The Age of Apollyon Trilogy (The Age of Apollyon, Black Sun, Scorn)

by Mark Carver

  Patric tottered down the creaking iron stairs into the dingy alley that was now tinged red with the blossoming morning sun instead of neon lights. Squinting weakly, he shook his head in denial of the headache that squeezed his cranium. He shuffled out of the alley and onto the sidewalk that flanked the main road, joining the flocks of morning commuters on their way to work and the night owls stumbling out of their drug dens and nightclubs.

  What a night....

  He knew he made the right choice as soon as he had laid eyes on that girl. From what he could remember about the very brief conversation they had, her name was Su-Something and she was Vietnamese.

  Patric couldn’t help but smile to himself.

  Limoges in the morning was quite a contrast to the mask it wore at night. There was an abundance of pentagrams, temple spires, as well as the neglected ruins of Christian churches which served as public memorials to the Great Lord’s power. But in the soft glow of the morning, these frightful images seemed hazy and less material, even though they could be seen with more clarity. Patric had never found the notion of worshipping the devil to be particularly scary, but there was an undeniable mystique and even fearsome majesty in beholding these images by the light of a full moon or streaks of lightning. Yet during the day, it seemed that the demons slumbered and daily life passed by unaware.

  As he turned the corner onto the small street where his home lay, he looked up with scorn at the stark, stubbornly Christian church guarding the intersection, its portals in turn guarded by stone-faced mercenaries, hired guns whose 24-hour job was to hold the vandalizing forces of evil at bay. Patric spat through the wrought-iron fence, then continued up the street to his flat building.

  The building was painfully non-descript, and what was even more painful was the absence of an elevator. However, on days like today, this was a blessing.

  Inhaling and exhaling deep breaths, he shook his head several times, then dashed up the stairs like a madman, sometimes taking three at a time. One flight, two flights, as fast as his legs could propel him.

  Five, six, seven, eight....

  At the ninth floor, he stopped before a battered wooden door. His chest was heaving and his shirt was thoroughly soaked with sweat. He lifted his arm and was promptly assaulted with a wave of odor. He smiled, confident that any trace of his red light liaison was erased.

  Using great effort to slow down his breathing, he fumbled through his keys and unlocked the door.

  Natasha looked up from her cooking. “Long night, baby?” She jumped to dodge an exploding grease bubble.

  Patric shut the door and rubbed his brow. “Yeah, the guy who was supposed to relieve me at 4:00 didn’t show up so the boss asked me to fill in for him. Same boring work, watching the same boring paintings for eight hours instead of four. I wanted to say no, but we need the money, so....”

  Natasha left the stove and walked around the counter. She wore a gossamer white t-shirt, which did little to hide her figure from the morning sun streaming through the windows. She gave him a hug and kissed him warmly. “It’s okay. I know you work hard for us....”

  She glanced down at her bulging stomach and smiled. “All three of us.”

  Patric smiled back weakly. “It won’t be like this forever; I promise.”

  “I know,” she said and kissed him again. “Now go take a shower; you smell like you just ran a marathon.”

  Patric was only too happy to oblige. He showered quickly, washing away his midnight memories. There wasn’t any guilt to wash off; even when he had stepped out the first time, he didn’t feel any shame or regret. He was even pretty sure Natasha knew about his liaisons but opted to stay quiet about it. He didn’t care. A conscience was just a dusty, archaic relic from a moral world long since dead. Pleasure was king, and as long as Patric felt the urges, he was happy to obey.

  As he made his way back to the kitchen, he heard Natasha gasp.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  Her gazed was glued to the television across from the counter. Patric followed her eyes as he eased onto a rickety stool and listened carefully to the news report.

  “So far, none of the suspects have been apprehended, and authorities are conducting rigorous investigations. Though it has yet to be confirmed, sources indicate that the focus of their attention is on militant members of the Christian church, since it is believed that they would have the most likely motive for carrying out such attacks. Authorities are urging anyone with information related to these horrific assassinations to come forward and assist the investigation. The Church of Satan is also offering a generous reward to anyone whose information leads to the apprehension of the perpetrators. This is Andrea Nicolette for VBN 25.”

