by Sean Deville
Europe was an aged man with a thick French accent. Everybody spoke English here, to honour their newfound sovereign. Horn could speak three other languages, but he didn’t see why he should compromise himself in favour of underlings.
“As I'm sure you are aware, the Brexit vote passed as we expected. We made a significant profit on our Forex positions which has increased the cash balance of my companies by twenty percent. We can also safely say it was a successful run of the social media algorithms we had developed. The British people think they chose their own freedom, not realising how they were manipulated against the prevailing social and political order. There were numerous surprised faces when that happened, let me tell you.” There was amused agreement around the table. “We can confidently predict the future possibility of manipulating global public opinion going forward.”
“And how are European plans for phase four progressing?” The rise of Horn to become ruler of the world had been split into phased stages, each to follow on directly from the one that preceded it.
“We have funnelled billions into the various agencies to ensure our predictive algorithm will be used. It is basic, flawed, and authored by our scapegoat who has been easily blackmailed. When the day comes for you to release your plague, those agencies will report to the world whatever aberrant and misleading information you require. From a European standpoint, the medical response to the pathogen will be overly bureaucratic, compromised and contradictory across member states. We don't predict any European country will react in time to effectively stop the spread. This will be backed up by the World Health Organisation which has been bought and paid for.”
“Thank you, Europe. Your report provides impressive reading.” Europe was one of the three most trusted remaining members of the Order.
“America please.” Despite Horn’s base of operations being in the United States, he abdicated much of the operational planning to another individual. America was a thin man with an impressive head of hair. He was also a ruthless business man. It had always been rumoured that many of the Silicon Valley social media and technology companies had been funded by the CIA. Whilst that was true, and whilst venture capitalists also had a big part in the success of America's internet technology, the dominant companies all had one thing in common. This man, who today was known as America, owned great chunks of them through his own corporate interests, including some outright. That gave the Order of the Chosen a powerful say in how those companies were run.
With that, they could guide and nudge the way people thought across the world.
“As Europe said, the social media algorithm worked beautifully. We will be using it for the next American election, sowing discord and strife, turning Republicans against Democrats, whites against blacks, men against women. The complete political and social disorder you need will be created whenever you demand it. With luck we can have massive civil unrest erupting across the whole country.”
“What about American food production?” Horn asked.
“The charts in my report show it all,” America said. He opened a file in front of him, and after flipping over several sheets, he read from the data inside. “Forty-five per cent of US wheat production is now with suicide seed strains that we manufacture. Fifty-eight percent of barley and seventy-two percent of corn production are also under our control. We made the seeds cheap, whilst buying out as much of the competition as we could. Soon the majority of farmers will have no choice but to buy their seeds from us, and to keep buying. This should make it relatively easy to gain full control of the countries food production when the time is right.”
“What inroads have you made with regards to state Governors?”
“Two are totally committed to the cause, and we also have another seven that we have managed to compromise through blackmail. There are some very corrupt people out there,” America said.
“Tell me about it,” Horn agreed. “Israel, how is the construction going?” The man called Israel sat up as his name was called. He was an anaemic-looking fellow, who probably had never set a single foot into a gymnasium.
“Actually ahead of schedule,” Israel said proudly. “The substructure is complete, and we believe the utilities will be installed within the next three months.” The building referred to was a replica of the corporate headquarters in California. Fifteen floors below ground, and four above. It was to be the new centre for all future research and development. With what was coming for America, Horn and his three demonic advisors had deemed it prudent to develop an alternate home for Abaddon International Incorporated. And then there was the location of the new facility.
The site of the new facility was Tel Megiddo. It was chosen purposefully, because of the Greek name the land sometimes went by. Armageddon.
Horn kind of switched off at that point, Beleth taking over the questioning. Horn had read all the reports, had memorised them down to the finest detail. He knew where they were ahead with the plans and where they were behind. Something as intricate as the takeover of the world was never going to be without problems, but Horn was reassured that there would be little to stop his ascent to total power. There weren't many politicians or journalists who would oppose him. Any who posed a significant threat could easily be eliminated. Politicians were easy to destroy in the eyes of the voters, and journalists could be made to disappear.
It would take several years yet before the final plan was unleashed. It wasn't just that all the pieces needed to be moved into place. There were other more cosmic events that had to be taken into consideration, portents that had to occur in the natural order of things. The seals holding the gates of Hell firmly closed were still too strong, and some of them could only be weakened by natural events, more signs of God’s willingness to step aside and watch things unfold. The rest would be weakened by the actions of Horn and his minions, as well as the repetitive natural cycles that came to all things. Even without the manipulation of Horn, Hell’s gate would likely swing wide in time. The idea was to have that happen in a planned and orchestrated fashion so that Satan could take full advantage of it.
