Thrilled to Death

by James Byron Huggins

  “But it will kill you, too!”

  Five ...

  Soloman laughed.

  “It’s worth it... to see you die.”

  Four ...

  Like a lion, Cain roared and leaped.

  Three ...

  Soloman fired the shotgun to hit point-blank, the round impacting in a shower of blood that sent Cain back a last time. Then Soloman hurled himself desperately into the tunnel, a frantic move to place the thick stone wall between himself and the heart of the explosion.

  Two ...

  “Soloman!” Cain shouted.

  Soloman spun and stared.

  Cain roared, “I will be free!”

  Soloman smiled.

  One ...

  ***

  A volcanic eruption rushed up the stairs, engulfing Marcelle and Maggie in a white-hot holocaust. Wind heated by the subterranean roar engulfed them, and they fell back together, screaming in terror.

  As the flames passed over them, Maggie clutched Amy tightly to her chest, praying for life. She never knew how long it lasted, finally sensed Marcelle staggering to his feet. He lifted her with a bloody arm, and she stood, holding her child tightly.

  “We must descend,” Marcelle groaned, leaning against a wall. “It may not yet be finished!”

  Maggie supported him, bearing his prodigious weight as they staggered together down the stairs. They almost fell as they reached the threshold, the entire dungeon alive with a roaring white light that cast spectral shadows across the walls, shadows of the living and dead. The roof was half-shattered, flaming stone scattered across the floor.

  “Wait,” Marcelle gasped. “I will go first ...”

  He staggered into the surreal light, and Maggie saw a humanlike shape fully ablaze. Screaming hideously, the monstrous form fled toward the cell where Amy had been held, finally falling at the entrance to crawl slowly through the door, screaming Amy’s name.

  Cain!

  He was completely consumed by flame from whatever Soloman had done to him. Then she saw a second figure stumbling on the far side of the cavern. Staggering, rising slowly, he limply held a shotgun. She rushed forward past Marcelle.

  Soloman saw her approach.

  “Maggie!” he cried, raising a hand. “Stay back!”

  At the far end of the chamber Cain was rolling to extinguish the flames, leaving spiraling flame behind him that fell away degree by degree. Then suddenly he lay still in a smoking black cloud, growling. He raised a fist high in the air, slammed it against the floor with thunderous force, and began to lift himself from the stones.

  They stared together as he rose, and as he reached his feet he turned slowly, glaring. His flesh was blackened, hideously disfigured by the bomb. It appeared that he barely had the strength to stand.

  “Soloman!” Maggie’s voice pierced the roar of flame. “Can you walk? Can you walk? Talk to me! Sol! Get on your feet!”

  Staggering, Soloman cursed weakly as he fell to the side. Whatever was in him had been exhausted by the battle, and he tried to resurrect it, but it was claimed by the force of a war gone on far, far too long, a war he’d waged with all his love and life. His body abandoned him as he lay against the heated floor; hot stones burning with the savage cost of this fight.

  Maggie was screaming. “Soloman! Get up! Cain’s coming!”

  She twisted to see Cain’s hideous black eyes glaring. And as he began a slow approach she spun with a shout. “Soloman! Dear God, we’ve got to get out of here! Right now! Get on your feet, baby! Get on your feet!”

  A long effort that came from somewhere beyond pain enabled Soloman to rise to his knees, and he saw Cain’s scorched form drawing nearer. With dying strength he reached for a last grenade. “Get out of here, Maggie,” he rasped. “I have to ... finish this.”

  Cain staggered closer, almost falling.

  “No, Sol! No! We’ve got to—”

  “Get out of here!” Soloman roared, ignited by the horror of Cain’s malignant approach. Then in a merciless effort that caused scarlet pain to erupt behind his eyes, he rose. He used the shotgun as a bloody crutch, pushing Maggie roughly away as he watched Cain’s oncoming strides.

  “Damn it, Maggie!” he shouted. “Get out of here!”

  Her face twisted in savage pain, and then she cried out, lifting Amy as Cain finally descended. He struck Maggie viciously and sent her sprawling unconscious to the side. Amy, flung wide, collapsed painfully against stones with a scream.

