by Mark Carver
He was a man on a mission.
The glaring lights of the bar sign behind him dissolved away as he skulked into the increasingly narrow alleyways. Shoulders hunched and collar pulled up around his lean face, he blended in easily with the spectral shapes that glided silently past. A low din filtered through the mist, voices of all ages and sexes. Like a garden of nocturnal flowers, the quaint river city of Limoges blossomed once darkness fell, and this was how he liked it. He felt alive in these foreboding hours, surrounded by what his mother would have called “sleaze and filth.”
Patric didn’t have many defining memories of his life before the Manifestation. He had been about fourteen years old at the time, and his family had maintained a casual faith that only revealed itself on religious holidays. Of course, the majority of the world was also indifferent back then— everyone was just grinding out the day-to-day. Giving thanks for one’s daily bread seemed like a mockery of one’s hard work to obtain it, and for Patric, supernatural matters didn’t really concern him or his family.
The only real religious presence in his life was his half-brother, eleven years his senior. When Patric was still young, his half-brother had left home and journeyed to a monastery in northwestern Italy, near the city of Turin. He only returned once for a visit, about one year before the Manifestation. Yet despite his prolonged absences, Patric’s mother spoke proudly of her devout eldest son, often lamenting that his father had not lived to see his son grow up into a man of God. This adoration for someone so far away inspired stirrings of resentment and jealousy in Patric’s heart.
Then came the Manifestation.
Everything changed.
Patric had been awestruck as he watched the news reports and amateur videos countless times. Despite a small but vocal group of naysayers who claimed it was a hoax, he had immediately felt a clutching sense of dread and conviction. He wished he could have been there to see the Great Dragon sever the sky and bellow thunderous words of blasphemy and terror across the flimsy Parisian rooftops. He remembered being terrified and excited as the Cathedral of Notre-Dame trembled, then collapsed, melting like an ice sculpture. Even in the chaos and horror of the Possession that followed, he knew that he had witnessed a power that demanded his allegiance.
Along with tens of millions of frightened, confused, and desperate converts, Patric joined the Church of Satan, which sprang up from scorn and obscurity to become the guiding beacon in a world that had just been thrown into a tailspin. The other side resisted and pleaded for the world to turn back to God, and Patric’s suddenly devout parents implored him to join them in seeking solace in the Savior. They had even discussed heading east to find his half-brother. Yet like so many rebellious youths who were impatient with waiting for a purpose, he knew that his life was heading towards the darkness rather than the light.
And what light? What counterattack did Jehovah mobilize? One of His greatest portals into man’s heart had crumbled like ash before the might of Apollyon the Destroyer, whom He had supposedly created. Yet God remained silent, and His archenemy remained unchallenged. How can the master tolerate the slave’s disrespect, unless that slave has conquered his master? This was a message that was easy for Patric to understand. After a few years of struggling against his family, he turned his back on them and their impotent faith and joined the hordes of unshackled youths migrating from their rural hometowns to large urban areas where the presence of darkness was strongest.
Patric was free.
Free to indulge in every manner of carnality that he had previously felt guilty about. Free to silence his already withered conscience, and to kneel before the altar of hedonism without condemnation. There was no penance to be paid, no Hail Marys to be uttered, no false humility and repentance. Just pure, carnal pleasure. Once the terror and mortification of the Manifestation began to fade, people started to pay attention to the words of the Proclamation.
“I am the Lord of this world. I bring liberation for those who would seize control of their own destinies. Thou shalt swear allegiance to no master save thine own desires.”
Patric could never understand why the other side had always been so insistent on moderation and self-control and abstinence. What use were these virtues in a tooth-and-claw world? Now, things were finally on the right track. No more masks, no more hypocrisy.
And right now, as he drunkenly staggered through the streets, he knew what he wanted, and he was going to get it. He ignored the brazen calls from vendors inviting passers-by to examine their wares: drugs of every kind, books and DVDs that would have been condemned as “obscene” in the previous age, diabolical emblems, symbols, and relics for incantations and summonings. Patric had enough of such things at his dismal flat, most of them purchased to appease Natasha.
He hastily pushed his fiancée out of his mind as he turned a corner and entered a bleak alley illuminated with red light. Beneath the hellish glare, crude pentagram graffiti was splashed across the walls. The bloody light also bathed the lithe, supple bodies milling about, effortlessly seducing the willing victims continually streaming into their clutches. Patric glanced about carelessly, browsing the devilishly delicious vixens like an aimless window shopper.
He wasn’t in the mood for street meat. The alcohol boiled in his veins, fueling his passions for something more exotic.
He ascended a sturdy staircase that contrasted sharply with the wilting facade of the building it clung to, and high above a shadowy door blazed a naked neon girl. He stepped inside and was transported to a misty world glowing with an intriguing crimson hue. A tall African goddess wrapped in a translucent robe turned as he parted the beaded curtains.
“Ah, Monsieur Bourdon, welcome back.”
“Merci....” Patric trailed off as he struggled to recall the madam’s name. He settled for “...ma belle.”
