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

by Mark Carver

  Patric’s neck twitched and he swallowed dryly. A dull hum seemed to be drilling into his skull with a tiny needle. He looked around and tried to pinpoint the source of the irritation, but he could see no insect or any other cause of the invisible sound. No one else seated in the pew seemed to notice it.

  “Before the Manifestation,” the priest continued with a slowly rising pitch, “the Delusionals espoused peace, love, and meekness. But we know that the world, and the future, belongs to the strong, to the brave, to those that strike back, rather than turn the other cheek. This, my children, is what has made us so strong today, and will continue to do so. The Deluded Scriptures say: ‘Love thine enemy.’ Well, we are bound by no such folly. We hate our enemies, and we have tolerated their existence too long. We tried to co-exist in civilized indifference, but they have brought the fight to our doorstep, and we shall respond!”

  Patric gritted his teeth as the priest’s words failed to reach his ears. The hum had ballooned into an almost shrieking buzz. It could have been some sort of audio feedback, but there were no such devices in the sanctuary, and no one else was hearing it. He grimaced and rubbed his ears frantically, trying to exorcise whatever it was from his skull. A few people near him noticed his convulsions and whispered for him to be still.

  Patric ignored them as the vibrations inside his head and all around him grew louder and louder. The priest’s words were almost inaudible to him above the hellish noise, which was actually starting to cause pain. He moaned silently and shut his eyes tight.

  The priest raised his hands to the pentagram suspended above the congregation like a grim, lightless chandelier. “My children, I bid you rise up! All across our world, the faithful are taking to the streets to show those deluded fools once and for all who the master of this world is! Join them! Peace and mercy are virtues that have no place in this world, and those who hold fast to the feeble words of their Savior shall find themselves weeping amidst the flames!”

  Patric couldn’t bear it any longer. The noise seemed to fill the nave like millions of wasps that only he could hear, and it was driving him mad. He jumped to his feet and opened his mouth to scream.

  The congregation whipped their heads around. Patric froze. There had been a scream, but it did not come from him. He looked to his right and saw a veiled woman that he had not noticed before. Her neck was arched unnaturally backwards, and her mouth was gaping open so far that it seemed that her cheeks would split. The shrill, aching shriek sliced out of her mouth like a fountain of razors. Even after the agonizing cry died away, the woman remained in that contorted position for several moments.

  No one, not even the startled priest, dared to breathe. The air was completely still. With a gasp, Patric realized that the awful buzzing had ceased, but he felt a new terror crawling through his veins.

  Everyone in the sanctuary was paralyzed, except for those closest to her, who scurried nervously away. The veiled woman lurched and a sickly rasp gurgled in her throat as she lowered her head to fix her gaze upon the priest before the altar. She glided out of the pew and into the aisle, stabbing the air with an accusing finger aimed at the priest.

  “Fiend!” she cried. “Fiend!”

  The priest looked bewildered and he dropped his hands. He squinted in the sanctuary’s low light, trying to make out the face beneath the dusty veil.

  The woman jerked down the aisle, her dirty, colorless dress trailing behind her in tatters. Patric suddenly felt a pang of fear as the woman neared the altar, behind which stood the black-shrouded choir.

  Natasha was one of them.

  “Fiend!” the veiled woman wailed a third time. She had nearly reached the altar and the priest, who was either too proud or too petrified to move. Her claw-like hands reached towards him, yet before she could touch him, she whirled around to face the congregation and whipped off her veil.

  Everyone gasped in shock. The woman’s eyes were completely black and reflected no light. Patric felt a surge of bile in his throat, and he gripped the pew for support. He glanced anxiously at the stone-like choir and ached to know which one was Natasha.

  Why were they all just standing there like that?

  “Here these words!” the woman spat venomously through a salivating grin, while the congregation cowered before her withering, abysmal glare. “In the shadow of the Holy Mother, seven brides shall burn on their blessed day, and this shall be the sign that the Almighty burns with wrath! The church shall be cleansed, and the head shall be smote from the body!”

