by Sean Deville
The room was in uproar, multiple voices trying to be heard. Most of them were protesting the fact they couldn't leave the room.
“And as for you lot,” Asmodai said with a sickly smile. “There is only one fate the honourable men and women of the press deserve.” With that Asmodai turned his back and walked out of the room. As the door closed behind him, gunfire erupted, the soldiers opening fire on anyone not in uniform.
Asmodai knew he didn't have long. Soon men would kill him, to try and salvage something from the holocaust he had implemented. But by then Asmodai would be back in the Pit, and his host would be dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound.
21.
Dallas, USA
“James, you’re through to the freedom hour on the Patriot Radio Network, what do you have to say to us?” Shock Jock, provocateur or patriotic American, Rick Castle had been called many things in his radio talk show career. But today he was an angry American and nothing more. If people wanted to come on his show and vent against the attack on his country, they had their constitutional rights behind them.
“Rick, we cannot let this stand.”
“By this, I assume the attack on Philadelphia by those Iranian bastards?” His producer gave him a warning glance, but who was going to write in and complain? Those liberal soft heads in Washington wouldn’t be listening.
“You’re damned right, Rick. I say we go over there and bomb the hell out of them.”
“I hear what you’re saying there, James, and I’m in full agreement. Do you think the President was right to give the Iranian people a chance to do the job for us, though?”
“Hell no,” James roared. “I served two tours in the Gulf, and I ain’t about to let those vermin take any more American lives.”
“Thank you for your service, James.”
“Are you a veteran, Rick?”
“No sir, never had that privilege. I was born with a deformed foot, so it’s unlikely the military would ever have me.” That was true. Rick didn’t add that, even with a foot fit for an Olympus god, there was no way he was ever going to join the military.
“I would have been proud to serve with you, Rick. You sound like just the kind of guy to be running this country. Those fu…” The editor cut the call short, a pop-up message appearing on Rick’s computer monitor.
You need to calm this down Rick. I don’t want to have to deal with another FCC complaint.
As far as Rick was concerned, the FCC could go and take a running jump. But he could see the editor’s point.
“Sorry we had to lose you there, James. Emotions are running high, but please keep the language clean, folks. This is a family show. Pete, you are on the air.”
“Thank you, Rick. How do we know the Iranians did it?”
“Well, their defence secretary pretty much came out and admitted it on international television, Pete. Then he went and shot up a room full of reporters.”
“Dead journalists ain’t no loss to the world.”
“I hear what you’re saying, Pete, but you have to remember, those people had families.”
“I still don’t think the Iranians done it,” the caller insisted. “If you ask me, this is all a CIA psyop sent to mess with our minds.”
“Pete, you’ll be saying the moon landings didn’t happen next.”
“Well as it happens…” Pete didn’t get any further because it was Rick who cut the call off this time.
“Look folks, I’ve told you numerous times, I’m not accepting any of this conspiracy BS on my show. I’m not going to let someone with a questionable intellect denigrate one of this country’s greatest achievements. Lacy, you’re on the air.”
“Hi Rick,” the gentle voice came back in reply.
“Well, don’t you just sound like the sweetest thing.” He caught the daggers sent to him from his editor. She sent him another message.
Stop flirting, you’re old enough to be her grandfather.
“Oh my, you’re a charmer aren’t you?”
“I do try, Lacy. What do you have for me?”
“I think the President was right. The Iranians are a dictatorship, aren’t they?”
“I believe they get to elect their President,” Rick countered.
“Yeah, but it’s not like a proper election.” What, you mean ours are? thought Rick.
“I hear you, Lacy. So, what do we do, give them the chance to clean out their own house?”
“I think that would be for the best,” Lacy agreed. “And if they don’t, we should nuke them. Just turn the whole country into glass.”
“Wow, I wasn’t expecting that from you, Lacy. My but you’re a fiery young girl.”
“Rick, I’m not young, I’m twenty-three.”
The calls went on like that for the full hour of the broadcast. Across America, similar radio talk shows were taking similar calls. Even on the radio shows that pandered to a more left-wing bias, the overall consensus was that Iran would have to pay for what they had done. For the first time in nearly a decade, America suddenly seemed to be in agreement on a single defining issue.
Give a country an enemy bad enough and it can come together in the spirit of unity. It can also turn a blind eye to the atrocities to come.
22.
London, UK
When you had eliminated the logical and the scientific, what were you left with? Usually desperation.
Once again Vicky sat on the sofa in Father Creed’s office. There was no denying that a demon had almost taken her. She had heard it, witnessed its brief fury as it had been denied the prize it sought. Her father had seen it too, something he had admitted being shocked by. Believing a thing existed wasn’t the same as knowing.
“For a demon to be able to do as you described, we must be dealing with a powerful force,” Creed said, referring to the display of telekinetic power. “You cannot allow that fiend to claim you.”
Father Creed stood over by the room’s bookcase, an impressive safe open, the priest’s hands rummaging around inside. Lilith stood in the opposite corner, perhaps finally understanding that it was best for her to keep quiet. Calm persuasion was needed here, the soft skills that priests were renowned for.
