Armageddon

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  His eyes ticked down to the pale skin of his forearm and the strange, snakelike mark that had appeared there. The three hooded sisters who spoke for their masters, the Architects, had given him the mark. They’d told him that once he had made his decision, they would know, and would call for him.

  But Verchiel also had another choice to make. A choice that an ancient prophet had foretold in a painting. A decision would have repercussions on his future, the future of the world . . .

  And the future of Heaven.

  Verchiel seethed, his anger leaking from his divine form and setting the very ground around him afire. He had never seen the world in shades of gray before. As leader of the heavenly host Powers, he’d had no doubts about who his enemies were and what had to be done to purge their blight from the world.

  But the Lord God Almighty had seen things differently, and Verchiel had been struck down by one of the very creatures the Powers’ leader had sought to render extinct.

  Verchiel’s existence then grew more complex, as he was returned to life to work in alliance with the very beings he had once sought to destroy.

  The fires of Heaven swirled ferociously around him, growing in intensity, reflecting his tumultuous emotions.

  Why have I been brought back? the angel questioned again. Is it to aid the Nephilim in purging the world of a cancerous evil, or is it for something more?

  Something bigger?

  Something that would rest entirely upon a decision that he had yet to make?

  Verchiel roared, and the fires responded in kind, spraying from his body and consuming whatever they touched. The ground and everything lying on it began to burn—the dead bodies, then the school and orphanage.

  The angel raged in the eye of the firestorm. Divine flames spread from him in pulsing waves, on the verge of obliterating everything, when he realized what he was doing.

  This isn’t the answer, Verchiel thought, forcing himself to take control of his angry spirit. He called back the holy fire, taking it within himself, where it continued to fight before finally submitting to its master.

  He surveyed the damage caused by his lack of control. Shame added to his guilt. Even with the school grounds reduced to nothing more than a memory, the decision he needed to make still haunted him.

  He caught movement from the corner of his eye. The shape darted around the corner of a building that had somehow managed to survive his tantrum. Without a thought, the angel sprouted his wings and took to the air, flying across the still smoldering grounds with blinding speed.

  Verchiel’s anger flamed again at the sight of a loathsome goblin scampering across the property. It looked over its shoulder to check if it had been seen. Verchiel flew toward it, his eyes locked upon the filthy creature, its armor crusted with dirt and blood. The goblin ran around the skeletal remains of an old greenhouse, and Verchiel temporarily lost sight of it.

  Flapping his wings all the harder, the former Powers’ leader dropped closer to the ground, smashing through the remnants of the greenhouse.

  At first he did not see the one he pursued, but then he saw the goblin trying to dig itself into a hole in the ground.

  Touching down, Verchiel recalled that the Nephilim had used this place as a burial ground, interring their dead beneath the earth. It was the Nephilim Melissa who often visited these graves, leaving flowers and polished baubles as reminders of who lay rotting in the ground beneath.

  But now they appeared . . . empty.

  Verchiel grabbed hold of the goblin’s ankle, yanking the struggling creature from the dirt.

  The goblin roared its displeasure, thrashing its legs and waving its arms. Verchiel threw the disgruntled creature to the ground.

  It lay there, flat on its back, gazing up into the darkened skies, and Verchiel began to think that perhaps he’d thrown the creature a bit too hard. He loomed above the goblin, nudging the monster with the toe of his metal boot.

  The goblin’s scream was bloodcurdling, and Verchiel jumped back, a weapon of fire manifesting itself. Leaping to its feet, the goblin attempted to flee once again, but Verchiel no longer had the patience to deal with such things and simply used his wing to slap the goblin back to the dirt.

  Verchiel stood over the goblin, sword of fire ready to strike.

  “What are you doing here?” the angel demanded.

  He could practically hear the little monster’s thought process, the gears turning inside its malformed head.

  “The greatest of battles was fought here, and I but a lowly soldier was badly injured in the skirmish,” the goblin explained. “I was abandoned—left to fend for myself upon this battlefield.” The goblin paused, cowering in the shadow of the angel.

  “Where are your injuries?” Verchiel asked, head tilted to the side as he studied the creature. “Other than damaged armor . . .”

  The goblin appeared startled. “Did I say injured?” he asked. “I meant to say, rendered unconscious. Yes, I was rendered unconscious. My comrades left me here, believing that I was dead.”

  Verchiel sensed that the creature was lying. He brought his sword up beneath the loose skin of the goblin’s throat. “I tire of your lies. Prepare to meet your maker—if one even exists.”

  “Please!” the goblin begged, dropping to its knees. “I’ll speak the truth, just don’t—”

  “Then speak it,” Verchiel interrupted. “I’ll know if you are lying to me again, and this time there will be no mercy.”

  “There was a great battle here, yes there was. And I was but one of the soldiers summoned to fight against the foes of the great Satan.”

  “Great . . . Satan?” Verchiel questioned.

  “The one who now rules us all,” the goblin excitedly explained. “All the beasts of the Community have sworn their fealty to the new Dark Master—the Lord of Shadows.”