The chaos unleashed had to be organised, controlled and timed. It would not do to have millions of the demonic spawn rampaging unchecked across the planet. If Horn was to own it all, there needed to be something left for him to rule. He had to plan and orchestrate it because he had to be seen as the saviour of everything.
The other problem was that he had yet to find his prophet, the one who would document his great exploits and write his great religious text. Just as God had used the minds of mortal men to tell of the deeds that had passed and that would come to pass, so Satan needed his prophet to write the unholy book.
It was said that the prophet would be a man who would be visited by visions of the seals breaking. His human mind, as feeble as it was, would become the key to the start of the apocalypse. It was the spark to light the fire, the instigator who would help break the first seal. It was written that one man would see the face of the first horseman, and would see revealed at last the identity of the Antichrist.
That man, that prophet, would have to prove himself worthy. There were several candidates, selected from across the Western world. But only one man would truly fit the role. That man, through his own weakness, would condemn humanity to the fate hurtling towards them.
11.
London, UK
Damien was back in charge, Legion no longer required in the escape from the prison. To feel the fresh breeze on his face for more than a day, Damien would need deception rather than brute strength. Whilst he hadn’t expected to taste freedom so soon, he was not one to turn down the opportunity when it presented itself. Also, if the demon had been correct and the prison guards were planning some sort of fatal act for him, it was best to be free.
The atomic blast had briefly knocked out power to parts of the prison complex. Some of the prisoners chose to riot, occupying many of the prison guards as they tried to lock down the threat. Likely the whole prison would need to b
e evacuated due to its close proximity to the blast site, but that would come after the chaos and the mayhem died down. All across London, first responders would be flocking to Shepherd’s Bush, the emergency response hampered by the recent death of the British Prime Minister and the risk of the radiation that would make a large part of the area uninhabitable for decades.
The hospitals would be full of the dying. Temporary morgues would be crammed with the dead. This was the kind of world that Damien had been built for.
Wearing the uniform of one of the men he had killed, Damien let Agreas guide him out of captivity. It had been Damien’s idea to wrap his head in a bandage to mimic a head and facial wound. Dipped in the blood of one of his victims, it was an adequate disguise and helped explain the blood that stained the shirt he wore. Alone, he wouldn’t have pulled off the deception, but with Agreas to deflect attention, Damien had no concerns that his escape wouldn’t be successful.
“Let me do the talking if we encounter any of the guards,” Agreas advised. “You just play the role of the wounded hero.”
“My father sent you?” Damien enquired. The shirt he wore was too small, the material straining against the muscles it tried to contain.
“It was an honour to be sent here by Lucifer himself”, Agreas said, although the words seemed to be without substance. “Although I didn’t expect to be rescuing you.” There was a glint of mischief in the eyes of Agreas.
“Am I supposed to thank you?” The two spoke as they walked down a corridor that would ultimately lead to the outside world. Agreas had the keys needed to open the gates they encountered. From other parts of the prison, the sounds of mayhem could be heard. Occasionally Damien detected the whiff of smoke, and heard an alarm that was blaring either due to the violence or the fires that were being set…maybe both. The worst of mankind were unleashing their inner frustrations.
“I go where I am sent and do what I am told,” was all Agreas said in response.
“I don’t need a guardian,” Damien insisted.
“And yet here you were, incarcerated.”
“Careful what you say to me, demon,” Damien warned. “I will not be mocked by the likes of you.”
“I meant no disrespect,” Agreas promised. They were out of the containment section now, entering the administration part of the prison. The only watcher of their progress was the cameras stationed at regular intervals. “But your circumstances did indicate you were in need of rescue. Especially with what this monkey mind had in store.” Agreas tapped his temple.
“I saw no threats here,” Damien insisted.
“Then perhaps you weren’t looking hard enough.”
“Again, you mock.” Damien bristled.
“Far from it. Just know this fortuitous event has saved you much pain.” There could be worse than glass placed in a prisoner’s food.
“I am no stranger to pain. Our lives are driven by fates we will never understand.” Damien lived his life as it was delivered to him. Whilst he had an ultimate goal of being the one chosen by Lucifer, he knew that choice was out of his control, despite the urge to kill his own brothers. He would accept whatever destiny offered him. Being arrested had been another path to take, another experience to add to his growing memories.
“I don’t have that luxury. My purpose is very clear.”
“That is because you are a creature of chaos and murder,” Damien pointed out. There was no judgment there, merely observation. Damien grabbed the demon’s arm to stop his progress. “Tell me demon, have you killed whilst in this form?”
“No, not yet,” the demon admitted.
“You show discipline. A rare thing for a demon.”
“I am no mere demon.” Agreas’s chest seemed to swell with the words. Ah, there is the pride that infects so many of your kind.
“Am I in the presence of royalty?” It was Damien’s turn to mock now. “Should I bow down in your presence?”
“Why do you speak to me this way after the service I have provided you?”
“Because I do not like to be spied upon.” Damien started walking again. “When you return to the Pit, I would ask you tell my father that.”
