New Megiddo Rising: An ‘Apostates’ Novella (The Apostates Book 0)

by Lars Teeney

  “Nonsense, I know that you fool around with my weapons every time I leave. I watch you. Cameras everywhere,” Craig stated, taking Evan by surprise.

  “I-I—” Evan was cut off.

  “I know, you fancy yourself quite skilled with that arming sword. Come now, attack me—show me what you know,” Craig demanded. Evan stared at the blade in his hand; it was sharpened.

  “Sir, you are unarmed and I hold a sharpened sword. I don’t want to hurt you,” Evan warned.

  “Attack me now,” Craig demanded again.

  “No,” Evan refused.Before he could react Craig snatched up a wooden practice sword and cracked Evan over the back of the head with it. Evan fell to one knee; he looked up at Craig with a wounded look on his face.

  “Damn you, boy. You sleep under my roof, you eat my food and play with my weapons and you won’t obey me?” Craig landed another blow to Evan’s back, “Do what I tell or go back to the slums!” he postured like he was going to land another blow. This time even reacted and assumed a defensive posture with the arming sword.

  “Let’s see what you got in you, or are you just a weak pansy to be preyed upon?” Craig taunted. Evan launched a wide overhand swing of the sword; incensed. Craig easily beat-parried the sword to one side, then quickly slid the wooden sword behind the knee of Evan’s left leg, and tripped him up. Evan landed on the flat of his back on the mat. He clenched his teeth.

  “That’s what you’ve been up to this entire time? Pathetic—fucking pathetic.” Craig cracked Evan across the temple with the stick sword. It wasn’t hard enough to injure, but it was enough to provoke Evan to rash action. Evan postured for another attack, but his body movements ‘telegraphed’ his intent. Craig easily disarmed Evan with a sword blow to the wrist, then he moved in close and performed an arm throw on Evan, who ended up on his backside once more.

  Craig picked up the arming sword and placed it back in its rack and put away the practice sword. Evan struggled to regain his bearings after all the punishment. He sat upright; exhausted.

  “Nothing. All that time playing with swords and you have learned absolutely nothing. Don’t say anything, just be quiet,” he preemptively cut Evan off, “Swordplay takes years to master. There is a process to it; ritual. See that bookshelf over there?” Craig pointed to the huge, oak shelf at the head of the room. Evan nodded.

  “You will search out the treatises of Hans Talhoffer, Peter Falkner, and Salvator Fabris. When you find them you will read them, within a week. Once you do this we will then begin your true training. If you do not do this you can return to the slums.” Having made his point clear, Craig turned his back and headed to his back office. Evan, seething with anger, swallowed his pride, and slowly made his way to the massive bookcase. He would have quite a bit of searching to do before his week’s worth of reading could begin, so he began his search.

  ⍟ ⍟ ⍟

  LET THE CHILDREN ALONE

  Her mind had been permeated by the intensive curriculum of the H.O.V.E.L. Two years of living in this atmosphere of conditioning and ritual had made quite a zealot out of Ayane. She had set upon the Bible like a hyena to a carcass; shredding its pages and digesting every verse. She had more of an affinity for the Old Testament; it was less morally complex. When the other children were out playing in the courtyard Ayane would sit in the sanctuary and soak up the parables of vengeance and devotion. She would do this for hours on end, waiting for Father von Manstein to send for her, so that she could do her duty to become closer to God. Her visits to von Manstein had become routine over the last couple years. The attention she received from the Father gave her a certain status and advantage over the other children of the H.O.V.E.L., which aided in her survival. The unnatural attention also, somewhere deep inside of her, lit a great beacon of hatred.

  The other children had become jealous of Ayane’s status. She would get looks of contempt from her bunkmates. The freckled girl, Carlotta, would mutter something abusive under her breath when she laid eyes upon Ayane, but Ayane paid no attention other than notice. She would just cling to her golden crucifix around her neck; gifted from Father von Manstein, and meditate on the word of God. Ayane was alone here; save for the Father, and that was the way she liked it. She did not seek friends or the comfort of others. Ayane sensed that this quality was somehow hereditary; her ancestors had been similar in disposition, and she was no different.

