Thrilled to Death

by James Byron Huggins

  But then there was the desert...

  He knew that shadowed hour held a fear he had evaded for long years, drowning the memory in academic discipline and intellectual coldness.

  And even now he could not fully contemplate what might have occurred when he broke the seal on that cursed tomb. But he could never lose the suspicion.

  Skeletal eyes burning in darkness . . .

  Golem . . .

  Marcelle shut his eyes, jaw tightening.

  I WILL BE FREE!

  He released a tired sigh and concentrated, focusing again on the situation. From hard Jesuit training he knew that three of the five criteria used to define demonic possession were fulfilled.

  There was superhuman strength, an inexplicable command of ancient languages, and knowledge of things that should not have been known—primarily the location and existence of the Secret Archives. Other qualifying signs included telekinesis and the ability to communicate with the dead. Those had not yet been demonstrated, but enough was present, for certain, to warrant an exorcism. Still, though, there was something that disturbed him about the writing – something he couldn’t place.

  As he bent over the photographs he remembered the words of his mentor, Anton Aveling, the man who had taught him the reality of spiritual warfare: “When a person is convinced that he is possessed by the devil,” Aveling had said so often, “then you can be sure that there is no devil. The devil, when he is there, does everything possible to mask his presence.”

  Marcelle knew it all at once.

  There was too much to understand; yes, far, far too much. The words too easily revealed themselves, leaving nothing hidden. It was as if the creature was challenging him, and Marcelle knew from experience that a demonic force would avoid a confrontation with an exorcist at any cost.

  An exorcism was a conflict that neither antagonist sought because by nature it was a grueling ordeal, testing the endurance of the possessed, the exorcist, and even the demon itself.

  No, an exorcism was not something the devil invited, as it seemed to be doing now, so this was something different. With a frown Marcelle pondered it, becoming more and more certain that this was no ordinary act of possession. No, this was something far different, something ...

  More sinister.

  Together the words scrawled in blood upon the walls had different shades of the same meaning. But Marcelle realized that all of them were meant to signify a single image, an image heated and deepened level by level to plummet into a black and terrible abyss.

  Moving soundlessly from the darkness, Father Barth entered the shadowed room. And behind him, emerging from the portal, framed by the light of the fireplace, Marcelle saw another figure dressed in imperial white and priestly purple with an ecclesiastical cloak descending from his shoulders. Immediately Marcelle recognized the tall balding figure and rose to walk quickly forward, falling to one knee to kiss the ring of the Jesuit Superior General Father Anton Aveling.

  “Arise, old friend,” said the eighty-year-old Aveling with a slight bow. “I bring encouragement from Rome.”

  Marcelle nodded gravely as he rose, stepping back so that the superior priest could seat himself in an opulent red leather chair positioned in front of Father Barth.

  Barth himself sat back solemnly behind the desk, hands in view. And last, as protocol demanded, Marcelle sat opposite Aveling to feel the powerful impact of the old man’s steady gray eyes.

  “As I said,” Aveling continued in a slightly fatigued voice, “I bring encouragement from the Dome of Michelangelo, Marcelle. Words of greeting from our brother, the Archbishop of Rome.”

  Marcelle nodded at once, pausing. “I am humbled, Father, that the Archbishop would consider me worthy of a personal message, especially one delivered by so noble an emissary.”

  There was no pause as the older priest spoke with a smile of familiarity and friendship. “There is much appreciation, my son, for your courage in taking on this investigation. I know that there are few more qualified to deal with the terrible task which may be before us.”

  Marcelle was silent.

  “Have you something to say, Marcelle?” the old man asked gently, with a becoming smile. “You have never hesitated to deliver your august mind to my understanding. Just as you have never been short for courage. Or even sheer determination.”

  Marcelle did not look up as he spoke. “How can I be of assistance to you, Superior General? It has always been my sacred mission to serve, as you know from my actions, and not my words.”

