The image of what they spoke was displaying on the surface of a sizable crystal ball, a volleyball sized object resting alone on the center of Kovac’s mahogany desk. Slightly skewed to the curvature of the spherical device, Rosicky could be seen discussing with his youthful entourage from their present location of Pastor Coleman’s antechamber adjacent to the mighty Abundant Grace sanctuary chamber.
“Give an update when it is done.” Came the final transmission.
Kovac did not feel obligated to respond. He smoothly about faced and glided over to Mr. Hudgens, seated in the middle of the office with his head canted backwards. He casually pressed a small, furtively placed, flesh colored button behind Hudgins’ right ear. Following suit, the constructs of the cyborg’s skull began locking in place much like a Rubik’s cube, concealing the sophisticated communication apparatus in Mr. Hudgins’ head. The form of a human was restored and a normal conscious look returned to his assistant’s eyes.
“Thank you, Mr. Hudgens.” Dr. Kovac nonchalantly stated.
They then resumed a spirited discussion concerning the Green Bay Packers.
Chapter 22
The great cherry wood doors of Abundant Grace sanctuary hemorrhaged out Detective Martin Rosicky. On either side of him were a boy and a girl, no more than 14 or 15, replete with squirt gun rifles and sizeable auxiliary ammo tanks slung onto their backs.
Brandishing his 9mm service pistol, he announced their presence thusly: “Gary Simon, stop what you’re doing! I’m here to return you to custody.”
The grim army, nearly half depleted by this point, had been caught unawares and they strained to reconstitute themselves towards the unwelcome disruption. Freeney had been wearing a look of glee as he was euphorically loading imps one by one into the floating portal to Heaven. This expression waterfalled into a grimace of disdain as the realization of their intrusion fully saturated.
He dropped whatever imp he’d had in his arms as though it were a murder weapon and he’d been caught red handed. Leveling an accusatory finger, shaking with fury at the heroic trio, “Outsiders!” He emoted. “Seize them!”
The morbid mob reacted in kind. Though their volume had been focused at the front of the worship area where they’d been clamoring for position to perpetrate their daring assault, the setup of the pews caused them to be essentially bottle necked there. Some imps, frustrated by this, began desperately catapulting themselves over the top of the pews, trying to spread themselves out.
The closest enemies to the trio were the sex crazed soccer mom’s at the end of the invasion column. It was none other than Mrs. Bethany Simpson, having taken up the caboose position in the raiding party, who showed no hesitation. She rose up, clad in a provocative garter belt and panties ensemble and let out a hideous hissing noise of contempt, much like that of an alley cat, and motioned toward them with awful intent.
Rosicky did discharge the Glock (the silencer attachment had since been removed) into her sternum, leveling her instantly.
BLOW!
Her hapless body plopped to the floor most ungraciously. She let out a series of guttural, bear-like groans as she arched her back, somehow trying to escape the pain of the hollow tip round, fragmented though out her abdomen.
The dark mass stopped in it’s tracks, stunned at the turn of events. The gall of these people to shed the blood of his majesty’s army! One could hear a pin drop.
Freeney exhorted them, “Kill them!” He yells, spittle spraying with rage.
The hellacious squadron took to a Blitz Krieg style attack. It reminded Rosicky of some twisted Alamo reenactment. As the enraged acolytes of evil descended upon their position, Rosicky bided his time, waiting for the most precise, calculated moment.
“Now!” He commanded the children. “Unload!”
Patrick and Maddy wasted no time unleashing the devastating effects of the communion wine ordinance. They calibrated the concentrated streams of purple, snaking back and forth from side to side, touching all points of the first wave of aggressors as they approached. It could be seen that not much of the consecrated substance was needed to render undeniable stopping power as the ‘Jesus juice’ instantly began eating their scaly flesh upon impact.
A substantial number of their party was virtually eviscerated. The psi and range of the Super Soaker 250’s had allowed this. Essentially half of their strike force were now writhing in pain, if not fully disintegrating altogether into a disgusting ooze. This so terrified the remaining attackers, many of them felt compelled to hastily abandon the battle field. Some that stayed, simply ducked for cover wherever they could manage and were devolving into hysteria. Freeney’s attack squad was all but compromised.
