And proceeded toward the rear of the sanctuary, leaving me standing there in mild astonishment.
Doc Kelly is quite the woman. No doubt.
“Ah, Ok — Sure thing. Right behind you.”
Snapping the M4 back to my shoulder, I followed Erin as we cleared the remaining row of hospital beds and reached the pulpit, at the rear of the church, shrouded in darkness. As my eyes adjusted to the faint lighting provided by two small candles, I saw the silhouette of a person sprawled across the altar. Flicking on my tac light, I focused the beam and stopped dead in my tracks. Shocked and disgusted.
It was Father Watson.
Or what remained of him.
Chapter 7
Lying flat on his back, the Padre was nailed to the blood stained alter by large rusted railroad spikes pounded clean through his wrists and ankles. His nearly unrecognizable face was thoroughly battered, swollen, and coated with blood. Responding to Erin’s voice as we approached, he turned his head in our direction and opened his eyes revealing empty eye sockets.
His fucking eyes were gone.
Grim trails of dried blood and burn marks streaked down the length of his cheeks and neck indicating they were crudely removed with a blunt instrument. Or something inexplicably worse.
“Padre — My God,” I managed to blurt out after a prolonged moment.
There are no words for what I felt. Reaching down to grasp his hand in assurance I unknowingly wrapped my fingers around the bloody stump of an arm. Instantly jerking my hands back in utter revulsion, I realized that his left hand was brutally hacked off at the wrist and lay in a dark pool on the floor below. The signet ring he proudly wore on his left index finger eerily gleamed in the candlelight as it lay on the floor within the puddle of blood.
“Son of a Bitch! Padre, Can you speak?”
In an incredibly calm demeanor, devoid of any discomfort, Father Watson spoke as if he was greeting me under perfectly ordinary circumstances. Looking directly at me with blackened, empty eye sockets, he said, “Hello Dean. I had faith you would come. And here you are. Just as He foretold.”
“We need to go — Now! You need a hospital.” Clearly shaken by the Padre’s condition, I turned to Erin and said, “Doc, How the hell do we get these spikes out of him?”
“I have no intention of leaving,” Father Watson declared before Erin could reply. “I am precisely where I am supposed to be. My purpose is nearly achieved.”
“Purpose? What purpose?” I asked astounded. “I’m not leaving you to die like — like this. Not a fucking chance.”
Frantically reaching down and clutching one of the spikes, I tried unsuccessfully to pry it loose from the alter.
“You are my purpose. You’ve been chosen, as have I. It is as I suspected all along,” he said as his eyeless gaze diverted from me and drifted over my left shoulder. “It is time to open your eyes. And See.”
Not having the faintest clue as to what Father Watson was going on about, I sensed someone behind me and spun around to find Petrovich. Large as life and clearly not as dead as I left him just minutes before. He simply stood there smiling. Wickedly. What should have been a bullet shredded corpse was now standing within spitting distance of me without so much as a scratch on him. He was perfect. Everything from celebrity grade hair to immaculate clothes.
“Neat trick,” I muttered while giving him a puzzled look.
“Indeed,” he smugly replied. “Did you think it would be so easy?”
When I offered no response, he said, “This is pleasant, is it not? I’m simply overjoyed that the good Priest has not yet expired. After all, I have so many more sins to confess.” No longer holding the cigar nor the champagne glass, Petrovich was casually tossing my discarded M4 magazine up and down in his hand. “Oh, and Captain, I believe you dropped this. You see, I really have no need for it.”
With blinding speed he struck me square in the face with the empty magazine followed by a crushing blow to my damaged rib cage. With what seemed like a single motion, he then ripped the M4 from my hands and snapped it clear in half flinging the pieces to opposite corners of the church. Hunched over and gasping for breath I realized, for the third time in this short mission, that perhaps — I had not seen it all.
“Perhaps now you will show me the proper respect,” he said with a sharp edge.
Speechless, I collapsed to the base of the alter where Father Watson lay imprisoned, and helplessly watched as Erin boldly positioned herself between us and Petrovich. In a show of spirited defiance, she said, “You will not hurt them!”