  For a time, the aged priest stared. “We have entered an evil time, Marcelle,” he said finally. “A time when those of us who dare must stand alone on this battlefield. You, a man who battled to exorcise the demon Raphael from an innocent woman, a revered member of Eradicare In Carne, know that we have no surety that the Church will outlive us. We have no certainty, even, that those who have held up our arms for four hundred years will agree with what we must do. Yet, in the end, we have no choice. For this is the hour of darkness when we must enter the dangerous arena of what is ultimately good and ultimately evil. It is not a task fit for man, but for God. But it is a burden man must bear if we are to eradicate this evil from the world. It is a battle which must be fought in secret, and yet it must be fought, and with no one but our brotherhood to mark our graves should we fall in the fight. Our toil must be in secret, and our blood shed in darkness with only God as our reward. But from this battle, as you know from the past, there can be no withdrawal. The present, if we are to survive at all, must mirror the oncoming final conflict between God and Satan.”

  Marcelle was stoic at the words. Yet when the old man fell silent he looked up. “Were these the words you have brought to me from Rome, noble Aveling?”

  “Yes, Marcelle, and more than these. For I have seen the photos of the crime scene, just as you have. I have studied the names scratched into the wall—Mawet, Resheph, Ashtaroth, and Beliyy’al.” He paused. “Mawet, whom the ancients teach us made a covenant with Death, then Resheph, the great and unconquerable demon-lord forever at war with the one who cursed him. Ashtaroth, the angel of death who brings about the end of the world. And finally ... Beliyy’al, the dark angel who lords over all other fallen angels and brings them into subjection by the strength that is his – and his alone.”

  “Yes,” agreed Marcelle, “I have seen these things, also.”

  “And so ...” Aveling paused, frowning. “Yes, and so here we stand, Marcelle. And I must ask you this last discriminating question. Who is it, my son, that we face in battle this final time?”

  A moment passed in dark silence.

  Marcelle finally stood and walked slowly to the fireplace. He waited a long time, his face grim while the merciless holocaust rose before him, consuming all that could be consumed. He stared into the flames, and none could say what he saw there.

  His voice was hushed.

  “One who was once a prince,” he said.

  ***

  His iron hand gripped the steel rung on the ladder as the water cascaded past him, and he roared as his strength endured. Then, groaning inch by inch, he overcame the flooding force and began to haul himself from the flowing power of the underground river. The rusted rung bent at the combined pressure of his great weight and the torrent, but his hand would not release, was locked solidly as death.

  Ancient curses twisted his face as he brought himself to air, fighting to find breath and life in this cursed tomb of dark and cold that had carried him so helplessly. Yet the deep steel of the rung held this time and he shouted, viciously lashing up to find purchase, hauling his chest from the flow.

  Grimacing, growling, he climbed foot by foot to claim a hateful escape, ascending to the slender shadow of false light that haloed the manhole cover above him.

  His wounds were agony, even worse than the wounds he’d suffered in the battle at White Sands where he�
�d escaped into the night to kill, and kill, and kill. He didn’t know the man that had attacked him—he’d only glimpsed the face in the chaotic eruption of light that threw him back, blasting him into the river—but he knew he would find him one day, yes, he would find him, and then he would deliver terror seen only once since the beginning of all things.

  In time, yes, if I can only claim the blood of the child!

  He gazed up at the manhole cover.

  Light!

  How he’d hated it! And now it was life!

  He laughed as his feet cleared the river, and then he was in the cold misty haze, climbing quickly upward. He hesitated briefly as he reached the last rung, poised close to the steel cover, listening. But he heard no traffic, saw no shadows passing overhead.

  Silence was all.

  He knew the Army could not have foretold his destination, for they couldn’t have known where he would finally find a grip to climb from this sewer. But he did not want any witnesses that could attest to his emerging from the pipe, witnesses that might in turn report to the police who could create another secured perimeter. No, he needed time to heal, needed time to overcome the grievous injuries inflicted upon him by this unknown attacker who had come to defend the child.