Now, with Freeney’s red sea of footmen having been parted, the trio was free to approach the worship area virtually unfettered. Freeney reluctantly back peddled, matching their consistent advance lockstep.
Things were a little bit different now. The tables were turned with Simon’s evil mob disbursed. Half having been released upon The Crystal City with a mission of chaos and reckless abandon, the other half having been utterly neutralized by the merciless downpour of Jesus juice from the well-armed youngsters under the command of one Senior Detective Martin Rosicky.
“My babies!” Simon lamented as he regressed towards the majestic pipe organ which scaled the back wall of the chamber, reaching towards the stain glass display.
“They’re not your babies, Simon!” Rosicky taunted. His nozzle trained on the rogue escapee. “You’re confused. The devil doesn’t love you! Come back to reality. Let’s go home. And maybe one day you can have some babies of your own.”
“You fool!” He shot back. His grim look turned quickly to a flash of defiance. “Will you not realize until it is too late?”
As calculated, the question was allowed to linger, causing Martin’s slow march to adjust.
“This is bigger than life.” Freeney was obliged to expand. “Eternity is a long time, you pig. You wish to spend it in bondage?”
“The servitude is with your master, Gary, and you know that! I’m not buying what you’re selling.”
“You believe everything you’re told, don’t you? You petulant little child!” Freeney countered. “You’ve been taught to think that way, so that it might be easier to harvest your souls whenever your greedy, selfish creator so desires. Ha! You can slave your entire pathetic life, only to be rewarded with eons of more whip cracking from your “all loving” father.”
He was met with silence this time. Either Rosicky was tuning him out or his words were planting seeds of doubt within him. Freeney was eager to rush in and fill the gap with more propaganda.
“Don’t you understand the struggle of the oppressed? Yearning, striving, reaching for any kind of chance at freedom. It’s ok, Martin. Admit it, everything you’ve ever been told is a lie. It is a rigorous and unwavering system of control. You are not treated with respect. You are but a gerbil in a cage, running ceaselessly in you little spinning wheel, never reaching your potential. Nothing more than a docile little pet.”
“Shut the fuck up!” Escaped from Martin’s chest. Freeney had been really pouring it on and Martin was cracking.
He could feel his hand fighting his index finger’s urge to squeeze the trigger and end it. Though the pressure from his pointer finger grew, he was deliberately not allowing the hammer to be activated. Something was keeping him from doing what he felt in his heart to be best. Perhaps he wanted to hear Gary out. Difficult sometimes to eradicate a mindset one does not understand.
One good reason not to blow this bastard’s head off, he told himself. He’s opened a portal to hell for God’s sake. What if there are more? He envisioned the use of a Patriot Act inspired water boarding. If ever there was a just time to employ this tactic, would it not surely be now?
A sliver of practicality urged Rosicky to abandon the likelihood of taking him into custody alive. Would be more satisfying, he reasoned, for the perp to spend eons behind bars, ultimately even
forced, maybe, to confront his own warped outlook. Of course, he’d already escaped once before. And his principle’s certainly were firmly cemented by now. This man is more dangerous than Hitler, he thought.
But if one could go back in time and assassinate a would be tyrant before his rise to stardom, should they not? But that would be too easy and it was already past the point of having any real preventative impact. Just once, he told himself, I’d like to see one of these maniacs pay for what they did. Besides, if Simon dies then would he not receive what he actually wants? A reunification with an evil overlord pleased with the good faith of his loyal servant. He would ascend to rock star status in the halls of Hades.
He resolved to continue his gradual lessoning of distance between them before he could tackle that asshole. It’d been some time since he had to physically subdue a perp but the adrenaline was telling him that it would be a welcome development.
Freeney had now run out of room to back pedal but he could sense Martin’s dilemma. Blood in the water.
“Why?” Freeney continued. “So you can drown out valid reasoning when it is presented to you?”