“My dear Doctor, Your courage is commendable but quite unwarranted,” Petrovich condescendingly replied as a patronizing grin curled across his face. “You have performed your function here well beyond my expectations. You very skillfully succeeded where your three predecessors miserably failed. You have ushered the next generation of my children into this world and I am forever in your debt. I have no reason to harm you for I will undoubtedly solicit your services again.”
Taking a step toward Erin, he said, “For you see, Doctor, this is merely the beginning.” Fixing her with a paralyzing stare, he casually reached up and placed his hand on her forehead. “Now please, be seated while I have a much needed chat with our friend the Captain.”
Upon his touch, all emotion abruptly left Erin’s face as she simply stepped backward and sat on the sanctuary floor, staring into nothingness.
“Now, Dean, alas I have a captive audience,” Petrovich said cleverly as he turned his full attention toward me and strolled toward my position hunched against the alter. “We have much to discuss and unfortunately a brief time remaining, for I must see to the relocation of my children to a more discreet setting.”
“Who … What are you?” I managed to awkwardly force out as I labored to stand upright despite the latest wave of agonizing pain.
“Names are not significant,” he replied with a brazen smile. “Nor are my origins. I’m afraid you would not understand even if I explained. What is of significance is the proposal I would like to extend.”
An ear splitting roar emanating from deep within the giant’s oversized rabbit hole stopped him in mid-sentence. Shifting his gaze toward the abyss, he said, “It appears you may have damaged my son, Anak. Not an easy feat.”
“Tiny? Yeah, doesn’t do so well with bright light, it seems. Cute kid though. Bad teeth. Interesting taste in clothes. Bit on the eccentric side.” Barely able to stand on two feet I braced myself against the altar. “So you’re his father. You sure? Struggling to see the resemblance.”
Completely ignoring my commentary, he said, “You’ll have to forgive his temperament. He’s my oldest and only surviving son from a distant past. He’s never quite recovered from our betrayal in Rome, hence the attire. We were so close to achieving our goals then. Quite unfortunate. Different times. Live and learn, as the humans say.”
“Where’s my First Sergeant?” I sternly asked, while slowly slipping a hand into my ammo pouch and wrapping my fingers around a fragmentary grenade. At the very least it would buy me some time. Or so I thought.
“Ah Yes, First Sergeant Coates. As you can imagine it’s quite difficult to sustain such a strapping young lad as Anak. His appetite is simply voracious. Like his brethren, he developed quite a taste for human flesh over the years. One of the many reasons I choose places like this for my endeavors. All the misguided butchering and bloodletting in the name of the great God himself make it quite challenging to keep track of all the humans. Who’s to notice a few, or a few hundred, missing here and there. It reminds me of old times when the Earth was so much more — primal.”
Dismissively glancing at the evidently not so subtle movement of my hand, he said, “I’m afraid your First Sergeant is destined to be Anak’s morning meal. An unfitting end for such a great warrior. Which, brings me back to my proposition.”
As I slowly withdrew my hand from the ammo pouch clutching the grenade, he waived a finger back and forth in a scolding fashion.
“Please, Captain, No more distractions,” he chided. “It was I that gave weapons of war to mankind. They have no effect on me. What you witnessed earlier was merely theatrics. An illusion of sorts. Just a bit of fun, I’m afraid.”
Despite all evidence to the contrary I was not convinced and retained a firm grasp on the grenade. At the very least, it was making me feel better.
“Fine,” I grumbled. “You want to make a deal — let’s hear it.”
“Much better, Thank You,” he said condescendingly while pulling another cigar from the breast pocket of his suit jacket. “For reasons you are not capable of understanding, I am rebuilding my family. As such, I wish your service in my — organization. A human of your particular talents and warring nature would serve me quite well. Given the proper encouragement, of course.”
Producing a lighter from another pocket, he lit the cigar taking several long drags and blowing a steady plume of smoke into the still air.
“In exchange for your pledge of servitude, I will grant your First Sergeant, the good Doctor, and what remains of the addled Priest deliverance from my subjugation. Freedom to return to their lives.”