  With a single titanic blow, he shattered asphalt cementing the manhole over to the road. Then he hurled the heavy steel plate aside and climbed from the underworld like a blood-drenched gargoyle emerging from a bone-littered tomb, raising black-taloned hands to embrace the glorious night.

  Recovering, drawing hot breath, he searched for witnesses and saw only one: a lonely figure silhouetted on the sidewalk beneath the light of a lamp. The figure had a grocery cart in front of him. His mouth hung open in shock.

  Cain smiled as he turned and walked quickly forward.

  For at the sight, he knew . . .

  He needed his blood.

  ***

  “And, now, what will the Golem do, my son?” Aveling’s bald head glistened in the somber light with his question. He repeated it again as if he knew there could be no answer. “Yes. . . that is the question we must answer. What will the Golem do?”

  Marcelle was seated again, and his face hardened as the moments passed. “Did the Librarian Superior of the Archives come with you from Rome, Aveling? Is he in the Archives as we speak?”

  There was assent.

  Marcelle nodded, turning his mind with an effort to analysis. “Yes, that is the place to begin, for Father Lanester was probably slain only because he held the combination to the vault. Surely whatever this fiend desired was sealed within its walls.”

  “But you forget that I also hold the combination to the vault, Marcelle,” Barth interrupted. “I also have means of entering the Archives.”

  With the words Marcelle stared, his brow hardening like flint. Then he rose, striding again before the fire. He turned back sharply. “And where were you at the time of Father Lanester’s murder?”

  Barth shook his head, searching his memory. “I ... ah ... I was at Imperial Funeral Home to conduct an all-night vigil for the death of a beloved donor to the Church. I did not arrive again at the cathedral until this morning, after I had been summoned by the police.”

  Marcelle nodded with each word. “Yes … Of course . . .”

  “What is it, Marcelle?” Aveling asked. “What do you perceive?”

  Moving away quickly with a single stride Marcelle spoke. “Yes! I should have thought of it before! Did you not even ask the question yourself, Father Barth? Of course that is it!”

  “What!” gasped Barth. “What are you saying?”

  Crossing an arm over his chest, Marcelle marched like a soldier before the flames. “Our enemy is too wise not to know he must do us harm at every opportunity! And is it not better to strike at the head than the body? Yes, surely. So, if this beast could have, he would have waited for Father Barth to return so that he could have taken a general instead of a captain! But he could not! So this tells us much! Our enemy fears something!”

  Aveling’s gray eyes narrowed. “Yes, Marcelle, I follow your reasoning, but what is it that he fears?”

  “He fears time,” Marcelle replied as he leaned suddenly upon the fireplace, becoming utterly still with concentration. “The Golem’s needs could not be delayed. He fears that, for some reason, his time is short, and so he hurries and forsakes the blood of the master for the blood of the servant. Yes! Father Lanester’s death was a victory for him! But it was a far lesser victory than he would have preferred!”

  Barth shook his head. “I would have had it another way.”

  “We know that you would,” Marcelle said without hesitation, “because you are a father of the Church, and a noble man. But the battle that has been joined is in the hands of God, and we have no time, nor should we have compulsion, for regret. We must continue the struggle with courage and strength and whatever meager means we have at our disposal because the price of defeat may be greater than the value of all our lives combined.”

  At the words Barth rose from his seat. “And what is before us now, Marcelle? You, better than anyone, understand the mind of this evil. You say that time is not on his side? Is it on ours?”

  Marcelle turned to gaze dismally into the flames. He shook his head and without permission withdrew a cigarette. Once it was lit, he expelled a thick, meditative cloud of smoke. The gathering silence in the room seemed to hang on his unspoken words.