His expression changed. He appeared to be in deep thought. Something was being conjured in his mind. He closed his eyes, visualizing some mental download. Oddly, he seemed to be processing a moment of commiseration.
This clearly emboldened further the Luciferian. “Don’t be a fool, detective.” An unabashed look spreading across his face, “I’ve seen your solitary, lonely life. We’re all friends here. I know how you can’t be open about your temptations, curiosity of the finer things in life. I know all too well the Lord is an unreceptive audience to the needs of men.”
Simon shifted his stance and adjusted his groin to reveal a standing erection bulge, more resembling the anatomy of a pachyderm, Martin was forced to visualize. His shock and appall was enough to stop him in his tracks.
“That’s right, Martin.” He was now somehow aware of his name. “I know of your deepest, darkest fantasies, pony boy.”
With each word, he tilted his hips and let his arms dangle halfcocked in a display of effeminate poses. Martin felt like an injured bird under the abuse of a particularly cruel tabby cat.
“We can rule this realm together, with me as your lover, and all the wealth and riches He never saw fit to share with you. For my master is a most generous one; he can,” Gary broached the subject more tactfully, “even restore the health of your poor mother’s lungs and eliminate those pesky tumors in her chest. You’re God just hasn’t seemed to be able to find the time.” He tossed in a forced expression of empathy and then leveled a punctuating jab. “Mine will.”
This struck deeply to Martin’s core. He yearned to realize the wonderful things Simon spoke of and he toyed with the idea of their actualization. Perhaps his firmly rooted cynicism would be his saving grace. A lifetime of disappointment fueled his skepticism. If he did give admission to his desires and made an agreement with the devil’s associate, what would keep that deal from souring by some unspoken variable? He recalled the plight of so many figures in history. Surely those who’d been given the misfortune of attracting the scope of his investigatory mechanisms could be counted as the result of some of these same exchanges and he knew all too well the unenviable position they ultimately arrived to. Rosicky thrust himself from his deluge, hence: he did not like the effect this escapee was having on him or his cohorts. He did not like what him and his allies had done to his town. And he could not justify placing his good faith in their ways.
“No!” He shot back. “Those are hollow promises. Restore my mother’s health you may do and fulfill the whims of my heart you might but there will be some trickery there in. You offer me a perversion of satisfaction. In Jesus’ name, I rebuke you!” Saliva sprayed with damnation.
Freeney recoiled in indignation at Rosicky’s rebuff, the steadfast dedication to ideology perhaps the most abhorrent quality of his foe. He winced at the prospect of what he might be forced to do. There was disappointment too. The determination of a loyal clergy member or hopeless disciple was to be expected but he was convinced that the psyche of a career law man was supple fodder for corruption. They’d witnessed firsthand the brutal and unforgiving nature of the world, not to mention the dehumanizing, desensitizing perversions of mankind. The work was renowned for a complete identity subversion, the case most ideal for demonic interference.
Martin was now bearing down upon his target. Simon was cowering before his tormentor, minimized in the shadow of the grandiose pipe organ. The senior detective could reach out and grab him if he wanted to but thought better of it. There’s no telling what tricks he might have up his loose fitting sleeve. He could sense Maddy hugging tightly to an escort pattern on his left. There was relief in that the kids had shown great prescience by following his lead and not opening fire on their own accord, though the temptation had surely been there.
Simon is just a man, he mused. He may know a few spells but they are just that. By the same token, the ‘Jesus juice’ cannon also was not presumed to be considered an equalizer in regards to mortal flesh.
Detective Martin Rosicky reared back his hand to strike. His intention was to cold cock Gary, ideally rendering him unconscious but he was thwarted yet again with a plea from Freeney.
He wore an expression of an otherwise healthy puppy being offered up on the chopping block by some heartless farmer. The flash of vulnerability might’ve been the only thing that saved him were it not coupled with an outburst.
“I’m taking you in, Simon.”
Gary abruptly shrunk back into a ball and made an incantation.
“Alabaster, protect me!”
