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Horror. Screaming. Death. It’s the same every time.
People know that she’s out there, stalking. Waiting. And still, they invite hell on Earth by submitting to their base desires. Killers. Rapists. Abusers. The hearts of men and women—women first, if you believe the Bible—are driven by carnal desires that leave a wounded string of victims in their wake.
Driven by primal, narcissistic instability, a fucked-up hubris leads people to believe she won’t notice—or won’t care. But she always does.
There is no grace.
No amount of Hail Marys can satiate the four-hundred-foot-tall goddess of vengeance. Hell, priests are some of the top offenders, committing their crimes hidden away from the world. But not from her.
Not from Nemesis.
My job is to predict her movements, and through aggressive detective work, determine where she’s going and who her next target is.
Not so we can stop her.
But with enough notice we can clear a path, or even better, serve her target up on a silver platter.
Like we did today.
I can see him far below, tied to a post atop the breaker wall. All coastal cities have them now—giant walls meant to absorb and deflect tsunamis. Atop the wall is a post, where the judged await sentencing.
It’s the same every time.
I felt bad at first. A lot of people died in the early days, back when we didn’t understand what she wanted. Back when we didn’t know how or when to get out of the way. A lot of innocent people died. Nemesis doesn’t care about collateral damage. She is out for justice, and nothing can slow her down.
So, we speed it up.
The man’s screams are carried by the wind, reaching me several thousand feet away. I’m watching the scene play out from the rooftop of a five-hundred-foot-tall apartment building just behind the breakwall separating Boston from the harbor.
“Please!” the man shouts. “God! Save me!”
“Keep screaming, asshole,” I say. “God can’t save you now.”
It’s cold. I know. His death is going to be a nightmare, but I’ve watched it hundreds of times before. I’m numb to it. Indifferent to the pain of people so addicted to their vices that they’d put the rest of us in mortal danger. Fuck them. They deserve it.
When the man’s raspy screams are cut short, I turn my gaze out to sea.
It’s impossible to miss.
The ocean is rising up. Rolling toward us. Most of the watery hill is going to be shunted away by the curved breakwalls, propelling it right back out to sea. But some will make it over. Will roll right over the judged. If he’s lucky, the impact will snap his neck, or he’ll suck down a lungful of seawater.
But the city will survive. Again.
Nemesis was born in Boston. The city barely survived its first encounter with the beast. I was just a kid at the time. Lost my whole family in the chaos that followed. I spent years of my life dreaming up ways to kill the monster as it made its way around the planet. But the world’s militaries threw everything they had at her—including nukes—and she came back for more every time.
The best we could do was reduce the damage, and the only way to do that was to help her. I’ve been at it for ten years now, thinking like her, hunting her prey, serving them up.
I wanted vengeance. Now I’m her lackey. I’m not thrilled about it, but the world is a safer place because of my work.
The downside is that I’m the god-damned angel of death.
My face is known worldwide. Some people think that I choose who Nemesis targets.
Making friends is tough.
My fellow agents at the FC-P steer clear.
It’s a lonely life, but I was made for the job. By Nemesis. And because of me, there are no more Nemesis-orphans or broken families. No more cities scoured from the Earth. No more mass casualties from evacuation stampedes. I provide security, and Nemesis, well, she keeps people on the straight and narrow.
Most of them anyway.
Jackasses, like the man below, keep Nemesis on the move.
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