  A nervous shiver of anxiety ran up the angel’s spine. Lucifer Morningstar had been missing from the group for quite some time. Was it possible that he had somehow fallen to darkness again?

  “Why are you here when the battle is done?” Verchiel asked.

  The goblin cowered. “The battle was so very frightening. . . . I knew that if I fought, I would be slain for certain.”

  “You didn’t fight, did you?”

  “I didn’t want to die,” the goblin said with a sad shake of its head. “So I hid . . . hid beneath the bodies of my fallen brethren, and prayed to the dark gods of my long-departed ancestors that I would be spared a grisly fate.”

  “Coward,” Verchiel snarled.

  “If we are assigning labels, yes.”

  Verchiel was repulsed by the monster. Ending its life with a flick of his wrist would be too merciful.

  “So, this is the life you would lead now? Scavenging from the battlefield and the dead?”

  The goblin looked about, but held its tongue.

  “And what have you done here?” Verchiel asked as his eyes fell upon the empty graves that once held the bodies of the fallen Nephilim. He could feel the fires of anger rising within him.

  “Here?” the goblin asked. “I have done nothing.”

  Verchiel allowed the burning edge of the sword blade to touch the side of the goblin’s neck. The sound was like the hiss of an angry serpent.

  The cowardly beast cried out in pain, dropping its head to the ground and covering it with its hands. “Mercy, I beg of you!” the goblin wailed. “I told you that I have done nothing with those who were buried here. It was the Satan who ordered them harvested.”

  “The Satan did what?” Verchiel asked, taken aback.

  The goblin slowly lifted its head to face the angel.

  “Yes, it was the Satan. He ordered his army to dig for the decaying prizes.”

  Verchiel experienced the chill of impending dread.

  “And what was done with these bodies?”

  “Taken,” the goblin said.

  “Taken?” Verchiel repeated. “Taken where . . . and for what purpose?”

  The goblin
continued to cower. “Who is to say? The Satan . . . he works in mysterious ways.”

  Verchiel moved his deadly blade of flame away from the goblin, lost in thought. What would the leader of all darkness want with the corpses of slain Nephilim? The answer eluded any rational thought, but it did not keep the question from echoing repeatedly within his troubled mind.

  Whatever the purpose, it would most certainly not be good.

  Verchiel’s keen hearing picked up the sound of escape, and he whipped around as the goblin attempted to flee.

  Powerful wings opening in full, Verchiel bore down on the disgusting beast and drove it back to the ground.

  “Where are you off to?” he asked.

  “I’ve told you everything I know!” the goblin wailed, certain that it was about to meet its end.

  “Which is practically nothing.” Verchiel flapped his powerful, feathered appendages to intimidate the frightened beast. “I want to know more about this Satan, and why he has taken the bodies of my comrades.”

  “I can tell you no more!” the goblin exclaimed.

  “What is your name?” Verchiel asked.

  The creature appeared surprised by the question.

  “Your name!” Verchiel bellowed. “What is your name?”

  “Ergo,” the goblin cried. “My name is Ergo.”

  The angel reached down, grabbing hold of the front of the goblin’s filthy tunic and yanking it to its feet.

  “Are you going to kill me?” the goblin whimpered.

  Verchiel smiled coldly.

  “It is your lucky day, Ergo,” the angel said calmly. “For I have some questions, and I think we shall find the answers together.”

  * * *

  Cameron imagined an ax.

  Not the kind for fighting an army of demons or beheading a troll, but the kind used for chopping wood.

  Night was cold in the woods, and he was going to have to build a fire.

  He’d spent most of the day gathering wood from the forest, dragging the fallen limbs of large trees to the cabin. A sword of fire was good enough to chop the larger limbs into manageable pieces, but now, for tradition’s sake, he was going to use an ax.

  Holding out his hands, he manipulated the fire, shaping the stuff of Heaven into the ax that he remembered from his childhood.

  The one his father had used when teaching him to chop wood.

  Cameron admired the tool that he now held in his hand, finding it awesome that it was exactly how he remembered it—but constructed entirely of fire.

  He hefted the ax in his hands, marveling at the fact that the tool even had the same weight as the original, and finding it strangely funny that he could remember the weight of an ax when so much of his past remained enshrouded.

  Placing the first piece of wood on end upon the flat stump of a mighty oak, Cameron readied to split his first log.

  The ax of fire descended with a crackling hiss, like grease sputtering in the frying pan, and split the wood with ease. At this pace he would have all the wood split before lunchtime. Cameron grabbed another log and continued.

  As he chopped, his thoughts drifted to memories of the besieged school grounds where he and his fellow Nephilim had lived, and Vilma’s orders to leave immediately.

  To find someplace safe.

  What had brought him here?

  The fire ax penetrated and split the log with a resounding crack.

  Cameron couldn’t even remember the last time that he’d thought of the cabin, but there it was, suddenly in his mind, as if waiting for him to remember. To return.

  Someplace safe.

  He quickened the pace of his chore, one log after the next, halved pieces falling to either side.

  He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been here, but now, the longer he stayed, the more those memories slowly surfaced.

  It was almost like remembering somebody else’s memories.