  Patric glanced at his fiancée, who returned his glance, then leaped to her feet when she realized that the bacon was burning. She hastily extracted the strips from the skillet, then slid a plate with bacon, scrambled eggs, and toast over to him.

  “Are you all right, chère?” he asked quietly.

  Natasha nodded. “Yeah.” She was silent for a moment, then spoke again. “Do you think this will be the beginning of another war?”

  Patric chewed his food as he considered the possibilities. “Perhaps. Who can say?”

  Natasha frowned. Patric got the feeling that this wasn’t the answer she was looking for. He started to say something to calm her blossoming fear, but she spoke again.

  “Why? Why do the Delusionals have to stir things up? Especially after so long? We’ve been very civil and tolerant of them. What has our church done to deserve such a thing?”

  Patric chuckled through a mouthful of toast. “That’s what the Delusionals said when the first war began.”

  “Well, that was their problem,” she spat. Her Ukrainian accent became especially prominent when she was upset. “We aren’t the ones worshipping a cold and silent deity. They got what was coming to them.”

  Patric shrugged. She had always been more committed than he was. His view was that Satan had liberated the world from Christian moral oppression, and anything deeper was just asking for trouble. He had never questioned or criticized Natasha for her zeal, though her participation in weekly services always left him with an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, especially when some of the rituals turned aggressive and even violent. Yet she never wavered, and Patric couldn’t help but admire her dedication. At least she believed in something more than the next night’s sexual adventure or drug trip.

  He crammed the rest of the toast down his throat and eased off the stool. “I’m going to get some sleep...” he mumbled as he headed towards the back of the apartment.

  “I’m off to work, then,” Natasha said.

  Patric grunted in acknowledgement.

  “Don’t forget mass tonight,” Natasha called after him.

  He grunted again.

  Mass.... We even use the same vocabulary as the Delusionals.

  He dropped onto the unmade mattress and was asleep in seconds. The last image he saw before he closed his eyes was Su-Something and her dangerous, captivating eyes....

  CHAPTER 2

  Vatican City

  The monk’s black robes whispered on the cold marble floors of the Sala Regia. His steps were soft but hurried as he whisked through a massive doorway that opened into the splendid cavern of the Sistine Chapel.

  The chapel was dark, illuminated by a few dim chandeliers suspended from the vaulted ceiling and a handful of candelabras placed at intervals along the walls. The rear of the chapel was shrouded in shadow, and a great silver pentagram hovered menacingly in the blackness. Beneath the mighty symbol of Satan was an iron throne surrounded by tables, altars, cups, bowls, and books.

  As he entered the vaulted chamber, the monk knelt reverently at the sight of the giant pentagram, then crept into the room, which seemed even more massive in its silence. He looked about in confusion.

  Where were the guards and the attendants? And, most importantly, where was —

  “How m
any?”

  He whirled to peer into an unlit corner of the room.

  His Worship, the Voice of Satan, materialized from the shadows like a photo developing from a negative. The monk felt a tingle shiver through his nerves, though he dared not ask how His Worship had come from a place where there seemed to be nothing.

  There were a great many things that he dared not ask.

  The Voice approached the monk on invisible feet. His immense robes made no sound as he walked. His angular, intelligent face, which the monk had never seen fully illuminated, wore a perpetual smirk of arrogance and even mischief. His expression exuded a peculiar blend of brightness and shadow, of welcoming warmth and terrifying hostility.

  He spoke again with a tense, disturbing softness. “How many?”

  Swallowing his nervousness, the monk stammered, “F-final reports indicate that ten temples were attacked. Twelve priests were killed, another three seriously injured. Six assistant ministers and fourteen monks were killed, and another ten wounded. No members of the congregations were hurt, thank Satan.”

