by Mark Carver
Standing in the empty circle, the woman took a step back, revealing a battered iron sewer cap set in the stone beneath her feet. Tourec looked at the heavy iron lid, then looked up at the woman, who nodded once. His heart pounding, he stepped into the circle and walked towards her. The woman did not move, and her eyes remained fixed on him.
As he drew near to her, Tourec could see, or rather feel, some kind of warmth and light emanating from her. A thought struck his brain like a bolt of lightning.
She is an angel.
This possibility thrilled his heart, and a surge of strength blasted away his fear. He looked down at the sewer lid, took a deep breath and prayed.
If this is your will, give me the strength I need.
Disregarding the danger he was putting himself in, Tourec cast off the heavy monk’s robe he had been wearing. His muscular body bulged beneath his dirty jeans and T-shirt, and his blatant Christian tattoos were bared for everyone to see. But no one did. Every eye in the crowd was fixed upon one of the dozen video screens that showed His Worship’s triumphant march down the aisle of the temple towards the grand pulpit at the far end of the sanctuary.
This was the sign that Tourec needed. He didn’t even stop to consider the impossibility of one man lifting the gigantic manhole cover until he had hoisted it out of its grooves and deposited it to the side of the opening. His thundering heart felt like it was going to explode, and his eyes beamed with wonder as he looked up at the woman in white.
Her eyes dared him to descend into the blackness. Tourec eased himself over the manhole, then cautiously descended the rusty iron ladder down into the murky abyss. He glanced up once more and could see only clouds. Breathing a plea for strength, he continued down the ladder and was enveloped by the darkness.
****
Patric’s head jerked up out of his hands.
He had heard it this time.
He was certain of it — the haze of the drugs had long since faded, and the agonizing buzz was ringing in his ears like a mosquito that had flown into his brain.
He leaped to his feet and looked around. Every time he had heard that sound, something had happened to Natasha, and he wasn’t going to let this chance slip away. He dashed into the crowd, pushing past the worshippers whose eyes were riveted to the large screens that glowed brightly in the twilight.
Patric followed the sound like a hound on a scent, bumping and jostling the transfixed pilgrims watching the Voice ascend to the pulpit. No pyrotechnics or fanfare accompanied the pontiff’s ascent; his menacing presence was a spectacle in itself. Even to the crowd assembled outside the temple, His Worship’s gaze seemed to slice through their souls like a red hot knife.
The pontiff raised his hands, and his voice resounded throughout the temple and rang out across the plaza.
“O Lux Inferni, iam sol recedit igneus, infunde lumen veritas cordibus....”
The buzzing sound was now loud enough to split his skull, and Patric winced with each step. He was on the verge of collapsing in agony when he burst through the crowd and saw a woman in white standing in the center of an empty circle. She was so white that she seemed to glow, but her eyes were black and reflected no light.
In spite of the pain searing his brain, Patric froze and stared at her. Her face was rigid like stone, and she pointed to the open manhole beside her feet, then stepped back and literally melted into the crowd.
“Wait!” Patric cried.
The humming vanished. Like grazing cows oblivious to their movements, the crowd began to close the circle, and Patric glanced around in fear. He looked down at the open manhole, and then slipped inside, cursing everyone and everything he could think of.
****
The arching sewer tunnel was illuminated by faint bulbs encased in wire cages, and this was a great relief for Tourec. It would have been impossible to navigate the matrix of tunnels without light. As he made his way through the odious cave, he kept an eye on the slippery stones beneath his feet — one slip would send him into the stream of filth slowly drifting past. With the other eye, he scanned the walls for any indication of direction. At last, he saw a spray-painted sign pointing the way to the temple. Tourec sucked in his breath — the temple was only fifty meters away.
He heard a small splash behind him, followed by the startled chirp of sewer rats. Placing his hand on the wall for stability, Tourec quickened his steps towards the temple. He did not want to spend one unnecessary moment in this place.
****
Patric bit his lip as his foot slipped on a slimy stone, sending a loose rock into the river of sewage. This disruption was not appreciated by the local vermin, who bleated their annoyance and jumped into the stream and swam away.
The sudden movement had caused Patric to gulp a large breath of the foul air, and he snapped his mouth shut to keep from vomiting. He didn’t know who or what was waiting up ahead, and he wanted to keep his presence here a secret.
After suppressing his gag reflex, he continued onwards. His eyes nervously scanned the floor and walls of the tunnel, and he was grateful to discover faded red words splashed across the grimy stone walls, declaring that the temple was only fifty meters to the north. He swallowed a painful lump of fear and proceeded forward, though his mind was baffled by the woman in the shocking white gown.
He had seen her eyes, and he knew what she was, or what possessed her. He was surprised how easily he had followed her gesture. He had no idea what was down here, yet he had jumped in with barely a moment’s hesitation. There was something about her, something....powerful. Commanding. It felt natural to go where she told him to go.
But why?
Patric stopped, clamping his teeth shut. He had heard something up ahead, like the sound of creaking metal. He waited for several moments, hearing only silence. He crept forward, barely daring to breath. He could hear the drip, drip of oily water and the scurrying of rat’s claws, but nothing indicating a human presence.