  Ayane had seen Carlotta and her gang of girls doing things; bad things. She had seen them in the courtyard, always standing in the southwest corner, under a giant oak tree. Many troubled children would seek them out each week, and would give the girls Tithings, soup, food and supplies in return for a small bundle of something. Ayane did not know what it was they got, but she knew they were doing something sinful. Perhaps it was time that she told Father von Manstein about it, and save the girls from sin. Ayane would see Father von Manstein today and she was waiting for his arrival. She sat patiently in the Sanctuary, all made up to impress. She sat silently, staring straight ahead, focusing on the icon of Jesus on the Cross above the pulpit. Her mind was ablaze with chaotic thought; a morass of mixed emotions. She felt like her head would explode—and she had the urge to scream.

  “Ayane? Ayane Inoguchi. Let’s go child. Father von Manstein awaits you at the gate,” the Chief Warden beckoned her to come. The tide of that threatened to overtake Ayane in that minute receded and she stood up to go with the Chief Warden to the front gate.

  ⍟ ⍟ ⍟

  They had taken a ferry across the Great Lake of California from Twin Peaks Island to what was left of Marin County. Father von Manstein, Ayane, and his detail then boarded an A.P.C. that traveled to Mount Tamalpais. They were en route to a Church retreat lodge reserved for dignitaries. The lodge was situated on the peak of Mount Tamalpais, which offered a commanding view of the Great Lake and surrounding settlements. Ayane peeked out the viewport of the A.P.C. and spied the stone and timber facade of the Church lodge. The building was set against a salmon pink sunset checkered with clouds. The driver announced the party’s arrival via neural implant, and the passengers exited the vehicle.

  Ayane took a deep breath and tasted fresh, clean air, unlike that surrounding Twin Peaks Island. It was peaceful up on the mountain, somehow it made her feel closer to God. She had never really enjoyed growing up in San Francisco; being surrounded by the chaos of an archipelago of islands connected by causeways. Ayane had been born into privilege and had lived on Pacific Heights Island; the only island not connected to the rest by causeway. One had needed special clearance to come to the island by ferry. All that was behind her now.

  Ayane entered the lodge, which had walls littered with the trophies of past hunts. Some of the species in the collection no longer walked the Earth. A chaotic collection of religious iconography also graced the interior.

  “Come, Ayane. Let us get settled into the master quarters,” Father von Manstein directed her; his hand out. She followed his lead down the corridor, and into the master bedroom. The room was decorated with rustic, pioneer decor.

  “How do you like these digs, dear child?” Father von Manstein asked rubbing her shoulders from behind. Ayane felt the fire rekindle in her mind. She felt the need to postpone the inevitable.

  “Father von Manstein, I need to tell you something. It’s about some children at the H.O.V.E.L.—a group of girls—some of my bunkmates...” Ayane didn’t quite know how to tell her story.

  “Oh, it’s okay, Ayane. It can wait,” he said, drawing near.

  “No! They are sinning. They sell the other children something. I’m not sure what exactly. They sell to really bad children, then they act really strange afterward.” Ayane spoke with a sense of urgency. von Manstein furled his brow and sighed.

  “Interesting. Are you sure they are not just playing a game?” von Manstein asked. He sat on the king-sized bed and removed his cap, exposing thinned hair.

  “Yes, I’m sure. It is something illegal. Maybe they are dealing ‘Dat
abase’?” she speculated. Those words piqued von Manstein’s interest. He sat upright.

  “Oh! Well, that would be most dastardly; to have such base activity occurring in a holy place,” von Manstein said.

  “Yes, you are a Father. Shouldn’t you put a stop to it?” Ayane was frustrated by his lack of outrage.

  “Of course, I will look into these matters when we get back to the H.O.V.E.L.,” he stated.

  “Thank you, Father!” she exclaimed.

  “But, right now we are on holiday. So, come here Ayane. Let us enjoy ourselves,” he summoned her. The fire in her mind became an inferno.