  She arched her neck towards the heavens.

  “Damnation! Damnation...!”

  As soon as the last words left her lips, the woman shrieked again and fell to the floor, writhing and contorting like a wounded animal snared in a trap. The priest recoiled in terror, and the choir suddenly sprang to life as if snapping awake from a hypnotic trance. They poured out of the stalls, circling the wretched woman who lay foaming and gnashing on the stone floor.

  Patric tried to push his way towards the altar to be near to Natasha but the press of the crowd prevented him from getting too close. Through the forest of heads and shoulders, he could barely see the woman gasping desperately as she thrashed like an animal near death.

  All at once, she lay still, her eyes rolling back and spittle bubbling on her cheeks.

  The congregation sucked in its breath in unison, awaiting another explosion of violence, but none came. She lay prone upon the gilded pentagram embedded in the sanctuary floor, her arms stretched out across the points. Her neck was twisted in an impossible angle, and the priest leaned forward for a brief examination, then stood up to announce that she was dead.

  With a shriek of rage, the woman seized the priest’s robe and pulled him down to his knees.

  “Fiend!” she snarled.

  He violently resisted her, then she fell back again upon the stone.

  The disheveled priest adjusted his glasses with a trembling hand and backed away from the woman, as did the others forming the circle around her. Patric exerted every effort to pierce the crowd and reach Natasha, but he was imprisoned in the crush of onlookers.

  The woman on the floor was motionless, as was everyone else. Then, to their amazement, a painful sigh escaped her lips and she rose shakily to her feet. Patric couldn’t help but gasp when he saw her face, which now looked at least twenty years younger than before. Her skin was the color of twice-burned ash, and her eyes whipped frantically in confusion.

  “What happened?” she whimpered, terrified of the throng surrounding her. “Why are you looking at me like that?” She began to sob like a dejected child.

  For a moment, no one moved or said anything. Then, with timid steps, an old woman emerged from the circle and put a comforting arm around her. The crowd parted as the old woman led her towards the rear of the sanctuary.

  Patric watched them shuffle off together, then turned back to find Natasha at his side, her eyes wide with fear.

  ****

  The candlelight gleamed softly, illuminating the assassin’s hands as he worked. Hebrew script was tattooed across his calloused knuckles, and a Star of David wreathed with a crown of thorns adorned the back of his hand.

  He paused for a moment, still clutching the gun tightly, and he regarded his tattoos with flickering eyes.

  Those days in Jerusalem had been the best and worst of his life. The slaughter, the fury, the blind hatred...yet the Temple Mount, Church of the Holy Sepulcher, and the Wailing Wall remained. The forces of God had held their ground against the hordes of Satan. There was no glory, no reward — at least not in this lifetime. But that did not matter. The only thing that was important was protecting the most fragile elements of the Christian faith. It was, in a sense, like the Crusades of the Middle Ages — defending sacred and holy sites against defilers and idolaters.

  The toll was immense, but the price was justified.

  The assassin was not yet an assassin in those days. Back then, he was simply an enthusiastic believer, ready to devo
te his life in service of the One True God.

  Memories of the days and weeks of exhausting training by renegade members of the French Foreign Legion raced through his mind. He remembered the pain and fear and weakness being purged from his body, leaving him a crystallized warrior, a righteous hammer of God. With power from heaven, he had set out to shatter the very soul of darkness that gripped the world like a putrid, inky fist.

  He glanced at the Bible next to the candle. A strange sense of urgency pricked his soul as he picked up the heavy volume. He opened the cover, the leather worn smooth by countless openings. His eyes fell upon the words written in delicate script on the dedication page.

  “To my dearest Tourec. With love, Isabella.”

  His eyes sparkled.

  Tourec….

  It seemed like an eternity since she had spoken that that name. His rough fingers traced the beautifully curving lines, reminding him of the raven-black tresses that spilled playfully over her shoulders.

  She really had been magnificent....

