his chin dips in assent.
The moment I draw back my hand, he reaches forward, sweeps the coins from the table, and pockets them in the front of his black tactical uniform.
The man lives up to the bargain. Whiskey loosens his tongue, and he spills everything he knows.
The White Horseman—at least the man I believe to be him—goes by the name Pollock McTierney. He served in the United States military and came from a wealthy family, one whose lineage can be traced back to a time when many Irish emigrants settled in America.
My companion goes on and on, and as he speaks, something strange happens.
His posture straightens, his slouched shoulders pulling back as if some unseen hand has lifted them. His voice grows steadier. More certain. The drunken haze clouding his thoughts seems to thin.
