Armageddon

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  Kneeling on the pavement, Dusty felt one last twinge of pain as his inner workings were transformed, and he surrendered the final threads of his humanity.

  The being that had once been Dustin “Dusty” Handy slowly rose to its full height, tearing away the flimsy sweat suit that had adorned its human body, reading multiple futures with unemotional eyes.

  It raised its arm and looked upon the changing shape of the once-human hand, watching with deep curiosity as the fingers that had once been composed of flesh, blood, and bone transformed into a more useful shape for the moment.

  Its fingers had merged together to form a blade, a knife as sharp as it needed to be in order to cut through the fabric of time and space, providing the Instrument passage to where it knew it was needed.

  For the voice of God had summoned.

  And the Instrument would answer His call.

  * * *

  The Metatron finished its address and allowed its power to recede, giving Aaron back control of his body.

  Aaron felt weaker than he had before. The power that now resided within him was too much, even for his Nephilim body, and he knew it would eventually destroy him.

  But that was a worry for another time.

  Aaron saw that while the Metatron had been in control, they had moved from the mission control center to a staging area deep within the mountain stronghold, where all the Unforgiven had gathered before him.

  It took a moment to access those memories, but he now recalled that he had summoned them there.

  Levi, weapon in hand, approached Aaron from the side. “We’re ready.”

  And as the words left his mouth, Levi’s metal wings—as did the metal wings of all the Unforgiven gathered there—sprang from his back.

  Aaron felt the divine power stir inside him at the sight of the army that had been assembled to fight in His name.

  “So you are,” Aaron answered. His voice was still not entirely his.

  His own wings suddenly asserted themselves, the black-feathered appendages exploding from his back with a rush of air. “Gather round me,” he ordered, his voice booming with authority.

  The Unforgiven did as they were told, forming a tight circle around him. Vilma, Taylor, and Gabriel were pressed among them.

  Aaron wished there was something he could say to assure them all that they were going to be safe, but he knew there were no such assurances. He himself only felt an overwhelming desire to see his enemy vanquished and the earth reconnected to Heaven.

  He raised his arms and spread his wings to their full span. Reaching out with the power of the Almighty, he pulled them all into his embrace.

  Delivering them from the calm, to the battlefield.

  From a whisper to a scream.

  * * *

  Melissa couldn’t believe what she’d just experienced, and the look on Cameron’s face told her that neither could he.

  “I know this is going to sound stupid,” Cameron said. “But did you just hear God in your head?”

  All she could do was nod, overwhelmed by emotion.

  The newly revived Nephilim had clearly heard it as well. Many of them stood perfectly still, eyes tightly closed, faces turned toward the cave’s ceiling. Others had dropped to their knees, their feathered wings wrapped around their trembling bodies.

  At the sound of heavy footfalls, Melissa turned.

  The Custodian, who had been on the brink of death, made his way awkwardly toward them.

  She summoned a sword of fire to be on the safe side, just in case he was some sort of screwed-up zombie or something.

  “There’s no need of that,” the old angel said, his voice soft and weak. He gestured for her to put the fiery blade away.

  “I thought you were . . .”

  “Dying?” he asked, and then coughed. There was now blood on his lips. “Later,” he said. Then, after thinking a bit, “But maybe sooner would be better.

  “Did you hear it?” the Custodian asked, his pale face brightening. “Did you hear the call?”

  “We did.” From the corner of her eye, Melissa saw the other Nephilim responding with nods.

  “And will you answer it?” the Custodian asked.

  Melissa knew that she and Cameron would, but she couldn’t speak for the other Nephilim.

  One of them stepped forward. He was a large man with a head of curly black hair. His skin was dark and covered with scars. There was no doubt that he had been a fighter.

  “We have been awakened for a purpose,” he said. Melissa could tell that he was speaking in some ancient language, but she understood perfectly, as was the Nephilim gift.

  “As you have,” the Custodian agreed. He coughed again, bringing up more blood. He lost his balance and fell backward against the stone wall, his tarnished armor clattering.

  “The longer that I am awake, the more I feel it,” the Custodian continued. “There is a terrible darkness upon the world now.”

  Is his voice getting weaker? Melissa wondered.

  They all drew closer to hear the ancient being.

  “The voice of God has called to those who believe in the righteousness of His power.” The old angel seemed to drift off then.

  Melissa stepped forward and knelt beside him, placing a hand on his armored shoulder. He stirred, and turned his head to gaze up at her.

  “Perhaps I have been wrong these endless years,” he said wistfully. “Perhaps I gathered the Nephilim here not to inherit the world, but to save it.”

  She considered the angel’s contrition, watching as his pale flesh became more ashen. She felt Cameron come to stand beside her.

  “You will lead them, my mated pair,” he said, his dark eyes brightening for an instant. “Take on the darkness, before it’s too . . .”

  His last words never came.

  Melissa stood, bumping into Cameron behind her.

  “So what are we doing?” he asked her.

  Melissa felt anxious, confused. She knew that they should answer the call, but she had no idea what their responsibilities were to the others.