  Soloman returned a violent backhand to turn Cain away. Then with his other hand he racked a round hard before leveling the shotgun, firing again to send Cain to his back, smashed over a cornerstone.

  Soloman stumbled forward across the giant’s body, both of them more dead than alive. But Soloman had been delivered to another life now and moved with determined strength that shocked even him, knowing he was only moments from what he’d sought for so long: the chance to save his child.

  He reached Amy, amazingly able to lift her from the ground with an exhausted arm. As she embraced his ravaged neck Soloman felt a shocking rush of love – and strength.

  But Cain, too, was rising. Always rising.

  And ... Marcelle.

  Separated from the rest of them, the priest was bent, concentrating on his arm before he leaned his head back, moaning in pain. Then he flung out a hand and contemptuously hurled aside a steel syringe.

  Soloman knew, groaned.

  Marcelle ...

  He had injected himself with the Marburg virus, the only thing that could kill Cain: a living sacrifice.

  Before Soloman could object the priest staggered forward to push him back, and Soloman crashed against stone, losing the shotgun as he clutched Amy tight in the raging apocalyptic air.

  Holding Amy tight as he rolled painfully to a knee, Soloman stared in shock. He knew what Marcelle would do because Cain needed blood to replenish his exhausted strength. And Marcelle would give blood to him – blood that would destroy him as surely as it created him.

  Soloman bowed his head in grief.

  He saw it all in his heart before he saw it with his eyes, and as he raised his head Marcelle struck Cain hard. But the giant only grabbed the hand in contempt, and in the next moment Cain lifted the priest cleanly from the floor.

  Horrified, Soloman watched as the hideous fangs unhinged, and he couldn’t even imagine what Marcelle knew in that moment. But the priest’s face was hatefully grim, returning the hellish gaze with fatal defiance. Then the fangs fell, rending Marcelle’s neck to drain blood infected with the Marburg virus, a life through death, a ransom for them all.

  After taking the priest’s blood Cain contemptuously hurled Marcelle hard to the side. Then, fangs wide with the heated taste, glared down for a moment, wasting a single breath to growl, “You freed me, priest. And you have failed to destroy me. Always your god fails you.”

  Dying, Marcelle gazed up.

  “No,” he whispered. “It ends for us both now.”

  Cain stared a moment, confused, before shaking his head. He turned toward Soloman, and Soloman returned the glare with all the strength that remained within him, knowing he couldn’t run anymore, couldn’t fight anymore. He had nothing left. He revealed no fear, scorning whatever strength Cain still possessed, as the giant advanced. And at Amy’s cry, arms tightening on his neck, he hugged her face closer to his chest.

  “It’s almost over, darlin’,” he whispered, staring defiantly at the monstrous, frightfully demonic shape in ravaged black that staggered toward them, advancing with deadly force. “It’s almost over.”

  Cain’s fangs glistened blood-white in the flames, the eyes utterly black, depthless – the heart of hell. His taloned hands clenched and unclenched in evil glee and a merciless, haunting laugh twisted the hideous face. He came slowly step by step, a charred, shambling horror, but Solo
man only frowned, revealing nothing; no fear, no remorse, as their eyes locked. He stared at Cain as if the beast were already dead.

  Step by step, hating eyes defied.

  Then, abruptly, Cain stumbled. His fanged face twisted in a rictus of pain that made him reflexively raise taloned hands, clutching. And he seemed to convulse, staring blindly. He swayed a moment, groaning, and bowed his head, fighting something that ravaged him from within. And for a spellbinding moment he resisted, defying with fiendish strength, trying to catch a breath before he seemed ... to understand.

  Mouth open in shock, he staggered in a tight circle to glare back at Marcelle. But the demonic face was no longer threatening. It was questioning, searching.

  More dead than alive, Marcelle nodded.

  “Yes,” he said. “It ends for us both now.”

  A wordless curse erupted from Cain’s throat before he groaned in agonizing pain and staggered, falling against a stone. He grasped at the heated metal bars, flesh smoking though he seemed not to feel it as he tried to right himself, closing on Marcelle. His voice was choked with blood.