  Warmed with exertion, Cameron removed his sweat-dampened shirt, enjoying the touch of the cool northern air on his muscles.

  Even that simple act stirred thoughts of something long buried.

  In his mind’s eye, Cameron saw the back of a powerful man, standing in this very place, doing this very same chore, muscles rippling beneath suntanned flesh, a puckered crimson scar above each shoulder blade.

  Where powerful wings used to be.

  Cameron reached for the next log and found that there weren’t any more. He allowed the ax to dissipate and set about piling the wood near the entrance to the cabin. Then he carried an armful inside and set it before the stone fireplace.

  He went back out to get his shirt, and as he passed through the doorway, he had another flash of memory.

  The man chopping wood—his father—stopped, turned to him, and smiled.

  Cameron had never remembered the man’s face so clearly before.

  To be fair, he’d likely been only seven years old when he was last at the cabin with his parents, but it was as if his mind had been waiting to allow these memories to manifest themselves.

  It was an interesting theory, and not all that strange when he considered his current situation, and that of the world.

  Quickly retrieving his shirt, he decided that lunch was in order. He walked to the rear of the cabin and pulled back an old blanket to reveal a well-stocked cupboard of canned goods. He selected peaches and Spam, then grabbed a rusty hand-crank can opener and a fork on his way to the tiny table. He pulled out a chair and prepared to have his feast.

  After hours of hard work, Cameron found himself enjoying the simple meal, even as the memories of his past continued to bubble to the surface.

  To say that his childhood had been tumultuous was an understatement. Mostly it had been spent moving from one place to the next with his mother. He’d been under the assumption that they were going to eventually meet up with his father, a man whom Cameron barely knew.

  He’d never really questioned his mother about his father. She’d explained that he was doing important things to help the world, and that had satisfied Cameron. As a young boy, he’d figured his father was a fireman, or an astronaut.

  He’d never thought a fallen angel.

  Cameron felt himself relax, his mind going into a kind of fugue state as he sat at the table, fork in hand. The memories rose up again, but this time he didn’t hold them back. He was fascinated by the experiences that had been hidden in the folds of his brain.

  He remembered his father handing him the ax. It wasn’t a new memory, but this time it was so much clearer. And this time, his father spoke to him.

  And he could hear each and every word as if they were being said to him now.

  “There may come a time when you will have to fight.”

  His father’s arm was around his shoulders, as he led Cameron to the pile of uncut wood.

  “A time when your mother and I will not be here to help you . . . to guide you.”

  Cameron was in awe at the memory of his father’s strong voice.

  “But in times of despair, I want you to remember: this is all much larger than you, larger than me, larger than your mother.”

  The vision flowed into Cameron chopping wood; his pathetic first attempts, followed by an eventual success.

  But his father kept talking.

  “They believe they have a plan—that they know better than He, but that is not the case. Somebody has to stop them.”

  Cameron remembered that he’d chopped wood into the dark, and his mother had waited for them in the doorway to the cabin.

  That was his old memory, but now it was different. Now he heard his father’s voice.

  “Someday, someone must challenge them . . . challenge them for the sake of the world.”

  It was like rewatching a familiar movie, but one where he’d missed some parts. The young boy—little Cameron—finally dropped the ax and turned toward his father.

  “Who?” he asked. “Who must be challenged?”

  And the father—his father—gently placed p
owerful hands upon Cameron’s shoulders and looked deeply into his eyes.

  “The Architects. The Architects must be challenged.”

  Cameron dropped his fork on his plate, the clatter snapping him from his dreamlike state. He was breathing heavily, and suddenly had the worst headache.

  It was as if something sharp was being pressed through the bone of his skull into the meat of his brain.

  His father was pushing a very thin knife into his head as his mother watched.

  The pain was incredible, and he surged from the chair, hands gripping his throbbing skull. There were things inside his head—things that had not been there before—things that had been locked away until . . .

  Until they were needed.

  The angelic part of his nature could not stand it anymore. His wings flowed from his back, and divine fire coursed through his veins. Cameron swayed in agony, trying desperately not to throw up.

  What was happening?

  He was afraid . . . this place . . . the cabin . . . was doing something to him. Lurching toward the door, he saw the markings on the frame. One at a time they ignited around the doorway, strange wriggling shapes in the wood.

  This was insane. What was happening to him? Cameron panicked. His body felt as though it was on fire with fever. It was still daylight, but as he attempted to focus his throbbing eyes, the environment changed from day to night.

  And in the night his father was waiting.

  Yet another vision—his father kneeling before a hole in the ground at the edge of the forest. He was pointing at something that had been laid to rest there.

  “When it’s time . . . when it’s your time . . . you’ll come here for this.”

  Cameron’s gaze fell to the leaf-covered ground.

  It took a moment for him to realize that he was no longer remembering. Instead, he was standing over the spot that his father had pointed out.

  He dropped to his knees, sinking his fingers into the dirt. The ground was firm, and riddled with rock, but that didn’t hinder his efforts, so focused was he on finding what was buried there. Cameron didn’t want to think anymore—to remember—all he wanted was to dig.