The madam smirked slyly, then took his hand and gently guided him into the selection foyer. He scanned the room, squinting to study the delicacies from all over the world arrayed on velvet couches. He found his attention arrested by one girl in particular, and he leaned forward, unaware of the madam’s grip on his arm to steady his balance.
She was Asian, slender and petite yet full-chested. Her graceful figure was sheathed in a black silk dress embroidered with intricate gold patterns, and shimmering black hair framed her soft face. She immediately sensed Patric’s fixation on her, and she leaned forward and glanced up at him with a soft, demure expression.
Patric felt a shudder surge through his bones, and he was instantly entranced by the girl’s eyes that sparkled with fiendish fire and the smile that beamed with playful innocence.
A hungry grin crept across his lips. He looked pleadingly at the madam, who smirked again and motioned for the girl to get up. The girl slithered over to him, her perfume wafting from her skin like mist. She placed her small, delicate hand on Patric’s arm and led him down a dark corridor, past several doors that muffled moans and cries coming from within. Her eyes were locked onto his, wordlessly promising untold pleasure and passion.
She opened a black door and motioned for Patric to step inside.
****
Milan, Italy
Father DeMarco stifled a curse as he swerved to avoid a yawning pothole that laughed up at him from the street. The irritating fog that had outlasted its welcome was now joined by a light drizzle, double dealers of mischief and inconvenience. It didn’t help that the car tires were as bald as his own head.
The battered Lancia Y10 screeched into the narrow parking space with a lurch and a wheeze. Hunching his shoulders in futile defiance of the rain, the priest shuffled from his humble automobile into the shadow of the Duomo di Milano, one of the grandest monuments of holy architecture on earth.
His heart felt a twinge of sorrow as he approached the massive west doors that were flanked by armed guards clutching automatic weapons. Their grim faces were lost in the shadows and they seemed as stone-cold as the mournful statues that surrounded them. The priest fumbled in his cra
cked leather satchel for his clergy pass, which was acknowledged by one of the guards with the slightest nod of his head.
He pushed open the doors and slipped into the shadows of the sanctuary. A silent prayer fluttered from his soul.
“How long will it be like this?”
In the early days after the Manifestation, the world had become literally hell-bent on eradicating the Christian church, Islam, Judaism, Buddhism, Hinduism — all of it. The Prince of Darkness had made his presence known upon the earth, and those who were devout followers or simply exasperated with organized religion were seized with a fanatical furor that resulted in millions of “Delusionals,” as they were called, being slaughtered in what was essentially religious genocide. Thousands of churches, synagogues, mosques, temples, and cathedrals were ransacked, bombed, or burned.
The final blow came when the Church of Satan, previously an underground cult with hardly any influence or power, rose up in a massive tempest of violence and stormed the Vatican City. St. Peter’s Basilica was ravaged, the Pope publicly slaughtered, and in a final act of blasphemy, the Church of Satan placed its own Vocem Satanam — the Voice of Satan — upon the holy throne. It was indeed a black day for the world, and even though the occupation of St. Peter’s was merely symbolical, the damage was done.
Satan reigned supreme in the hearts of man.
Father DeMarco couldn’t help feeling jealous of the Americans and Australians. Since the New World countries were separated by leagues of ocean from the abominations transpiring in Europe, these places became havens for those fleeing the darkness. This zeal was particularly strong in the United States and Canada, whose history as “Christian nations” became a rallying cry to refugees seeking escape from the wrath that was raining down upon Europe and Asia. He could only dream of one day seeing this sanctuary filled again with hopeful believers who didn’t have to cower in fear behind gun-wielding guards.
Milan Cathedral, in the wake of St. Peter’s demise, became one of the most important beacons of Christendom in Europe. Its terrifying facade and staggering proportions made it an instantly recognizable symbol of God’s might and majesty. Yet the organ was silent, the choir stalls were empty, and with the distant whisper of rain outside, the once-glorious cathedral seemed frail and thin.
Only a few dismal chandeliers provided light for the priest as he pattered down the yawning nave, flanked by oak-like columns and weary statues who seemed as confused and dejected as he did. Their tragic countenances seemed to scream the question that the faithful raised to heaven every day: Where was God?
Father DeMarco was surprised to find himself a bit out of breath as he finally reached the altar. It had been quite a while since he had set foot in this grand building, but then again, the Council didn’t convene very often.
A rustling sound grabbed his attention. In the shadows behind the altar, three bare-headed monks emerged and wordlessly motioned for the priest to walk with them. He nodded and followed their gestures towards an unassuming but delicately-carved wooden door at the corner of the south transept.
A narrow staircase faintly illuminated with naked electric lights led them into a stark corridor. Strong odors of mold and standing water hung heavily in the air, and the walls gleamed with fungus. In a previous age, Milan’s famous crypt would never have been allowed to suffer such neglect, but now the visitors, along with their contributions, had all but disappeared.
Past the tombs of saints and kings lay a small musty room piled high with yellowed books and ancient scrolls. In the middle of the room, thirteen somber old men were huddled around a simple wooden table, their conversations low and tense. No one raised their eyes to see the new arrival, but Father DeMarco was not expecting attention.