  ⍟ ⍟ ⍟

  They had spent several days atop Mount Tamalpais and now Father von Manstein’s detail was aboard a ferry back to Twin Peaks Island and the H.O.V.E.L. When the party got back to the H.O.V.E.L. Ayane went straight to the Sanctuary to be alone. She had been in a particularly unpleasant mood, so Father von Manstein allowed her to be on her way. von Manstein made his way to the Girl’s Blockhouse and notified the Warden that he would need to visit a particular girl for disciplinary action. The Warden cleared von Manstein to enter the blockhouse and so he made his way passed bunkhouse cells. He reached his destination and the door was opened. When he walked in he found his query, waiting on her bunk. The little, firecracker with the freckle explosion aftermath on her face, Carlotta, awaited Father von Manstein.

  “Father, you’ve come back. Do you have a new stash for me?” Carlotta asked excitedly, jumping off the bunk to approach von Manstein.

  “Are you out of your damned mind—dealing out in the open like that?” von Manstein let his fury known, towering over the girl. She recoiled in fear.

  “I—I am sorry! I didn’t know anyone knew!” she said with eyes watering.

  “Sorry doesn’t cut it! Perhaps I should find another dealer? One that is more careful?” He eyed her reaction. First she showed panic, but then her fiery temper manifested itself.

  “How did you find out? Did your little chink-pet tell you? If it was her I’ll twist that slanty-eyed head off her body!” she screamed at the top of her lungs, making two balled fists.

  “Quiet!” von Manstein yelled back, “You’ll do nothing of the sort. Calm down. Be more careful where you deal. Don’t do it in the courtyard anymore. Wait until dark,” he said in a quieter voice. He put a hand on her shoulder as she wept.

  “There there, child. Please give me the proceeds,” he asked. She went to her mattress and slipped her hand into a tear on the bottom. When she pulled her hand out it grasped a wad of paper money. Carlotta brought it to Father von Manstein. He formally blessed her for it, and began to walk away.

  “I used to be your favorite, now it’s that bitch!” she cried, tears streaming down her face.

  “You know you still hold a treasured place in my heart. Keep up the sales and I will have you out of here very soon.” He offered one last smile and then departed. She cried some more.

  ⍟ ⍟ ⍟

  Ayane had spent several hours of silence in the Sanctuary. The act had always been a form of purification for her. She was experiencing something akin to a good mood. A few minutes before she had received the summons for dinner over the [Virtue-Net], and she strolled leisurely along to the dining hall. Ayane was high on religion when something stopped her forward progress. She slammed into Carlotta, who stood firmly, like a roadblock, denying Ayane passage. She was accompanied by her two cronies.

  “Oh, pardon me,” Ayane said, meekly, then attempted to pass. Carlotta moved to block her. With one shove, Ayane was on her backside.

  “You little shit! You snitched on me, now you’re going to learn. The Father can’t protect you know!” Carlotta taunted. The other girls laughed. Ayane seethed with anger; the fire lit.

  “Don’t touch me you, Apostate,” Ayane growled, barely audible. The quiet of her voice was probably mistaken as fear by the dim-witted girls, but it was actually a voice so overcome with rage and hatred that it took all Ayane’s energy to keep the cork in the bottle. The fire in her mind had intensified to an inferno. One of Carlotta’s cronies kicked Ayane in the ribs, an,d the other pulled her hair from behind. Carlotta held something in her hand. Ayane recognized it; one of those ‘Database’ applicators. Carlotta was going to stick her with it. Ayane grabbed at the girl's face who was holding her from behind, but to no avail. The other girl now grabbed Ayane’s arms. Carlotta drew closer with a smile.

  “This is what snitches get. We’re gonna make a customer out of you. You’ll be a ‘basehead like all the rest!” Carlotta exclaimed.

  “Give her ‘The Exorcist’ strain!” one of the girls yelled. Carlotta jabbed the applicator into Ayane shoulder. She felt the prick of the needle and the burn of a foreign substance into her veins. Ayane watched helplessly as Carlotta mocked and laughed maniacally in front of her. Ayane began to cry. She noticed her vision going fuzzy. Everything became out of focus. The walls began to ripple and Carlotta’s face started to twist and change form. The world became a morass of color and texture. The voices around her echoed and the pitch fluctuated rapidly. Soon, another room took shape; that of a Twentieth Century girl’s bedroom. The wallpaper was torn and mildew stained. A trundle bed lay before her and somebody was in it. When Ayane looked down at herself she was dressed strangely. Ayane wore a black suit with a white priest’s collar. There was a mirror on the wall, covered in scratches and stains. She looked at her reflection; she was not herself. What she saw staring back at her was the form of a middle-aged man; a priest.