“How big is the brand?” Vicky asked. She was supposed to be seeing Professor Ferguson today, but she had cancelled that with a made-up excuse. Psychiatry and psychology couldn’t help her here. They dealt with the science of the mind, and she had too much evidence her problems were more than that.
“Not big. About the size of the circle you can make with your thumb and finger when you make the okay sign.” Next to Vicky, Emily made that sign and looked through it with one eye at Lilith. The strange woman glowered back. “Here it is,” Creed said, pulling a cloth covered object from the safe. An arm extended from it, something to hold whilst the important end was held in the fire.
On the table in front of where Vicky sat, a small camping stove was waiting ready to be lit.
“Have you ever had to do this before?” James asked.
“No,” Creed admitted. “I’ve received the brand, but never administered it.”
“Did it hurt?” asked Emily.
“Yes, but not as bad as I thought it would.” Small comfort for those forced to receive it.
“When the Father and I stepped forward to take the brand, we were both younger than Emily.” These were the first words Lilith had spoken since Vicky and her entourage had reappeared at the church.
“But why?” Emily insisted.
“It is a test of our worthiness to God.” Vicky looked at the Inquisitor and wondered if that face had ever smiled. “We are warriors fighting a war without end.”
“Mum, do I believe in God now?”
“Emily, you get to believe in whatever you want.”
Emily looked back at her mum doubtfully because the question hadn’t been answered. Creed unwrapped the brand and laid it on the table. It was circular, hardly anything at all. He placed a small box next to it which he opened.
“T
here is something we need to do first,” Creed advised, looking back towards Lilith. Finally, Lilith stepped forward into the room, bending to grab items from the box.
“If we seal off your flesh from the demon, it may choose another host close to you in spite.” Lilith said this to Vicky, but she sidled over to James who stood half-stooped behind the sofa, his hands resting on the headrest behind Vicky.
“What?” James suddenly looked uncomfortable having the formidable woman next to her.
“I need to test your blood,” Lilith demanded.
“My blood? Why?”
“We learnt long ago that some people carry a genetic trait that leaves them immune to demonic possession. It’s a recessive trait, so it isn’t always passed on. Even when it is, it sometimes skips a generation.” Father Creed relayed the knowledge he had been taught years before by the Librarian, the same one who had instructed Lilith.
James held out his finger to allow Lilith to prick it with the disposable device. He didn’t flinch, and winked at Emily who had turned herself around and was peering over the back of the sofa. Lilith held another device to draw up the blood. It was rare she had to resort to pricking a finger…normally the children she tested were already bleeding from multiple wounds.
“And now we should test Emily,” Creed insisted.
“Eek,” Emily said in response. Vicky took the pricker that was passed to her by Creed. She was glad Lilith wouldn’t be doing it.
“But doesn’t the fact she can see…” Vicky felt the sentence stall. If Emily wasn’t immune, did that mean she would have to be branded too?
“She probably is,” Creed said, anticipating the unanswered question, “but wouldn’t you rather be sure?”
“Give me your finger, Emily.” Vicky felt a surge of pride as her daughter didn’t hesitate. Her daughter was good with this sort of thing, never throwing tears or a tantrum around doctors or dentists. “You remember when you had to have an injection at the dentist?” Vicky asked.
“Yep.” Emily had fallen off her bike and had dislodged one of her milk teeth. She’d lain there stoically as the dentist had extracted it. “Well this won’t be anywhere near as bad as that.”
“Okay.” Emily watched fascinated as her mum pushed something gently against her thumb. Vicky smiled reassuringly before deploying the pricker. Emily tensed only to start giggling.
“Much quicker than Mr Dentist man,” Emily announced to the room. Creed passed the test kit over, and Vicky drew up the blood. Please be immune, she found herself silently chanting.
“The test takes a couple of minutes, and is very reliable,” Lilith said, wafting James’s test in the air to speed up the reaction.
“You’ve done the test before?” enquired James.
“Many times,” came Lilith’s response. Vicky thought she could detect a hint of resignation in Lilith’s voice. What would it be like to be inside that woman’s head, Vicky thought? She’d already found herself starting to analyse the mysterious woman. “James, it seems you are immune.”
“You see, I always said you were a virtuous man, James,” Creed joked. Although James smiled, Vicky detected that was more down to relief than comedic appreciation. She looked down at the test kit clenched in her fingers. It looked similar to the pregnancy test kit she had used when she had first learnt she was pregnant with Emily.
That had been one of the best days in her life. Was this one of her worst? No, it wasn’t even close.
“Have you thought about where you want the brand?” Creed asked.
“Does it matter?”
“No, not really. Lilith and I carry ours above our left breast, but it can be anywhere. Show her.” Lilith didn’t hesitate, pulling the jumper she was wearing down enough to show the circular scar.