When he had taken his seat, an ancient bishop with brilliantly white hair rose to his feet at the head of the table.
“Brethren, let the Council come to order.”
The whispers and murmurs died away, and every eye became focused upon Bishop Valenti’s grave countenance.
“My friends,” he began with a voice that crunched over his words, “I thank you for coming on such short notice. I have received important news that is nothing less than catastrophic.”
Everyone at the table stirred nervously.
“What has happened?” one priest asked, making no attempt to hide his fear.
The old bishop swallowed with some difficulty, then spoke. “Earlier tonight, multiple attacks were carried out.”
The table immediately buzzed with fret and worry. The din died down as the bishop raised his trembling hands.
“Peace, brothers, peace...the attacks were not upon our flock. The aggression was directed at the Church of Satan.”
Gasps of relief, then of horror arose from the assembly of priests. They gazed at the bishop at the head of the table, who looked lost in his own mind, searching for the right words.
“Tell us,” said one priest to his right.
The old bishop heaved a silent sigh. “Tonight, within the span of one hour, at least a dozen temples belonging to the Church of Satan in France, Belgium, Germany, and here in Italy, were attacked during their evening services, and several presiding ministers were assassinated, along with other members of the clergy.”
The Council erupted with cries and moans of despair. The ancient bishop looked on with helpless sorrow, his heart breaking afresh.
One fiery-eyed priest whipped his gaze across the table. “This will be the end of us! This will start a new war!”
The priests seated around the table murmured their agreement. Bishop Valenti motioned impatiently for the table to be silent, and he cleared his throat to speak.
“Do not fan the flames of fear, my brothers. There is no telling where this will lead, and we must have faith that our Lord will guide and protect us.”
“How did it happen?” came the question from the far end of the table.
“The information I have received is inconclusive, as this report is just now making its way to us. The assassins infiltrated the services by impersonating monks or members of the congregation. Firearms were used in all of the attacks, which was a thankful choice, since explosives would have undoubtedly killed several in the pews as well.”
“No one in the congregation was hurt?” asked a priest.
“That is what the reports have indicated so far. Only members of the clergy were targeted.”
“Were the assassins believers?” asked another.
Bishop Valenti looked at his hands resting on the table. “No one can say, but it seems likely. They could have come from other religions that the Church of Satan has suppressed, but I have a feeling that the assassins share our faith.”
“Do you think they were sent by our church?” asked another priest.
The bishop lowered his head for a moment, as if calculating the possibilities. At last he shook his head.
“I do not believe so. Since the wars that followed the Manifestation, our church has assumed the position of defense rather than offense, to overcome evil with good. Of course, there were many that believed this attitude to be a mistake, so it is possible that someone has decided to take matters into their own hands.”
“But why now? It has been more than a decade since the Manifestation, and the Church of Satan holds sway over nearly every major country and economy. Such a thing as this seems like a pin-prick in the foot of a giant.”
“You speak the truth, Father Bocetta. This is what leads me to believe that this is the doing of a rogue faction operating outside of the church’s blessing.”
Father DeMarco cleared his throat. “So what does this mean for us?”
Everyone turned and fixed their gaze upon him, and he shrank back in his chair. Yet their eyes did not express scorn, but thankfulness that someone else had asked the question they were afraid to articulate.
The bishop heaved a worrisome sigh. “I fear…I fear that this will galvanize the forces of the enemy, which have grown impatient and slothful since
the Manifestation. In the early days, there was such fire and wrath upon our Lord’s children, but as the years passed and the skies remained silent, the followers of the enemy turned their attention from our destruction to the satisfaction of their own fleshly desires, which has since kept their energy directed towards themselves and away from us. We have been suffered to dwell in the shadows in relative peace in recent years, but I fear this peace has come to an end.”
The table hummed once more with murmurs and grumbles. Glancing about, as if unsure whether to interrupt the incoherence, Father DeMarco cleared his throat. “What are we going to do?”
No one at the table acknowledged his question, so he cleared his throat again, this time loudly and impatiently. The table fell silent, and he spoke with a wavering voice.
“What are we going to do?”
Every face turned towards the bishop, whose eyes remained fixed upon the center of the table, as if conjuring up the appropriate response. He inhaled through wrinkled lips, and said, “We do nothing.”
There was a collective gasp and a fury of whispers.
“How can we do nothing?” Father DeMarco demanded. “Our enemy will fall upon us like wolves!”
Bishop Valenti slammed his hand on the table with alarming force, causing the other men to jump. “We will do...what we have always done...we will endure! We will wait and see what will come of this. In the meantime...our flock depends on us, and on our composure. It is up to us to maintain order and faith. We serve a God who is a God of love, not violence....”
“And if the forces of Satan rise up against us, what then?”
The silence in the room seemed to buzz like an electric motor. Everyone knew what the answer would be.
The bishop’s voice rolled over the words like a mill wheel grinding stones.
“Then...we will fight.”
****