  Ayane left the mirror. She felt drawn to the bed by some unseen force. Ayane approached the foot of the bed. The figure stirred. She reached her hand out, slowly, to uncover the figure. Then, it happened. The figure sprang up before Ayane could react. It latched on to her with gnarled, claw-like hands. It was a demon dressed in little girl’s bedding attire. The face snapped and hissed with jagged and rotten teeth, the flesh was blue with open sores, and the eyes were yellow-reptilian.

  “I am Lucifer from Hell! Her soul is mine! You will never have it,” the demon cackled and squealed with wicked delight. Ayane recoiled at the demon’s advance. She felt a strange compulsion to yell something, “The power of Christ compels you! The power of Christ compels you!” Ayane chanted over and over. She grabbed hold of a crucifix and thrust it into the demon’s face. The demon shrieked and shrank back. Ayane repeated the action, again and again. With each thrust, the demon lost ground and became weaker. Soon she drove it back to the bed. Again she thrust and again she said the words. The demon lay down in the bed and let out a ghastly shriek...then, finally, stirred no more. Ayane fell to her knees, thanking God that the ordeal was over and that He had delivered her.

  “Quick! Quick! Administer the anti-drug!” She heard a voice cry. Suddenly a giant chasm opened in the floor beneath her. Ayane was seized by three larger demons. She struggled and protested, but she was overpowered. One of the demons had a tentacle in place of a mouth. It looked at her with cinders for eyes, and then the tentacle struck out in blinding speed and pierced Ayane’s chest. Almost instantaneously the nightmarish realm dissipated and gradually the sounds of reality rang clear and true.

  When the fog lifted from her mind she was presented with another nightmare, one that she would not wake up from. She was being held by two security staff and the H.O.V.E.L. physician was shining a light in her eyes. There was blood on the ground, and on her. She did not know who’s it was.

  “Oh God, what did you do? What did you do?” the Chief Warden cried. Ayane screamed when she saw the scene. Carlotta laid upon the floor, in a pool of blood. Three gaping holes could be seen in her neck. The crucifix; the gift from Father von Manstein, lay on the floor beside Carlotta...clearly the murder weapon.

  ⍟ ⍟ ⍟

  When Ayane finally came to she had felt the sensation of movement; the rumble of an engine and jolting of shocks over rough pavement. She had been in shock from the ‘Database’ after-effects and from the horror of the scene. Ayane assumed sh
e was being transported to a Regime prison somewhere to await her fate. She sat upright and attempted to distinguish her surroundings.

  “Ah, you’re awake. I thought you would succumb to the ‘Database’, but you are quite resilient, Ayane,” Father von Manstein said. He was sitting across from her in the passenger bay of an A.P.C.

  “W—what happened?” Ayane asked, dazed.

  “You murdered that girl. That’s what happened. They wanted to execute you. I didn’t let that happen. Don’t worry, I’m taking you to a place where your kind can thrive. Some place where you can be of service to the Lord,” he said. Ayane remained silent for the remainder of the journey.

  ⍟ ⍟ ⍟

  DOCTRINES OF DEVILS

  Prescott had no leads on his target, the ‘Slum Sage’. He had cruised the brothels and speakeasies throughout vast stretches of the slums, and still nothing. Prescott was beginning to wonder if the mask he wore, the H.A.T., was making sources reluctant to give him intel. However, there was nothing he could do about it because he needed to heal from his operations. Prescott was growing tired of having to consume his food in liquid form through a hole in the front of the H.A.T. and he could not drink alcohol while healing. Boredom and frustration due to lack of progress in his contract had set in. He walked aimlessly through the Compton slum, side-stepping rubble piles and human refuse. The Southern California sun beat down on him, made worse by the ultra-dry conditions.

  Everywhere Prescott looked he spied people dressed in rags, scrounging in trash piles for objects of value, and packs of mangy dogs running about. When he rounded another corner he came upon a well-dressed man, donning a beige overcoat. The man had primped hair like that of a politician or businessman; not like that of a slum-dweller. Obviously out of place, he paced the corner casually. Prescott decided he would approach as he had no other leads.