  “I will kill you ... for this.”

  With fatal unconcern Marcelle watched the beast stagger closer until it finally fell to a knee, a hand; the death of a giant. And still Cain moved slowly, crawling through what remained of flame, his face rising to reveal fangs stretched high against the light.

  Impassive and uncaring, Marcelle watched the fiendish approach, and when Cain could crawl no more, he simply shook his head. His face was settled and peaceful.

  Cain lay still for a moment, and seemed dead at last. But after a moment of haunting silence he rolled, struggling with monumental strength to slowly sit, leaning his back against a wall. He was so close to Marcelle, and yet so far because he could come no closer.

  The godlike gaze, once commanding such titanic power and triumph, was overcome by a redness that bled. And a dark flow of black had erupted from the fanged jaws, the hands limp and lifeless as if the virus were slowly working its way into the center of all he was. He spoke to Marcelle in a voice thick in blood, a deliverance of death.

  “Do you truly know,” he whispered, “what I once was?”

  Holding a hand to his chest, Marcelle nodded.

  “Yes,” he rasped. “I know that you were once the greatest of all beings. Without equal, but for God. But you cast it aside to claim ... what you had no right to claim. Because you found corruption more glorious ... than glory itself.”

  Cain coughed, lowering his head.

  “This,” he gasped, “will kill us both.”

  “I am not afraid of death,” Marcelle whispered finally. “I only fear the death that would deliver me ... to you.”

  There was a wet laugh, and Cain shook his head, surrendering something. “I do not own you, Marcelle. I have never ... owned you.” Struggling, he took a deep breath and his dark eyes became distant as stars. “I never thought ... that I would lose that war.”

  Marcelle blinked, silent.

  “If you could only see what I have seen,” Cain said, raising his head in what might once have been a proud gesture. “You speak of glory ... but you don’t know glory.” He laughed. “I have soared through the heart of the sun to know the secrets of life ... of this galaxy. I watched the birth of Alnilam ... of Orion and Aquila, and Hydra, and I know where lightning is stored ... I have walked through the valleys of the deep to know the awesome beasts that once ruled ... that cold darkness. I have hovered beneath the northern ice, knowing things man will never know in that realm of night.” He coughed. “I have soared over Saturn, and Mars, and looked long into the eyes of God ... and I was the brightest light of that heavenly realm. And I knew this hardened world before it was so horribly cursed. So no, Marcelle, you know nothing of glory.”

  Redness deepened in his eyes.

  “Mortals are such fools,” whispered with infinite sadness. “Even your dreams cannot honor that divine sight … or the light... or the awesome might... of what I once was. Of what ... I once ruled.”

  Silence passed as Cain seemed to lose life as he bowed his head; “I spoke to him as I speak to you. And you think you are so different.” He laughed. “But he feels. He loves ... And even he can be wounded. Is it any wonder that I thought ... I might win that war?”

  Marcelle bent his head and sighed.

  “No,” he answered. “It is no wonder. But you cast your glory aside because you desired ... what you did not own. And that was your destruction.”

  With a harsh laugh Cain shook his head. His face was so sad, his eyes so mournful that Soloman felt an amazing pang of remorse, gazing upon the once-imperial image so ravaged and defeated by the long battle, remembering unearthly glory lost.

  Grimacing, Cain raised a hand to his chest as if it could help him heave a heavy breath beneath the blood flooding his lungs.

  “All I need,” he whispered, “is blood.”

  Blinking slowly, Marcelle spoke.

  “Life ... is in the blood.”

  A harsh laugh, and Cain bowed his head. Slowly he fell still, and black blood dripped from the fangs.

  Turning his gaze, Soloman saw that Marcelle was staring at the ravaged figure resting so closely beside him.

  Soloman held Amy tight, waiting, knowing there was nothing to be done. He was so exhausted and amazed and overwhelmed by the struggle that he could say nothing. Then without a word Marcelle also bowed his head, and his hands fell limply from his heart.

  Death claiming death.