He remained motionless for a few moments, wincing at each exploding breath of foul air. He glanced fearfully behind him, then crept forward with silent footsteps. He came to an unlocked metal door, which was probably the source of the creaking. He peeked through it with caution, glancing up at the rough-hewn stairs that led upwards into blackness. He strained his ears to listen for any sound, but he heard nothing. Taking one more deep breath, he wrenched open the door, which shrieked loudly in protest. He knew that it was going to make a sound whether he opened it quickly or slowly, and an abrupt jerk caused a shrill but brief creak, rather than a long, mournful squeal. He waited again and heard only silence.
Fear clutched his heart with an icy fist, but he forced himself to think of Natasha, though his mind was a tempest of doubts and despair. He had no idea what was even going on here, or if his current path would lead him to his fiancée. Or something else
Patric exhaled a breath of exasperation.
He had to try.
****
The Voice of Satan raised his eyes and swept his gaze across the cavernous sanctuary, which was packed from wall to wall with eager, reverent faces. The mood inside the temple was somber and tense, in sharp contrast to the carnival of excess raging outside. This was how he liked it — calm and serene. It was in moments like these that he could truly feel his master’s presence, not in the orgies and rituals, which were more for the followers’ enjoyment than for the Great Lord’s pleasure.
The black obsidian walls of the temple flickered with countless torches and candles, and the three-hundred pound chandeliers suspended from the ceiling glowed with a dim, mournful light. For a moment, His Worship forgot about the sea of faces beneath him, and his spirit reveled in the devilish majesty of the magnificent structure that engulfed him and the congregation.
This truly was the house of Satan.
The Voice could remember visiting the pathetic cathedral that had once stood here when he was a child. He had felt no divine fingers plucking at his soul as he had surveyed the Gothic arches and melanc
holy statues, but he remembered feeling scorn and contempt for a religion that had erected what it declared to be a monument to God but was only a weak attempt to crystallize the glory of man.
Well, his master had certainly made quick work of that supposedly indelible etch on human history, and now this spectacle arose from the stones like a black mountain from hell. It was to hell that this temple was dedicated, and it was truly infused with infernal power and strength. Awe and wonder were evident on each face in the vast congregation, and His Worship smiled to see what a profound effect this place was having on those gathered within.
He raised his arms, the black sleeves of his silk robe slipping down his wrists to reveal a matrix of scars, remnants of countless rituals. The congregation raised their arms as well.
“Hail Satan!” the Voice cried out.
“Hail Satan!” the crowd echoed with such force that the walls trembled.
His Worship bowed his head beneath the massive gold pentagram hovering behind him. His lips moved in silent words for a moment, then he looked out over the audience as he gripped the podium tightly.
“Brothers and sisters, children of our dark master, we are gathered in this sacred hall to witness the birth of a new age. Since our Great Lord’s appearance on this very spot twelve years ago, our church has flourished into a mighty force whose power and influence is unequaled throughout the world.”
There was a burst of cheers and applause, and after a moment, the Voice continued his address.
“We have fought and labored to not only build our order, but also to eradicate any systems and beliefs that dared challenge our dominion. Now, as this age folds into twilight, we can rejoice that our foes have been broken and crushed into dust!”
Stronger cheers and louder applause filled the sanctuary. His Worship, beaming like an eager child, threw off a cowl that covered several books on the pulpit. He seized the volumes and raised them up for the cheering masses to see. At that moment, a rectangular stone pit filled to the brim with oil burst into flames beneath the pulpit, sending the congregation into a frenzy.
“Death! Death to the stupidity of Judaism!” His Worship cried as he flung the Torah into the fire.
The crowd roared.
The Qur’an and Buddhavacana sailed through the air and splashed into the flaming oil pit.
“Death to the bondage of Islam! Death to the mystical illusions of Buddhism! Death to the chaos of Hinduism!”
The crowd shrieked with ecstasy as the Shruti and Smriti were hurled into the fire. Then the Voice held aloft a massive tome, and the room shook with fury. His Worship grinned broadly as he looked up at the enormous book. It was a Gutenberg Bible, one of the first books ever printed.
He clutched the book over his head like Moses about to cast down the Ten Commandments.
“Death to the delusions of Christianity!”
His face a mask of pure hatred, the Voice launched the book into the raging fire, and the crowd roared like demons from hell. His Worship’s knuckles were white as he gripped the pulpit, his body trembling with wrath.
“We are all that remains!” he bellowed to a surge of cheers. “Our enemies have fallen! Apollyon the Destroyer has scorched the lies and delusions from our world! The synagogues and churches and temples and mosques have crumbled into dust! Our church...is the one true church!”
The temple quaked as the tower bells rang out and the throngs of people inside the sanctuary and crowded outside in the plaza cheered and applauded. The Voice held his arms aloft and gazed down at the faithful, his eyes flashing with fire.
****
As he navigated the slimy steps and slipped into a silent corridor, Patric could hear, or rather feel, the roars and applause coming from the temple above. Despite the frequent outbursts, he kept his eyes peeled and his ears open for any sign of the ghost he was chasing. He was beginning to wonder if he had made a wrong turn somewhere, but he had not seen any other routes since he had emerged from the sewers, so he figured that the only course was to keep moving forward.