  The Nephilim simply stared at her, waiting, and that just added to her frustration.

  But then she saw the flares of light as the Nephilim brought to life their weapons of divine fire and raised them above their heads.

  “You wanted to know what we’re doing?” she asked Cameron, never taking her eyes from the inspiring sight before her.

  “We’re leading an army into battle.”

  * * *

  Satan Darkstar wasn’t sure what had happened to his angel adversary, but he wouldn’t let that worry him now.

  There were more important things to be done.

  Flying back up to the temple entrance, the Darkstar reached out and tore the two huge doors from their hinges, casting them aside.

  This was what the Cherubim guard dogs were protecting.

  Inside was the prize that he had been seeking.

  Satan strode into the chamber and immediately felt His presence. Even though the world had been cut off from Heaven, it did not diminish the residual power of what had once been active here.

  In the center of the empty chamber was what appeared to be a simple rectangle of stone, but Satan could feel the power that still radiated from it.

  An intricate shape had been carved into the center of the stone’s surface.

  It resembled a keyhole.

  The Darkstar knew that he did not possess the actual key—the power of God—that had been inside the murdered Metatron, but he had something equally as strong.

  He placed his black-gauntleted hands upon either side of the stone and stared into the darkness of the keyhole, imagining the wonders that existed beyond the lock.

  He was not the Metatron. He was a thing of darkness, clothed in the embodiment of what had once been the Almighty’s most favored angel, and housed within that angelic body was a grim force to rival the power of creation.

  The time for thinking was at an end. Now was the moment for action. Satan Darks
tar leaned closer to the keyhole and attempted to stir the power locked deep inside the body that he wore.

  The power of disappointment, sadness, anger, fear, and despair.

  The power that was known as Hell.

  * * *

  Lucifer Morningstar had become the personification of calm.

  With Milton nestled in the palm of one hand, he sat amongst the maelstrom that was his inner Hell and extended his control.

  He could sense the intruder who wore his skin attempting to draw upon the powerful feelings, and they were more than happy to oblige the interloper. The Hell knew him as its captor, and it seethed about him. It wanted to destroy him with its fury. It wanted to be free, to feed upon the raw emotions it would create with its release into the world.

  But Lucifer remained the quiet at the eye of the storm. The more Hell raged, the more intense became his resolve to keep its destructive force in check.

  He continued to gently stroke the tiny animal. The mouse was far stronger than anyone could ever have imagined, and it selflessly lent its willpower to the Morningstar’s cause.

  And though the hellish force continued to howl and rage, Lucifer held it tight, slowly pulling it closer to him.

  * * *

  Satan felt the power begin to emerge; all that accumulated pain, misery, and rage beginning to seep from his skin beneath the ebony armor.

  He continued to focus on the lock. He had no idea what would happen when this catastrophic force was released, but he didn’t really care.

  His prize was within his grasp. Let all else be damned.

  The power was there in all its glorious fury; the screams and cries of divine beings who died during that most profound of conflicts creating a symphony of discordance that threatened to cause his very head to explode.

  And just as it was about to be released—

  Hell receded.

  Satan nearly collapsed, stumbling away from the stone slab that held his prize. He could still feel it inside him, writhing and dangerous, but there was something else there as well.

  Something that was holding it back.

  The Darkstar screamed his rage, bringing an armored fist down upon the slab of stone, but it remained untouched, impervious to his anger.

  A blast of heavenly fire suddenly burned him with the intensity of those very first rays of light at the dawn of creation, and Satan found himself draped over the stone that contained his prize. His back was aflame as the armor forged of darkness attempted to repair itself.

  He forced himself up from the stone and spun to face his attacker.

  “Who dares?” the Darkstar demanded, his voice seething with malice.

  The armored giant looming in the doorway to the temple was a sight to behold, causing Satan Darkstar to experience an unwelcome sensation that took him a moment to identify.

  It was fear.

  “I dare,” the angelic being bellowed. “I, the Metatron.”

  And suddenly things didn’t quite seem so bad, for standing before the Darkstar was the true key to the box that held his prize.

  All he had to do was take it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Verchiel was confused.

  Mere seconds ago he had been battling ultimate evil, and now—

  The painful tingling from the tattoo on his forearm reminded him of how he came to be here, but where was here?

  “It is time for you to make a choice, Verchiel,” said an angelic being looming before him.

  Verchiel focused on the striking figure. There was a strength that radiated from this one, a strength that he had not felt in a very long time.

  A strength he’d last felt while in the presence of the Lord.

  There came a terrible pounding that made the plain white room tremble, followed by the sound of a ruckus that seemed to come from somewhere outside the chamber.

  “Listen to me,” commanded the divine being, as he moved closer to regain Verchiel’s attention.

  “Once, you had a vision for this world,” the being continued. “You saw its potential, and attempted to make it so.”

  Images flooded into Verchiel’s mind: memories of how he had come to the world of God’s man in pursuit of criminals from Heaven’s war, and how that mission had been tainted when he discovered an even larger threat.