  ***

  Holding Amy in an arm, Soloman bent over Maggie and helped her rise from the stone floor. In shock and half-conscious, she cast a horrified gaze at Cain’s monstrous form, beheld the great black head bowed in stillness. Then her eyes turned to Marcelle, and her face twisted in grief. She lowered her head and moaned. Soloman held her gently.

  “Come on, baby,” he whispered. “It’s over. He’s dead.”

  “But Marcelle . . .”

  “Died as he chose to die,” Soloman said. “It’s over.”

  She leaned heavily on his arm, and he held them both, finding all the strength he needed flowing into him. And together they walked out, silent in their mutual pain, the flame that binds.

  Amy’s hand bled from the warlock’s blade, the redness flowing in red rivulets over Soloman, joining them. But as Soloman stepped over Cain’s monstrous form he took a single moment to turn, gazing with contempt as he felt Amy’s arms clutching him hard.

  Soloman knew that he’d fought for all of them: the dead, the living, for every life ever destroyed by the dark force lying silently at his feet. And although he could feel no victory, he knew he’d finally claimed the victory. Staring down, he was moved by the sensation. And with the thought Soloman nodded, feeling its truth.

  “Thus sayeth the Lord,” he said.

  CHAPTER 27

  Soloman had never seen him, but he knew.

  Cloaked in white, the priest stood in the center of the Vatican’s majestic circular entrance, the dome of Michelangelo towering far above. Patiently, he watched an old woman pour water on cobblestones for the pigeons, affectionately feeding them grain, oblivious to scorn.

  Soloman walked up, stood in silence.

  Aveling did not turn, and when he finally spoke, sensing the presence behind him, he seemed indifferent. “You know,” he began, “I often wondered why she has spent so many years in this circle. Caring so selflessly ... for so many. Yes, it was a mystery to me. Until now.”

  Aveling turned slowly, and Soloman beheld the keen gray eyes, the bald head that reflected the dying light of an angry sun. Around them the plaza bristled with tourists and photographers, those who didn’t know.

  “You are well?” Aveling asked.

  “I’m all right,” Soloman said. “Ben got in some trouble. But political maneuvering decided it, in the end. He’
s going to take early retirement with full benefits. I just wanted to thank you.”

  Aveling nodded, hands clasped behind his back. “I am happy to hear that General Hawken is well, Colonel,” he replied, staring again at the old woman. “I suppose that she does what she does because she must. As all of us do. Don’t you think?”

  Soloman cast a glance.

  “Like Marcelle,” he said.

  “Yes,” Aveling said, pausing a long time. “Like ... my son.”

  “I want you to know,” Soloman said softly, “that Marcelle stood his ground. And he was the one who finally brought Cain down, in the end. With his own life.”

  Aveling nodded. His voice was so quiet Soloman could barely hear the words. “Yes,” he said. “That would have been him.”

  Soloman saw that the aged form was bent, and he wanted to say something. He had come so far to say this face-to-face, but beyond a few words there was simply nothing more to say

  “I’m sorry,” Soloman whispered.

  The woman threw seed on the ground, poured water. The pigeons settled, surviving and continuing.

  “Did you know,” Aveling said in a stronger voice, “that she is probably not even aware of her sacrifice?” Then the old priest turned back to Soloman. “Yes,” he continued. “She lives as she must. And she will die as she must. She does not understand it. Nor do I, in truth. But it is the only life she knows, if she would truly live at all.”

  Soloman studied the old woman. She was dressed in rags, but selflessly caring for the flock that fed and lighted on her with such a lack of fear, knowing her love. She didn’t seem to care what others thought about her task. Aveling was right; she would do what she must do.

  “One thing, Colonel,” Aveling said.

  Silent, Soloman looked up.

  The old man’s eyes were suddenly piercing, mesmerizing. Hands clasped behind his back, he stepped forward, head bowed until he was close. Until he held Soloman’s gaze.

  “Marcelle, who was your true friend, once told me something,” he said quietly. “And I believe that he was truly concerned. He said that you could not forgive yourself for the death of your wife and child.”