  Tourec started to turn the page to read from the Word of God, but something stopped him. His hand was frozen, holding the page at an angle. He couldn’t bring himself to tear his eyes from that graceful handwriting. With smothered fury, he closed the book with a loud thump and slid it across the table, out of the light.

  He immediately grabbed an empty magazine and began stuffing it with hollow-point bullets as he stared into the unwavering candle flame. He tried to pray, but there was no spark, no connection, like a severed electrical wire. He rammed another bullet into the clip, then dropped his clenched fists to the table, his breath spurting in violent huffs. The candle danced and swayed, nearly extinguishing itself.

  Watching the candle bravely fight extinction caused him to relax a bit. Slowly regaining control of his breathing, he glanced down at the faded rose tattoo that adorned the inside of his forearm. She had loved roses, especially pink ones.

  She didn’t deserve that....

  Tourec lifted his eyes to the defiant candle, then squeezed his eyelids shut. He felt so far away from everything right now.

  Most of all, from God.

  ****

  “What do you mean, you don’t know what happened?”

  “I already told you twice, I don’t know! I…I just remember singing the mass, then there was a woman on the floor having a seizure.”

  Patric glared at her in disbelief. “You didn’t hear what she said? You didn’t see her screaming and twisting?”

  “I don’t remember any of that! I’m sorry, but I don’t!” Natasha pressed her fingers to her temples. “Please, Patric, I don’t feel well. I want to lie down.”

  “The woman was possessed!” Patric exclaimed, fear and shocking rising in his voice. “There was a demon-possessed woman five meters away and you didn’t even move! Aren’t you concerned about the safety of our baby?”

  Natasha whirled, her eyes flashing. “Oh, so now you’re concerned about our baby? Never mind the drunken nights and cocaine binges and who knows what else you do.... When I don’t respond to a threat that I didn’t even see, I’m the one to blame?”

  Her words stung him. He knew she was right. It was just.... His mind was such a swirl of confusion and doubts and disbelief that he couldn’t stop his tongue from lashing out, even though his aim was directed at the wrong person. He wilted on the kitchen stool and covered his face in his hands.

  He looked up, his eyes pleading with her.

  “When I saw that woman, I was so scared. I could hear.... I couldn’t get close to you, and you weren’t moving, and that woman, what she said....”

  He swallowed a lump of rising horror. “I don’t want to go back there if this kind of thing is going to happen again.”

  Natasha moved a step closer to him. “I know you’re scared, Patric. I was scared too when I saw that woman on the floor. But you need to have faith in our Great Lord, and trust him to guide us.”

  Patric recoiled from her touch on his shoulders. “That’s just it.... Whatever happened to that woman, our Great Lord was responsible for it. This isn’t...this isn’t the kind of faith that I want to live my life with — always afraid of ghosts and spirits and demons. I just want us to live our life the way we want, not having to worry about any of that stuff.”

  Natasha took his hands in hers. “This is our world, Patric. We didn’t choose it, but this is what it is. There are some things that I don’t like either, but we have to accept them. We cannot let our faith waver. Perhaps there are some things in our Great Lord’s kingdom that are frightening and dangerous, but turning our backs on him will be far worse for us. We cannot pick and choose what we like and what we don’t.”

  Patric nodded, trying to calm his quickening breath. Natasha stroked the hair falling over his sweating brow.

  “We need you here with us,” she spoke softly.

  Patric looked deep into her sky blue eyes. He embraced her tightly, and he could feel her melt in his arms. It’s such a relief to hold someone you love. Yet he could feel something like a cold black dagger stabbing at his heart. The woman’s shrieking words rang in his ear like a fading bell....

  A distant explosion slapped against the walls of the building. Natasha jerked out of his embrace and hurried to the window. A dull glow echoed off of the low-lying clouds on the horizon.

  “That was St. Étienne’s church,” Patric said quietly, leaning over her to stare out the window. It was one of the few Christian churches remaining in Limoges.

