The White Knight
Chapter Seven
The Chosen
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.
He becomes animated. Emboldened.
Stirred by something deeper than admiration.
At one point, the burly drunk grows so openly impassioned that he begins to evangelize the man’s leadership, speaking of Pollock with the kind of reverence usually reserved for saints and saviors.
He claims Pollock saved countless lives inside the bunker.
That power and greed had gotten the best of those in charge, and when chaos broke out, Pollock took over and reestablished a fair system and restored order.
He begins to wax poetic about the way Pollock speaks.
The cadence of his voice. The faint Irish lilt that rolls through certain words.
The way he commands a room without ever raising his voice.
I attempt to thank him and leave when he suddenly grabs my wrist to stop me. His grip is clumsy but firm.
I tense, preparing to remove his hand by force, but he merely waves over his friends from nearby tables, calling the men over to join us. They crowd the booth, eager to speak once prompted, each offering their own accounts of Pollock’s actions and influence within the bunker.
I end up buying them two rounds of drinks.
But ultimately, the cost is worth it.
Imbibed as they are, they don’t hold back.
They speak of him with a strange light in their eyes—wild, feverish, almost devout.
It is not mere belief that drives them. It is something deeper, a burning hope that seems to bleed from their very pores.
For them, there is no doubt that this man is the only one capable of delivering them from these Dark Ages.
They speak as though he will be crowned king of this new world order at any moment and is deserving of the title.
The city itself stands in a region marked on old maps as the Rocky Mountains of Colorado.
It lies far enough inland that, should the coasts suffer further hurricanes or rising seas, those who dwell here would not be easily swallowed by the waters.
A vast mountain range surrounds the settlement, forming a natural defensive barrier around their base, with the Sovereign Tuath Hall building sitting dead center and protected.
The elevation alone would increase their chances of survival should the world face a great flood.
One of the calamities foretold, but that has yet to strike.
Based on the research I conducted on this area, the city also once held a strong military presence. That knowledge carries its own implications. It suggests that this new government—or the man who leads it—likely commands a cache of weapons, resources enough to wage war should conflict rise again.
A kingdom protected by stone. Armed for the future. Devoted to a single man.
That man, being one of the immortals who has plagued my nightmares since I was a mere child.
He speaks all the right words.
He speaks of faith and charity, of how together they will rebuild the world and establish a new society—one where people are no longer torn apart by their differences, but united in their humanity, bound by the catastrophes that have befallen them, by loss, grief, and remembrance.
He gives them hope, and somehow it replaces the despair they carry.
When he speaks, the devastation etched into them begins to ease. Shoulders straighten as if relieved of some great burden. Faces lift. A quiet peace settles over the crowd like a balm, and the ruin of their world, if only for a moment, becomes bearable.
I watch how they gather around him, how they listen. How their eyes never leave him, as though caught in a spell they cannot resist.
And in witnessing this surrender, I know with absolute certainty that the teachings I once doubted are true. Unless I fulfill my duty as the Chosen, humanity will not survive him.
He is the Soul Serpent of the Good Book—a man capable of bending the minds of others and leading them astray. A false shepherd, herding humanity like cattle toward an end they cannot see.
As documented in sacred text, he is a leader who has risen quickly and without challenge. One whose authority goes unquestioned. One who speaks as though his tongue is forged of gold, drawing multitudes who believe his words alone can sustain them.
Pollock McTierney—the White Knight, as many call him—has done exactly that.
He has established a governing body with a court of officials and placed himself at its head, much like a king.
Survivors from the remaining continents are brought by ship so they may be “provided for,” kept “safe,” and given a place in this new world.
He urges them to rebuild, to begin again, to place their faith in him and those who serve at his side.
His voice carries the pull of a male siren—rich, steady, persuasive. His song is a litany of encouragement and assurance that all is not lost. His speeches are imbued with quotes stolen from old religious passages, filled with inspiring affirmations, and promises of renewal.
They gather in the thousands to hear him, see him, and very few seem to be immune to his charm or convictions.
In a way, I understand it.
He is strikingly handsome—tall, broad-shouldered, commanding in presence.
Hair the color of fresh snow. Bone structure reminiscent of carvings made by the gods from legend and myth.
Features both severe and tragically beautiful.
If men can be called such things. Either way, along with his pale complexion, he gives off the impression that he was birthed from winter itself.
Handsome? Yes. A man easily approached? No.
Even if I wasn’t out to take his head from his shoulders.