The string of weak light bulbs illuminated his path as he crept silently on his toes, and he found himself wishing for a weapon of some kind — a metal bar, a workman’s hammer, anything. He had not seen loose items of any kind on the stairs or the corridor which now enveloped him. Then his thoughts turned away from his inability to defend himself to anxiety about where this seemingly endless hall would lead. He couldn’t tell if he had been walking for five minutes or fifteen. Natasha had always pestered him to wear a watch to terminate his habitual tardiness, and now he wished he had listened.
The curved stone ceiling above his head trembled again as the crowd burst into frenzied applause. This outburst seemed louder than the ones before, and this gave Patric some relief. At least he was getting closer to the surface and hopefully to whatever or whoever was holding Natasha.
Suddenly, he stopped. He leaned forward, listening intently. A sharp buzz jabbed his eardrum and he stifled a gasp of pain. Even though the roar of the crowd was quite loud, the piercing vibration bored through his skull and seemed to silence all other sounds. Patric squinted with agony, but he kept moving forward. He knew he was close.
****
The Voice could feel the rabid, animal energy streaming from the maniacal crowd which had been docile and reverent only minutes before. The flames licked the charred ashes of the sacred books and smoke curled into the air, forming claw-like shapes.
A momentary thought of the danger he might be exposing himself to flashed through His Worship’s mind, but lingered only for a moment. He was invincible, a king, anointed to stand before the throne of Satan. No other living man dared to claim such an honor. This was his place, and his alone.
Of course, he was certainly not lacking protection. There were a dozen security guards surrounding the pulpit and altar, with several more guarding the apse in the rear of the sanctuary, as well as two snipers perched in the upper arcades. His heart did not quicken even a beat. The band of assassins had been demolished, and the world now belonged to him. Even the foolhardy attempt on his life outside in the plaza seemed like a clumsy joke. Feeling a rush of electric energy sizzling through every nerve in his body, he clapped his hands above his head, then pointed towards the choir perched high above the crowd at the west end of the sanctuary, beneath the simmering pentagram window.
A mighty blast of nearly one hundred male and female voices shook the sanctuary with melodies both sinister and majestic. The crowd fell silent and every heart quaked with the weight and power of each thundering note. Many people collapsed in their seats, and some even fainted or fell into convulsions.
The infernal choir filled the temple with Satanic stanzas for several minutes, then ceased abruptly. As the last echoes drifted towards the vaulted ceiling like frightened birds, His Worship descended from his pulpit down to the altar, where he was joined by two seductive priestesses, and the trio glided towards the fiery pit. He knelt before the altar, and then turned towards the congregation and spread his arms wide. A priestess removed his heavy outer robe, and another brought him a silver goblet from the altar. He took a sip and smacked his lips.
“The blood of the fallen is sweet,” he declared dramatically. He motioned towards an open door on his right, and two hooded monks wheeled a large metal frame out onto the chancel. Affixed to the top beam of the frame were seven pairs of what looked like leather handcuffs. Whispers and murmurs rippled through the crowd.
His Worship smiled broadly. “And the willing sacrifice of innocence is sweeter.”
Through the same door, seven young women in gossamer white robes strode forth, their steps bold but their heads bowed. They assembled themselves in a row before the flaming pool of oil. The heat caused their delicate features to shimmer and sway. Their beaming eyes were fixed upon the Voice with excitement and trepidation.
The Voice clapped twice, and the two monks stepped forward and seized each girl by her hands and hoisted her arms above her head, locking her wris
ts firmly into the cuffs. His Worship watched the bindings with a glint of fiendish delight in his eyes, and the lascivious priestesses by his side wore hungry, wolfish expressions.
The girls were all bound securely, and their chests heaved with panting breaths. The din arising from the congregation began to increase, as one by one they began to realize what was about to happen. His Worship paced in front of the girls like a lion examining wounded gazelles, enjoying this moment of supreme power. The crowd also began to snarl and gnash their teeth, and the unseen masses watching outside were even more frantic.
Standing before the flames, His Worship raised his hands towards the sky and spoke with a mighty voice. “Behold, the willing surrender of seven lost lambs, wandering for years in the darkness that they imagined was the light, languishing in a faith that was never theirs and provided no answers. Now, they have truly seen the light, and offer up their treasured virtue to Almighty Satan, the Prince of this World!”
The masses roared with frightening fury, and His Worship turned towards the girls, who were gasping with adoration, expectation, and fear. The Voice of Satan snorted victoriously, then reached out and seized the neckline of one of the girls, clenching his muscles as he prepared to rend the garment from her body.
He froze at the sight of a gleaming silver gun barrel pointing at him from between two girls’ bodies. He heard a stone cold voice that rasped like scraping metal.
“No one moves, or I kill him and all of you.”
CHAPTER 12
When Patric opened the door in the east wall in the rear of the sanctuary, the cheers that had been muffled by wood and stone suddenly exploded in his eardrums. As he stepped through the door, his foot struck something soft. He glanced down and gasped.