  “I do not know,” he said, implacable once more. “But there is nothing we can do, yet. Because we do not yet know this monster’s intentions. We must give Father James, the Librarian Superior, time to complete his search.”

  “And then?” Barth asked as Aveling released a faint smile.

  “Then we will see how wise and strong our enemy truly is,” Marcelle said, utterly calm. “We will see how great is this strength he so cruelly used against a gentle man of peace.”

  There was an ominous tone to the words.

  “But are we not all men of peace, Marcelle?” Barth asked. “How can mortal men defy immortal force?”

  Marcelle took another long breath and released smoke in a cloud that, rising before the fire’s light, covered him in a haunting white haze. He stood utterly alone and somber, as if he were surrounded by the ghosts of ancient battle, spectral faces of defeated heroes.

  “Peace, Father?” he answered. “There has never been peace in this world. It has been war since the Beast was created. Now, the only life we have is to fight ... To fight until we die.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Chatwell wandered in at 11:00 p.m., gazing about the room until he sighted Malo’s heavy BDU jacket laid across a chair. He winked at Soloman and Maggie as he limped over, carefully searching the pockets. Then from the front right he took a long black cigar that looked to be the finest Cuban and slipped it quickly into his shirt.

  Turning back, he said, “We’ll have everything secured in a few minutes, Colonel.” Then he smiled, clearly glad to be back in the field. “Malo was smoking one of these, so I thought I’d try one. God bless his miserable, crooked black heart.”

  Soloman laughed. “Semper fi, sarge?”

  “Semper fi, Colonel.”

  And was gone.

  Maggie smiled. “He obviously stole that cigar from Malo.” She laughed. “What does semper fi mean?”

  Soloman shook his head at Chatwell’s antics, taking a sip of coffee before answering. “Semper Fidelis. Always faithful. It’s a code of honor, the motto of the Corps. I’m Marine and Chatwell’s Army, but everyone understands that it really means we take care of each other. We fight together until we win or die. And there can be even more to it than that.”

  “Like?”

  “Well,” Soloman took a deep breath, “it’s military, but it’s more than military. It’s ... like, when you make a commitment to someone, you’re there to the end, life
or death. You never leave them alone, no matter what. If you’ve got food or ammo or cigarettes, you share it. What’s yours is theirs. And as long as they’re alive ... you never leave their side when they need you.”

  He bent his head with the words, clearing his throat, and she saw that something about the statement troubled him. She let it go.

  “I understand,” she said. “It’s in everything you do, Sol. In everything you say and don’t say. And the rest have it, too, to a degree. They show it by how they fight. Like the way Malo was searching for you in the tunnel. He was absolutely frantic.”

  Soloman cast her a glance.

  “Yeah,” she nodded, taking a moment. “I heard all of it. I was listening in on the chopper headset. Malo, as mean and uncaring as he seems to be, would have gone through Hell itself to find you even though he knew what you were up against.”

  “Malo’s a brave man,” Soloman said, grimacing. “He isn’t half as cold as he acts. But it’s his way of dealing with things.” He paused. “Yeah, he’d stand behind me, no matter what.”

  Smiling slightly, she was suddenly more beautiful. And as Soloman stared at her he began to warm to her. This woman, he knew, was unique. Perhaps she was the kind of woman a man would die for. He had only known one other like that.

  Strange, he realized how quickly friendships were forged in the heat of conflict when people had to find what was truly important to them.

  Wondering at it, he gazed again at his coffee. He wanted to say something meaningful, but he’d built such a huge wall between himself and his feelings that he had no clue how to do it anymore. Yet inside, he knew, a part of that wall was crumbling.

  They turned together as Malo stalked in the door. He moved with his MP5 slung over his back, not even looking at them. “We got heat sensors in a crossover pattern, Colonel,” he said absently as he reached his coat, searching the front right pocket. “Got motion detectors set five feet off the ground to avoid trippin’ ‘em on bear, but I still got to—”