  Natasha embraced herself, sucking in a trembling breath. “We’re going to have a war....”

  Patric turned away.

  “Close the curtains.”

  ****

  Father DeMarco was quite troubled as he exited the grand cathedral and stepped into the crisp morning light. Far too troubled to admire the ghastly, terrifying beauty of the western facade of the Duomo di Milano. Too troubled to notice the three gorgeous women, likely off-duty fashion models, laughing breezily in the square beneath the shadow of the cathedral. Too troubled to feel the soothing autumn sun climbing over the rooftops of Milan. Too troubled to notice the ancient Fiat 500 exiting the narrow alley as he shuffled along the sidewalk.

  Tires screeched, and the dull, dented fender jerked to a halt three inches from his knees. The driver leaned out of the window and unleashed a flood of curses towards the absentminded priest.

  In years past, this kind of disrespect for the clergy would have been unthinkable, but those days were long since dead. The collar and the crucifix wielded no power now. If anything, they attracted contempt and scorn. Father DeMarco lifted his gaze briefly, looked at the rattling car and the red-faced driver, then continued his weary march.

  The night had been exhausting. Tensions boiled, tempers seethed, and dread weighed heavily on every soul. Several members of the Council vehemently opposed open conflict, since they feared the might of the enemy would grind them into ash in the face of provocation. Others, including Father DeMarco, believed that their side had already fired the first salvo, and preparations should be made to counter the inevitable retribution.

  He licked his dry lips and didn’t attempt to suppress a weary sigh. Twelve years ago, he couldn’t believe that Hell had actually come to Earth, and in the wake of that terrifying revelation, he was all but certain that the Christian church would fall before the firestorms of Lucifer. Yet faith prevailed, and though it was severely weakened, the church of God had endured that initial scathing and the tumultuous years that followed.

  Now, after years of desperate survival, a new scourge loomed on the horizon like a black plague of locusts. The Council had already been notified of several overnight retaliation attacks against Christian targets in France, Germany, Russia, even America. Four priests were killed, along with several churchgoers. There were also reports of attacks on the streets and vandalism of Christian monuments and sacred sites.

  The mighty bells of the Milan Cathedral roared with sublime thunder, and Father DeMar
co was jolted out of his dark reverie. He turned and beheld the west facade glowing majestically, even arrogantly, in the early morning sun. A soothing warmth caressed his frightened heart and he closed his eyes, letting the powerful metallic chimes strike his soul like a hammer on hot iron. A voice in his heart urged him to be still, and he felt his spirit warmed with the glory of God.

  As the bells faded, he thought he heard something.

  It sounded like….

  He opened his eyes and gasped.

  Two trails of smoke streaked like demons over the square towards the cathedral. Paralyzed with horror, he watched the rocket-propelled grenades smash into the ancient stone facade and blast masonry and sculptures across the piazza. A moment later, the concussion punched him in his stomach and he was knocked to the ground. Fear and disbelief constricted his lungs, and he gasped for breath as he begged the Virgin Mother for mercy. His legs felt like jelly, and with enormous effort, he sprinted across the street to the piazza where shocked tourists and citizens wailed and scattered in terror. Several bodies lay bleeding in the square, cut down by jagged shards of shrapnel.

  A painful cry of anguish pierced Father DeMarco’s ears, and he turned to see two women cradling their friend in their arms. He rushed to them and looked down at their red hands. Blood spouted from numerous gashes in the young woman’s lifeless body, and the right side of her once-beautiful face had been demolished by a flying piece of stonework. The women wailed hysterically as the priest knelt down beside them. For a moment, he was mesmerized by their unspeakable grief, and like a massive stone being rolled slowly over his back, all of the sorrow and misery he had felt for lost friends and family surged over him with overwhelming heaviness. The anguish that poured from the two women gouged his heart and it took superhuman effort to restrain a torrent of tears. With trembling hands, he performed last rites for the deceased woman, and his gaze fixed upon the quivering bronze cross he held above the body.