“It’s called the Seal of Solomon,” Father Creed added. “I would suggest somewhere on your back. Once it’s done, I’ll apply a sterile dressing over it and it will heal quickly.” Vicky was half listening for the test kit she was holding had suddenly changed. She eagerly handed it over to Creed whose face lit up.
“Congratulations Emily, you are officially immune to those pesky demons.”
“Yay me,” Emily said, thrusting a victorious hand into the air. Lilith didn’t react to that either, Vicky noticed. This is one cold and detached individual.
“I guess that just leaves me,” Vicky noted.
“I guess it does,” said Father Creed as he turned on the burner.
“Dad, can you take Emily into another room?” Vicky didn’t want her daughter to see this.
“No,” Emily insisted. “I’m not a little kid anymore.”
“You kind of are.”
“Nope. You will have to drag me out. You are doing this to protect me, so I want to be here to protect you.” Vicky drew her daughter into an exaggerated hug. “Help, I can’t breathe,” Emily said playfully.
“Okay,” Vicky said finally letting her daughter go. “Let’s get this done.”
23.
London, UK
The British people were generally pliable and easily led. They liked to chunter and grumble about things, mumbling into their beers and whispering between neighbours over garden fences. On the whole, they did what they were told, happily compliant despite the ludicrousness of some of the rules they were governed by.
There were sections of the population that were seething with resentment however, anger bubbling away under the surface. There were millions of men and women who felt the politicians cared nothing for them, and that their happiness was being sacrificed to satiate the whims of a liberal and socialist elite who put the welfare of criminals and immigrants above their own. At the same time there was a groundswell of rage against the rich and the connected who apparently oppressed and stepped on the working man. Social media had exacerbated that, but a balance had been formed where some sort of equilibrium was established, the bulk of the conflict being fought in the virtual world of Twitter and Facebook groups.
The violent elements were generally kept in check by the police and the security services, keeping a lid on the powder keg of extremists that threatened to explode onto the streets.
That was before London got nuked.
With the widely publicised broadcast by Asmodai, which seemed to be playing on a constant loop on the various news broadcast channels, things rapidly changed. Whilst most Muslims deplored the actions of Iran, there were some who listened to the siren call for Jihad against the Western oppressors. Despite living in a country that gave them more rights than most Muslim countries, they began to praise the actions of Iran. Whilst most of this was done online, young foolish men began to meet and plot. Now was the time to see the streets run red with infidel blood, a word rarely used by decent, law abiding followers of the Islamic faith.
On the morning of August 12th, six young men armed with knives, meat cleavers and machetes walked into the Baker Street London underground with the intent of attacking and killing as many commuters as possible. They kept their intentions hidden in the station, the weapons out of sight, wary that armed police often patrolled the busiest areas of the network. On this day, no officers were present, which emboldened the six men. They split into pairs, each choosing a different train to attack.
The choice of station was down to it being on the Circle line, which had the new tube trains with the long walk-through carriages, allowing an individual to move unencumbered from one end of the train to the other. Although two stations were all but destroyed in the atomic blast, much of the underground network was still running, public transport essential to keep London moving.
The young fools masquerading as terrorists had chosen to synchronise their attacks, and with all three trains in motion, the six men attacked everyone around them with a ferocity that was fuelled by months of indoctrination and a belief that this would somehow make them worthy in the eyes of their god.
They didn’t seem to mind that the older and wiser zealots who had incited them had chosen not to join them on
this holy quest. Nor did they seem to care that some of the people they attacked were fellow Muslims.
In such confined spaces, panic quickly spread throughout the trains. Some of the passengers fought back, overpowering one pair of attackers quickly. But on the other two trains, the short ride between stations became a nightmare, flesh hacked into as hundreds of people fled down the trains away from the murderous men.
Nobody was there to witness the blackness that encased two of the terrorists. It wasn’t only radical religious leaders across the globe that were manipulating young and gullible minds. The demons could play those games too.
By the time police eventually intervened, fifty-seven people had been murdered, with another twenty-seven severely injured. There was no attempt to arrest the men, their bloodstained bodies suitable targets for the bullets that ripped through them. It was thought they were trying to create some kind of uprising, and in a way, that’s exactly what they got…just not in the way they were expecting.
It is always unwise for someone in the minority to attack a population on the brink of becoming enraged.
Even with a population as docile as Britain, people can be roused to revenge when they are being attacked. As the day progressed, reports would come in as those with a lust for violence and vengeance began to strike back at those who they saw as invaders to their country. When a majority is attacked, the scapegoat is always the minority, including the hard-working, peace-loving people who reject the violence wrongly done in their name.
The silent majority, the people who felt they had been ignored and abandoned by the country’s political class rapidly began to see red. They no longer believed they could be protected from the dangerous elements in their society. Led by voices who were quick and eager to exploit the violence done in the name of the religion they distrusted and despised, minorities across the country came under attack.
It didn’t matter if you were Iranian. It didn’t matter if you were a Muslim. If you looked the part, you quickly became a viable candidate. Across Britain, riots exploded, only this time it wasn’t the police or government institutions that were attacked.