  Nephilim.

  That obsession caused him to fall farther from God than the criminals he originally hunted, and eventually became his end.

  Verchiel remembered how it had been, how his body had literally started to decay from the hate he had for his enemies.

  And he remembered the moment of his death.

  But the chosen one of the Nephilim—Aaron Corbet—had consigned him back to God.

  Consigned him to oblivion.

  He recalled the cold numbness and dropped to his knees.

  “You were diverted from your true mission,” the angelic voice stated.

  “Yes,” Verchiel agreed.

  “I can give you purpose again,” the being offered. “I can set your mission back on course. Together, we can transform this horribly tainted place into a Paradise.”

  “Yes,” Verchiel said, feeling his strength return, a new purpose coursing through his veins. This is it, he thought. This is the reason why God sent me back.

  He rose to his feet, the past forgotten, the future so clear to him now. This was the being that would guide him in purging the sins of the past to create a new and glorious future.

  “Have you made your choice, Verchiel?” the towering angelic figure asked.

  Verchiel was about to answer, when someone else spoke to him.

  “Choose wisely, Verchiel,” said a soft, childlike voice.

  He turned to see a young child floating in a transparent sphere above the room. The child watched him intently.

  “You,” Verchiel said in surprise.

  The child nodded. “So nice to see you again.”

  Verchiel felt as though powerful, godly hands had reached inside his skull and scooped out his brain, carrying it from this strange, simple room, into the cold of space—

  A backdrop of twinkling stars transformed itself into a work of art, and the former leader of the Powers found himself within the confines of a familiar underground chamber, standing before a thin, raggedy figure.

  The prophet.

  The old man furiously painted images from a future he had foreseen.

  “A frozen moment,” Verchiel said, watching as the ancient artist acknowledged him, his face spattered with the efforts of his art.

  “A choice not yet made.” The prophet stepped away from his work, and Verchiel drew closer.

  He called upon the fires within him, making his hand burn like a torch so that he might see what the prophet already understood.

  “A choice,” Verchiel repeated, his eyes studying the images he remembered from his first encounter with the old seer—images foretelling the coming of the Nephilim and their place in the world, images that had once sent him on his obsessive mission to cleanse the world of these abominations.

  His eyes locked upon one in particular, one he hadn’t seen before. It was a tiny illustration, nearly overwhelmed by all the others.

  But it said so very much.

  The painting was of him, the likeness not all that flattering, but it was obvious who the crude interpretation was supposed to represent. In his arms—amid turmoil and fire—Verchiel held a child.

  “A choice not yet made,” the prophet repeated, as the paintings faded, replaced by the stark white walls of the chamber.

  “No, a choice made,” Verchiel said with certainty.

  * * *

  Enoch remembered his visit to the angel called Verchiel. The Lord God had been so disappointed in this one and was determined to discover what had caused him to so fail.

  The Almighty had dissected His warrior angel, examining each piece and particle, but He saw no obvious defect. Verchiel had simply made choices, and it was those choices that had led to his downfal
l.

  Enoch remembered how God had told him that this angel, despite all his faults, was special.

  This one’s name is Verchiel, God had said, as He reassembled the angel. Remember it, for he will be important.

  Enoch saw a flash of recognition in the angel’s eyes.

  “Quickly now,” the child ordered. “There is still much to be done.”

  * * *

  Verchiel nodded at the child, as a hand fell firmly upon his shoulder.

  “A choice,” the being that reeked of God’s power reminded him.

  There was a great explosion from outside the room, and a section of wall tumbled in. Verchiel’s attention was drawn to the scene, as an angelic being—a Nephilim, of this he was sure—fought against black-garbed foes.

  The grip on his shoulder suddenly intensified. “A choice,” the being repeated all the more forcefully, the sound of his voice echoing painfully in Verchiel’s head.

  “Yes,” Verchiel answered above the commotion.

  For the first time in so very long, his mission was clear.

  A sword of fire came to life with the power of his thought, and he wrenched his shoulder from the angel’s powerful grip. He raised the sword of fire above his head as his wings carried him up, and with all his might, he drove the sword into the sphere that contained the child.

  There was a blinding, deafening release of force as the bubble exploded, but above the din, he heard the angelic being’s voice, dripping with supreme disappointment.

  “Verchiel! What have you done?”

  * * *

  One moment Lorelei was in the Architects’ stronghold, and the next, she was standing before a large stone slab in what appeared to be a temple.

  The ghost of the angel A’Dorial was beside her, with the countless number who had died since the world was cut off from Heaven, waiting ever so patiently for the opportunity to continue their journey.

  “Where am I?”

  “This is what your father wanted you to see,” A’Dorial said.

  “What is it?” Lorelei asked. She could feel something emanating from the stone in waves, and the best word she could think to describe it was . . .

  Potential.

  “Is this it?” she asked the angelic ghost. “Is this the Ladder?”

  “It is,” A’Dorial acknowledged. “Though it is dormant.”