  The pontiff stared into the darkness for a moment, then turned with a sigh.

  “Well, I hope the Delusionals enjoy the fruits of their harvest.”

  He ascended the steps to his throne and sat down upon it, taking an ancient book in his hands and carelessly flipping it open.

  “We were the ones who extended the olive branch, were we not? After all the chaos and madness that followed our Master’s return, when they were on the brink of destruction, we were the ones who reached out to them and agreed to let them live in peace. And now, more than a decade later, they repay us with violence?”

  He looked down at the book and shook his head. “I should have listened to the Circle of Elders.... I see now that we were wrong to interrupt the Darwinian fight for survival. We were seeking to spare our own people from a long, drawn-out religious war, but perhaps it would have been necessary in order to bring peace to future generations.”

  He rose slowly from the throne and cast the heavy volume into a table, which landed with a loud clap. The monk jumped with surprise, then gazed up at the powerful spectacle that the pontiff presented, standing mightily beneath the immovable symbol of Apollyon’s power. He was staring into a distant darkness, thinking.

  Or perhaps listening.

  For a moment, the great chapel was completely still. Even the candles dared not waver.

  Then the pontiff looked down at the monk with fierce eyes,.

  “Not this time!” he snapped, descending the steps beneath the throne with shocking quickness.

  The monk cowered instinctively as he drew close.

  “No, we will end this war once and for all,” His Worship continued. “Any attack on our people or places of worship will be answered with hellfire and plague, and we will quench the Delusionals’ faith in their impotent God once and for all.”

  “But-but what if the attack was just the work of a small organization acting outside the Christian church’s authority? Members of our order do not think that they would be so foolish to condone or even command these attacks.”

  The pontiff was silent for a moment. “Perhaps that is true, but it does not mitigate our response. This is what should have been done years ago. I was foolish to allow the Christian church to remain, weak as it was. Tolerance and acceptance are their virtues, not ours, and this time, we shall eliminate them completely. This attack is the perfect catalyst to bring our retribution down upon their heads.”

  The monk wrung his hands and spoke hesitantly. “You speak the truth, Your Worship. But is it possible that the peoples’ opinion of our order will become hostile if we instigate a war?”

  The Voice of Satan snorted defiantly. “So let them think what they wish! We fear no one, least of all the fickle minds of the masses. We serve the god of this world, and we are stronger than any corporation, army, or country. We have unlimited resources at our disposal, as well as considerable power in every major government on earth. If anything, I believe that the public will welcome the eradication of the institution that has lied to them for millennia and provided no protection against our might. What right has the church of God to continue?”

  The monk bowed in genuine awe. “Of course, Your Worship.”

  The pontiff clasped his hands behind his back and turned his gaze upon the intricately painted masterpieces that covered the walls. “Whoever the assassins were, they will go down in history as the spark that lit the fuse of their beloved church’s destruction.”

  He turned to face the monk. “Send word to our temples and congregations around the world. Instruct the priests to deliver this message: the Church of God must be removed, by any means necessary. Fear neither the law nor the agnostics, for they will see our Great Lord’s true power in our actions and faith. Go, go now.”

  The monk bowed low again and vanished from the chapel like a puff of smoke from an extinguished candle, leaving His Worship in reflective silence. His simmering eyes turned back to the walls of the chapel, which had once been lovingly adorned with cherubs, saints, and the splendor of creation, and now displayed nightmares of demons and ghouls feasting upon the souls of the weak-willed and deceived. At the pinnacle of the vaulted ceiling, where God once reached out towards His most precious creation, now the terrifying vision of the Great Dragon as he presented himself to the world grinned down upon his servant.

  The Voice of Satan closed his eyes and began to sing.

  ****

  Patric jolted awake as a car alarm began blaring angrily outside on the street. He wormed his way out of the crumpled sheets and squinted as he looked towards the window. His squint instantly disappeared when he saw not the glare of afternoon sun but evening’s creeping darkness.