Martin instantly felt foolish at his naïve yen for contrition but there was no chance at self-chastisement given as the giant, cannibalized, stained glass mural depicting the Messiah exploded into shrapnel, raining debris in the form of countless shards upon the altar area caused by none other than the hulking gargoyle bearing the name ‘Alabaster’, plummeted to Earth in the form of an onyx egg, it’s gargantuan wings wrapped around it into a sort of spring roll of terror. This revelation was hidden from the trio until they could remove their arms from their brow, the naturally ready-made, instinctive shield. Alabaster’s entrance demanded their attention, the behemoth shaking the very foundation of the edifice with his landing. He must’ve weighed at least 500lbs.
Rosicky was quickest to take action, primarily motivated by unquantifiable fear, discharging the clip in it’s entirety in the direction of the beast at close range into it’s upper torso region, more closely resembling an abyss of fangs and muscle. The slugs were promptly enveloped as though they had never existed. Alabaster rebuffed into a proud stance. The rounds had lodged into it’s thick, pelt-like skin, surely causing some degree of discomfort but no significant damage. It was akin to shooting a buffalo with a pellet gun. It stood there with it’s hands on it’s hips, flexing in defiance and emitting a bellowing, maniacal laugh.
“He, he, he, ha, ha, ha, ha, haaa!”
Martin was frozen with terror. Alabaster effortlessly swatted him aside like a gnat, sending the full grown man flying from the altar area, contorting into a heap, the front row of pews the final destination of his landing point.
Maddy had no time to lament. She drew up her weapon and nudged the nozzle in Alabaster’s direction, letting fly with a compressed stream of communion wine concoction his way. Alabaster reflexedly rewrapped himself in his wings creating the spring roll of darkness defense shield. The ‘Jesus juice’ barrage pummeled his outer layer, gas emitting from the point of impact, hissing and rising up. She continued to let loose the super soaker until the stream strength waned for lack of pressure.
There was quite a bit of mist formed. When Alabaster eventually moved, retracting the voluminous wings, it was revealed that he had been completely unscathed underneath the fleshy fortress having been constructed on cue. Freeney found this to be exceedingly amusing. Laughing uncontrollably, he wasted no time to
mock what remained of his captive audience.
“You fools! Only now, as it is too late, do you see the folly of your futile ways. The Great Culling is inevitable.”
Freeney added an exclamation point in the form of a rigid back hand to Madison’s hapless face which resulted in her dismissal from the standing position she had so recently occupied.
Alabaster continued to revel with his domineering pose of pride. His fists on his hips, towering over the decimated scene, it was almost as though he had become the new idol in this tawdry display of vandalism and carnage.
This may have proven to be all too much for young Patrick, who’s presence was announced now. In the preluding chaos, he’d managed to shift his way over to the pulpit area. No one had deemed fit to stop him. No one had noticed. There was too much going on. But now he found himself in the true position of power. Amidst all the boasting, the posturing, the jockeying for position, the great debate, the turmoil, he was now in possession of The Book, it was foolishly unguarded. For an adolescent, he was remarkably intuitive. A natural leader, his gut always seemed to direct him, seemingly against the grain, to those outlier sweet spots that proved time and again to either make or break in those pivotal moments. Some describe it as a voice inside, coercing them to make adjustments not routinely considered by most, in an anything but routine world. Though at times it seems our spirits yearn for predictability, for others it is more of a subtle prompt and for some even, an undeniable urge for that leap of faith which defies logic yet proves as the catalyst in so many historic moments. Custer’s Last Stand, The Battle of Gettysburg, The Battle of the Alamo. It was at this moment and at this point in the timeline that Patrick did seize The Book.
Some ethereal mechanism then took over his motor skills. A bright, golden aura was activating from his upper torso. This snapped his posture, violently arching his back, thrusting one arm to the side, whilst the other maintained The Book held out. It fluttered open but seemed to leave his control. The luminescent phenomenon then built with intensity until it reached a critical mass, concentrating at his solar plexus into a blinding orb. The orb proceeded to blast a concentrated beam into The Book which took on an equally charging effect. Patrick appeared to be floating now with kinetic energy.
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