“Me for them,” I grumbled. “Fair enough. And if I’m not interested?”
“A most unpleasant ending in the depths of Anak’s cave for the lot of you,” he said with a smug grin.
“Hell of a deal, handsome,” I replied forcing a grin. “You sell health insurance in a past life? Used cars? Maybe real estate?”
Lying, silent, on the altar behind me, Father Watson chose this moment to speak. He quietly began to murmur in a faint, but deliberate tone.
“And when the Lord thy God shall deliver them before thee — thou shalt smite them, and utterly destroy them — thou shall make no covenant with them, nor show mercy unto them.”
“The words of Enoch,” a visibly annoyed Petrovich muttered as he turned his attention toward the Padre. His eyes grew cold and focused. “Silence, Priest! Your poisoned tongue shall follow course with your deluded eyes soon enough.”
“Proceed against the Bastards and the Reprobates, and against the children of fornication,” Father Watson continued with his voice steadily rising. “And destroy the children of The Watchers.” Lifting his head from the altar and looking directly at Petrovich, with barren eye cavities, he shouted, “And to Azazel — To him ascribe all sin!”
As the words resonated with my subconscious, I felt like I’d been struck by lightning. In a moment of clarity — It all made sense.
My dream.
The insane dream I’d lived every night, for the past six months, was a prelude to this very moment. The slaying of the army of giants at the hand of the cloaked figure. It actually happened. Father Watson tried to tell me as such but I didn’t believe him. Son of a bitch. Maybe he wasn’t drunk after all.
Stunned, I spun around to face Petrovich and fixated on his frigid crimson eyes. The eyes that haunted me night after night. It was unmistakable. I recognized them instantly from the dream. He was there. He was their leader. Their father. Azazel. The angel.
Holy shit.
With the newfound power of this revelation, I focused all my remaining strength, stood upright, and confidently strode toward Petrovich.
“Azazel,” I muttered. “I know what you are. I’ve seen it. Seen you. Defeated by the cloaked warrior.”
“You dare speak my name,” he said in an uncharacteristic, subdued tone as his focus whirled from Father Watson back to me. I detected a fleeting but undeniable look of befuddlement, and for the briefest of seconds I saw fear. He was afraid, and deeply confused as he contemplated the meaning of my words.
“You know of the Deacon,” he said pensively. “How?”
“I’ve seen him,” I barked. “Felt his power.”
“That — Is not possible,” he scoffed. Pointing at Father Watson with an irritated scowl, he said, “Lies! Fed to you from this misguided priest no doubt. You’ve seen nothing.”
“I saw the terror in your eyes as you ran from the battlefield while he destroyed your army. Your children. You ran — Like a coward.”
As the words boomed from my mouth, his eyes flashed and emitted a bitter glow while his face twisted into a hellish mask. In an instant, towering flames erupted from every candle in the sanctuary and his body seemed to expand in height and width as he stalked toward me. Outraged.
“Insolent human!” He growled with a deepened voice that was painful to my ears. “You cannot begin to fathom what I am nor what I have sacrificed.”
With a flash of movement barely perceptible to the human eye, he then ripped the shotgun from my back and thrust the butt into my chest shoving me forcefully against the altar. “And now I grow weary of your company.”
Using one arm, he then proceeded to lift me a solid foot off the ground and violently hurl me into the wall to the right. Covering a ten-foot span in a fraction of a second, I slammed into the wall with the force of a tornado. I didn’t even have the chance to say ‘Ow’ before he was standing over me again. With a satisfied grin, he forcefully jabbed the muzzle of the shotgun into my chest and methodically emptied the magazine.
Turn about is evidently fair play.
Damn.
Should have seen that one coming.
As I felt the weapon discharge six distinct times with each slug ripping through my chest, I slowly slumped to the base of the wall and rested on the floor. My perception of time came to a screeching halt as my senses steadily faded to a state of void. With the life force draining from my broken body, I couldn’t help but think that the mission had now officially gone to shit. Adding insult to injury, he casually tossed Bertha on my mangled body in triumph as he stood there gloating. Right before my eyesight faded to black I was drawn to the smoke, steadily pouring out of the shotgun muzzle as the searing barrel burned my legs.