  He jerked his head around towards the clock mounted on the wall, then leaped out of bed amidst a flurry of curses. Mass was in half an hour, and Natasha would kill him if he was late again. He ignored his grumbling stomach and rushed to the closet, tossing aside shirts and pants to get to the black hoodless robe hiding in the back of the bureau. He threw it over his head as he stumbled towards the door, narrowly missing a fragile glass bookcase in the corner of the living room. He slammed the door shut, then he rushed back inside again and grabbed his keys and hastily locked the door.

  Panting heavily and sticky with nocturnal humidity, he reached the temple steps just as a low-toned chant seeped from the stone pores like vapor. He bowed low before the pentagram blazing above the doors, then slipped quietly inside and melted into the pews with the rest of the congregation.

  The altar at the end of the sanctuary bore a mountain of candles which made the massive gold pentagram in the center shimmer and ooze like molten lava. In double rows behind the altar were black-robed apparitions, their faces dissolved by black shrouds bound at the neck. From these grave specters arose incantations that chilled one’s blood. Patric knew that Natasha was one of these phantoms, but the shrouds made it impossible to determine which one.

  He closed his eyes and concentrated on the chants. It was at ominous moments like these that he could sense the Great Lord most keenly, though even he had to admit it was more of a sensation than a direct awareness of his presence. Still, he felt solace knowing that his feeble faith was placed in something that was real beyond question, something the Delusionals could hardly claim.

  A deep commanding voice rose above the unholy din, and Patric raised his head to witness a hooded priest emerge from the shadows of the north transept and kneel before the altar. The priest flung the hood back and spread his arms wide. His powerful voice soared over the shrouded choir and sang hymns of praise to the Prince of Darkness.

  This mournful dirge continued for several minutes. Patric tried to feel pious, but instead he found himself becoming impatient. Naturally, he considered himself a true believer, but he didn’t think that all of this pomp and grandiosity was necessary. It reminded him too much of what the Delusionals espoused, which was exactly what he and the rest of t
he world ran away from once their Liberator had revealed himself. This — the choir, the robes, the candles — it all just seemed like empty theatrics meant to trick people into feeling artificial reverence. In fact, if the question were ever posed, he would confess that the times he felt closest to the Great Lord was when he was indulging his carnal appetites with total abandon.

  After all, what could be more Satanic?

  The chanting suddenly stopped in a razor-sharp moment, and Patric quickly raised his head. The priest rose to his feet and turned towards the congregation. His voice was low and thick.

  “Tantum ergo Diabulus veneremur cernui.”

  The congregation repeated the incantation, and the priest spoke again. He would pause after each phrase, and the congregation would repeat his words.

  “Genitori Inferi, laus et jubilatio, honor et virtus quoque, sit et benedictio procedenti ab utroque compar sit laudatio.”

  The shadow-faced specters remained motionless behind the priest during the recitations. There was a thick, humid silence that filled the sanctuary, and Patric was starting to feel vaguely uncomfortable. Was there an insect swarming about his head? He glanced around in annoyance.

  The solemn priest motioned for the congregation to be seated, then waited for a long, heavy moment before speaking.

  “My children, you have no doubt heard of the terrible tragedy that has befallen our family. A dozen of my brothers, pillars of our venerable order, were gunned down in cold blood, without dignity or reverence. Although the assassins’ identities have not yet been determined, we can all be certain that they belong to the ranks of the Delusionals, those who would gladly see our mighty order demolished and ruined. Yet it is they who cower amongst the rubble and ashes of their fallen empire, for this world does not belong to their so-called ‘Heavenly Father’ anymore. No, this world is the domain of Apollyon the Destroyer, Prince of the Powers of the Air, and he blesses his faithful with fortune and prosperity. Those who fly his banner high are rewarded, and those who despise it are decimated like the Cathedral of Our Lady many years before.”