Chevelle stood at the elevator as the nuns of the convent descended, their hymn-like voices fading into the mechanical hum of the Abbey beneath the earth. She watched until the golden lights dimmed, her heart tight with fear for the days ahead. But she had packed diligently, knowing there was no turning back.

  When she returned to the barracks, the General was waiting.

  “How was your flight, General?” she asked, trying to mask the nerves in her voice.

  He gave a small nod. “A bit rough. But things are progressing smoothly. I brought the escort team you requested. I assume he told you who they were?”

  She shook her head. “No, sir. He said, ‘no spoilers,’ then went back to his contemplation.”

  The General sighed, as if expecting that. “Then I suppose you’ve got your work cut out for you.”

  He led her through the wide arch into the courtyard, where a soldier stood at attention in front of a sleek row of American automatons. The machines saluted in perfect unison before turning crisply to face her.

  “This is General Chris Sowitz, commander of the Automaton Forces. Three years on the Alaskan front, battle-hardened. He’ll be your top-ranking escort. In all matters of tactics and battlefield protocol, follow his lead.”

  Chevelle stepped forward and extended a hand.

  “Greetings, General. I’m honoured to have you with us.”

  The man relaxed his stance, giving her a measured glance. “Chris is fine, ma’am.” His tone soured. “Though I gotta ask—what’s your secret? I don’t buy this ‘ordained by God’ thing for a second.”

  Before the tension could spark, a smack landed on the back of his head. A redheaded girl—no older than sixteen—stood behind him, her flight suit stained with oil, her expression fierce.

  “A sharp jaw and broad shoulders don’t entitle you to divine answers, j?vla idiot,” she snapped. “You should at least court her before questioning her soul. Especially a woman of the cloth, whose love belongs to something far above your paygrade.”

  Chris rubbed the back of his head and gave Chevelle an apologetic nod. “I apologize, ma’am.”

  He turned to the girl with narrowed eyes. “And who exactly are you, firecracker?”

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  The girl puffed up her chest mockingly. “Commander Ingrid Karlson. Leader of the Valkyrie Corps, stationed here in France.”

  Chris did a double take. “You’re the Valkyrie commander? You’re a kid!”

  Without a word, Ingrid stepped back and hiked up one pant leg, revealing a polished prosthetic. Her voice dropped, calm and cold.

  “In Europe, we don’t have the luxury of waiting until we’re old enough for war, General. If you think the Alaskan front is hell, your stomach would turn at what we’ve seen.”

  She walked off without another word.

  Chevelle stared after her, awe in her voice. “A real Valkyrie… like an angel come to help me on my journey.”

  “Yeah,” Chris muttered. “She’s a real joy.”

  Their attention was stolen by the sound of helicopters descending. Two massive cages were lowered by cable into the courtyard. A scientist below guided them down and, without hesitation, opened the latches.

  Chevelle and Chris instinctively stepped back as a colossal lion and a massive armoured crocodile emerged from the cages, their frames hulking and unnatural. But instead of roaring, they stepped forward calmly. A man in a long coat stood between them, rubbing their flanks gently

  “The journey was rough, wasn’t it?” he cooed. “But through God, all things can be endured.”

  “The Doctor, I assume?” Chris asked, extending a hand.

  “Dr. Ngowazi,” the man replied, shaking his hand with a broad smile. “But please—call me Tombi. You will butcher my name less that way as its pronounced Ngo-wa-zi.”

  He turned to Chevelle, eyes bright with reverence.

  “And you must be the one chosen by our Lord. It is truly an honour.”

  Chevelle approached the creatures slowly, placing a gentle hand on each. Neither flinched. The lion gave a low purr. The crocodile nuzzled into her palm.

  “What are their names?” she asked softly.

  Tombi beamed. “The lion is Shaka, named for a great Zulu king. The crocodile is Dingaan—another king, a bit too clever for his own good.”

  “They’re beautiful,” she said, her voice full of wonder.

  “Both were mutated by the Biological Bloom Virus,” Tombi explained. “It affects plants and animals, sadly not people. But I’ve studied these creatures closely. I’m a licensed doctor, a vet, and even a physicist when I have to be. Still… even for me, this journey is something else.”

  Another helicopter arrived overhead, its roar deep and guttural. From it, a figure leapt.

  The sound of flesh hitting concrete echoed through the courtyard as the hulking form landed—a grotesque silhouette of a man. His body was a patchwork of tumours and bloated tissue, barely held together beneath a long coat and bowler hat. A cigar smouldered in his twisted mouth. He smelled of rot and old stone.

  “Bert,” he rasped.

  Chris stifled a gag at the stench but nodded. “Ah, you must be our Immortan Brit. Glad to have you.”

  The figure approached Chevelle. She didn’t recoil, didn’t flinch. Instead, she reached up and placed a hand on the ruined thing that might once have been a cheek.

  The creature froze.

  “What a soft soul,” she said gently.

  Bert held her hand for a moment. Then, with a croak, repeated, “Bert,” and lumbered away to sit on a nearby bench.

  Chris looked on; expression sombre. “I think you understand him better than anyone else. He drank the waters of Avalon after the Purity destroyed London. They were once said to grant eternal life, but… now they give only eternal rot. He’s immortal, but all that remains of his name is that single word: Bert.”

  Chevelle nodded, eyes distant as she watched the broken giant slump on the bench.

  Her gaze then turned to the rest of her companions—the Valkyrie child, the steel-eyed general, the doctor and his beasts, and the rotting immortal.

  An odyssey lay ahead.

  And she would not walk it alone.