Shot with my own gun. On my frigg’n birthday. That is so goddamn wrong. I really hate that guy.
The last thing I heard was laughter. Sustained euphoric laughter. Oddly, it was coming from Father Watson.
Then it all went dark.
I was dead.
Worst birthday ever.
Chapter 8
As I felt the last breath escape my devastated lung cavity and my eyes slide shut for the last time, all I could hear was the continued ringing laughter of Father Watson echo throughout the ether. Not sure I agreed with the comedic content of getting six shotgun slugs in the chest from a psychotic fashion astute angel, but the Padre always did have a sick sense of humor. Probably why he drank so damn much.
I waited for the bright light that everybody talked about when you died but it didn’t come. There was only darkness. Intense, almost painful, darkness. Felt like I was floating unbound by time and space in an endless void of unadulterated black. After the initial shock factor wore off, it actually felt kind of peaceful. For the first time in a long time I felt truly at peace. Figured. I needed to die to get some downtime.
How’s that for frigg’n irony?
Just as I started to get used to the whole being dead thing, the infinite darkness instantly transitioned to a brilliant blue sky scattered with sporadic clusters of low hanging wispy, white clouds. Oddly, I was no longer floating. I was standing. In the middle of a frigg’n stream. A cold, bubbling stream of fast moving water steadily flowed just above my ankles as I stood atop the smooth pebbles and river rock, lining the bottom. And I was barefoot. What the hell?
In a panic, I instantly placed both hands on my chest and quickly realized that it wasn’t riddled with holes nor was I covered in blood. In fact, I felt great. Not a scratch on me. My fractured body was completely healed, and a warm, tranquil sensation gently pulsated from the soles of my feet up through my torso and out the crown of my head. I can’t begin to put words to how absolutely amazing it felt. It was like waking up from a good night’s sleep knowing you had absolutely nothing to do for the rest of the day. Like watching a baseball game from behind home plate at Fen
way Park on a sunny Saturday afternoon in late spring with a cold beer and a warm pretzel. Like sitting in your favorite chair by a roaring fire place on a cold winter day with a good book and some old blues on the stereo.
I wasn’t anxious — or angry — or afraid. Despite the circumstances, everything seemed absolutely perfect. I had no idea why. It just did.
My disheveled uniform was gone. Instead I was wearing my favorite pair of Levis and lucky Dave Matthews Band tee shirt that I’d bought two years ago when I saw him in Nashville. Perhaps the most comfortable tee shirt on the planet. I wore it so much it had more holes than actual fabric, but there was no way in hell I was throwing it away. Sliding my hands from my chest to my face I felt the course stubble of a fledgling beard, indicating at least a week or two of not shaving. Running my hand over my head I felt the uncharacteristic wave of thick, long hair. Seeming that I’d been sporting a tight to the skull buzz cut for my entire adult life, that was also a bit unexpected.
“Interesting,” I muttered awestruck and wondering what in the hell was going on. “If this were Heaven there’d be beer. So — where the hell am I?”
Slowly turning to survey my surroundings, I realized I was in the middle of what appeared to be a lavish green field of ankle-high grass tucked neatly within a series of stately rolling hills. In the remote distance, the bold silhouette of majestic mountains thrust far into the skyline, proudly defining the horizon in all directions. The stream seemed to flow directly through the center of the field stretching as far as the eye could see to my left and right.
As I stood in a state of wonderment, taking it all in, I observed no movement or signs of life in any direction. Although the picturesque clouds were slowly swirling in the sky above, there was no wind. No birds. No animals. No people. I was completely alone. Like the Omega Man cruising through the deserted streets of Los Angeles in his Mustang.
So — I have a weak spot for Charlton Heston flicks. Although, that whole Planet of the Apes deal seriously creeped me out. And I digress …
Rise of the Giants: The Guild of Deacons, Book 1 Page 7