“I have no plans to return just yet. I have been charged with watching over you.”
Damien turned on his supposed ally. “Listen to my words and listen well,” he hissed. “When we are out of this place, you would do well to stay as far away from me as you are able. Where I am going, I cannot have one like you nipping at my heels.”
“Lucifer won’t like that,” Agreas warned.
“I don’t care what Lucifer likes. I didn’t ask to be brought into this world. If he has a problem with me, let him step forth and tell me himself.”
“He sent me as his emissary and asked I give you a message.”
“Of course, he did,” Damien said. “Here you are, Lucifer’s little errand boy.”
“He asks that you stop killing his sons. They are needed.”
“Not by me.” That was all Damien had to say on that.
“You displease him.”
“I am his doing, his creation. If anyone is responsible for my actions, it is Lucifer himself. Besides, I have yet to kill anyone who is worth their weight in shit.” For a brief instance, Damien’s eyes flashed blue, Agreas recoiling in anticipation of the beast being unleashed. But Legion did not appear. “Lucifer should have been more selective in the whores he chose. See my actions as an attempt to clean up his fucking mess.”
12.
Slough, UK
Watching the TV news at her father’s house, Vicky briefly forgot everything that was troubling her. She had sent Emily to her room, the young mind not needing to be exposed to the trauma of what had happened in Shepherd’s Bush.
The news was presently displaying a graphic of where the radiation from the device was expected to spread. It was a best-case projection based on the damage caused and the prevailing winds. Whole streets had been knocked flat, and there would be further mayhem as people were forced out of their homes to escape the silent killer.
There was chaos throughout the rest of the city as the traffic backed up. The London underground was part suspended due to the Shepherd’s Bush and Shepherd’s Bush Market stations being flattened by the blast. Large parts of the rail infrastructure were either melted or caved in. To add to the dismay, there were also signs that martial law was being imposed, a gradual shutdown of the western part of the city being implemented.
Troops were being mobilised and all police leave had been cancelled, but Vicky reckoned their effectiveness would be haphazard at best. Britain didn’t possess enough soldiers to shut down a city of ten million people.
“Who would do such a thing?” Vicky asked her father.
“Maniacs,” James answered. She could see the anger boiling inside him to see his home attacked in this way. If he was still a young man, Vicky reckoned her father would have been chomping at the bit for the chance to defend his country. James had served in the army as a lad, but had never seen combat. He hadn’t been shipped off in the Falklands conflict and had never seen action in Northern Ireland. Vicky suspected that was something he was secretly glad about.
“Is this going to affect us?”
“Not directly,” James answered, “although I suspect life in this country is going to be different from now on.” The graphic on the TV changed to show the extent of the blast and the area affected. On the outer ring of the devastation, the graphic showed the prison that had briefly held Damien, reports of riots coming from it.
“Dad, I was there earlier today. That’s one of the prisons I’m assigned to.” A reassuring hand landed gently onto her shoulder. She had already phoned her mentor and direct superior to see if he was okay. Fortunately, he hadn’t been anywhere near the prison.
The TV suddenly turned off, Vicky turning to see James holding the remote.
“Dad?”
“We need to talk about what matters,” he said.
“I think I made my positi
on clear,” Vicky said. She had been persuaded to talk to Father Creed, only to find it was a mistake. Vicky might have been convinced that demonic possession was what she was facing, but then the intense woman had interrupted the proceedings. The trick with the holy water had almost swayed her, but the rational mind had come charging to the rescue. That and the sudden fear that the threat of branding and exorcism had wrenched from her.
“I can’t watch over you every night, Vicky,” James warned.
“It won’t come to that,” Vicky insisted. “I spoke to Professor Schofield. He agreed to see me tomorrow.” Her supervisor would have seen her today, but the nuke blast had put paid to that. “I’ve already asked for some time off, and he’s agreed.”
“You still think this is some sort of mental aberration then?”
“I don’t have your faith, dad. You really didn’t expect me to accept being branded, did you?”
“No,” James said, lowering his eyes.
“It’s a shame because I quite liked Father Creed.”
“Yeah, that’s why I still go to that church, even after we moved from his parish a few years back. It’s a ball ache of a drive, but I know I can trust him.”
“And the crazy woman?”
“I have no idea who that was,” James admitted. “She won’t win any popularity contests.”
“I’ll stay awake tonight. With all this I doubt I could fall asleep anyway and then I will see what the Professor says tomorrow.” The intense woman, Lilith, had caused Vicky to reject her brief dalliance with the possibility that demons were involved here.
Vicky had initially panicked and been driven to contemplate fairy tales rather than science, but another kind of terror had driven a wedge into that. How exactly were you supposed to react when a complete stranger tells you there is a demon trying to claim you and that searing your flesh is the only answer?
There was still a nagging doubt though, burrowing away in her mind. What if demons were real after all?