by Mark Carver
Four men were lying face down in their own blood.
Who did this?
Patric’s heart began thundering louder than the congregation’s applause, and he crept forward with caution, though he wasn’t sure who or what he was stalking. He found himself behind a large shrine that spanned nearly the entire width of the chancel stage and hid the rear of the sanctuary from the congregation. Several massive tapestries hung down from the ceiling, creating layers of curtains that obstructed his view of what was transpiring at the altar.
Peeking cautiously through the forest of fabric, Patric saw a man with his back towards him, along with seven women who also faced the crowd, and whose bodies seemed to hide the man from the eyes of the congregation. No one was moving.
Suddenly, Patric gasped, immediately clamping his hand over his mouth.
That man was Tourec.
****
“What do you want?” the Voice snarled.
“You know what I want,” Tourec answered, his voice dripping with venom. “You are a scourge upon this world, and you must answer for your blasphemy.”
The Voice snorted again in contempt. “You do not scare me, Christian. My ‘blasphemy’ is the truth. Your God remains silent and cold, and now the world trembles at my feet.”
“I do not speak of blasphemy against God,” Tourec growled, a bitter metallic edge serrating his voice. “I speak of blasphemy against your master.”
His Worship raised his eyebrows. “My master? What are you — ?”
“Silence!” Tourec hissed. “You have made this noble faith into a carnival of fools! Do you think this is what he wants? A playhouse of ridiculous rituals and Halloween debauchery? He hates you! All of you! Especially you, his pathetic ‘Voice!’ He doesn’t want a feeble mimicry of the Christian church; he wants chaos!”
Tourec jabbed the gun towards the pontiff, who took a frightened step back. He glanced towards the girls, who were all paralyzed with fear.
“How can you...who are you?” the Voice stammered.
Patric’s fingers clawed at the hanging tapestry, and he poured every ounce of strength into his voice.
“Tourec!”
Tourec whirled around.
Patric’s heart froze as he stared into his brother's eyes.
They were black as death.
The Voice seized upon this moment of distraction and turned to flee. As he ducked away from the gun, Tourec fired instinctively. The bullet ripped through the pontiff’s shoulder and he fell heavily into the pool of flaming oil. A fiery wave washed onto the marble floor and immediately began devouring the women’s’ white robes.
With a piercing shriek, the Voice of Satan burst out from the pool of fire, his entire body engulfed in red and yellow flames. Behind him, the seven virgins betrothed to the church of Satan blazed like torches, their screams mingling with those coming from the horrified congregation.
As the girls burst into flames, Tourec felt something rip away from him, like a blindfold being torn from his eyes. He fell to the floor in a heap, then his rigorous training injected his senses with a surge of adrenalin and he scurried behind one of the heavy curtains.
The members of the choir screaming in horror from their lofty perch as the leader of their church staggered towards the congregation, wailing and writhing with unimaginable torment. The audience recoiled from the wretched soul, but the crush of people seeking to run away was so strong that several members of the audience were unable to escape and were set ablaze themselves. The snipers hidden high above never saw any antagonist, and could only watch helplessly as their beloved pontiff collapsed in a sizzling heap of scorched flesh and cloth upon the gleaming stone floor. The swarm of panic was so overwhelming that none of the attendants or security guards could get close enough to extinguish the blaze.
Screams of shock and terror echoed crazily across the cavernous sanctuary, and the surging waves of people trying to escape obliterated the elevated platforms which afforded the cameras a safe viewing height. The petrified throngs outside of the temple only saw the first moments of horror as the Voice exploded in fire, then all was static as the cameras crashed to the ground and were trampled by the fleeing masses. The temple was a grand spectacle of pandemonium and grief, and the blackened corpse of the Voice of Satan lay smoldering on the ground, surrounded by several other charred bodies.
Patric watched this scene of horror transpire in a matter of seconds, and he was too stunned to react until he felt an iron fist seize his collar.
“Let’s go!” Tourec bellowed, hauling Patric towards the door where the four dead men lay.
Patric tried in vain to wrench his brother’s hand from his shirt. “What did you do?” he cried.
Tourec didn’t answer as he flung Patric through the door and slammed it shut. Both men tumbled down the stairs and rolled out into a small, dank room with a single naked bulb casting dim rays of illumination.
“I’m going to kill you!” Patric screamed as he sprang onto Tourec like a ferocious cat, ripping and tearing at his eyes, hair, and ears. He was consumed with frenzy, his madness fueling each blow and slash with incredible power.
Tourec tried to shield himself from Patric’s attacks but his brother’s maniacal strength caught him off guard.
“Patric! Stop! Listen to me!”
“Murderer!” Patric shrieked. “Monster!”
His fist crashed into Tourec’s eye, and Tourec struck back with blind rage. His blow landed on Patric’s jaw and sent him sprawling onto the clammy floor. Stunned, Patric groaned with pain as the dark room spun around him. His fury soon returned and he sprang to his feet and leaped towards Tourec just as his brother drew his gun.
Patric’s full weight crashed into Tourec’s body and the weapon clattered across the stone floor.
“Are you going to shoot me, too?” Patric cried as he smashed his fists into the back of Tourec’s skull like a club.
The ferocious insanity of Patric’s attacks awakened Tourec’s killer instinct. He whirled round, ducking out of the reach of Patric’s flailing fists. In the span of a heartbeat, he pinned Patric’s arm between his bicep and ribs and landed a fierce blow on Patric’s nose. Blood spurted out onto both men, and they tumbled to the floor.
Reacting in an instant, Tourec flipped himself into Patric’s stomach, his weight pinning his younger brother to the ground. The fire of violence flashed brightly in his eyes as his powerful fingers wrapped around Patric’s throat.
“You made your choice, brother,” he growled as Patric choked and sputtered beneath him. “You will never see the light of heaven....”
Patric writhed and gasped, yet his efforts were in vain. He could feel his life slipping out of his body, and his face turned into a bloodless mask of desperation.
A sharp crack of gunfire seemed to split open the stone room like an earthquake. Patric felt Tourec’s body convulse, then his fingers relaxed. Coughing and gulping delicious breaths of air back into his lungs, Patric stared up at his brother’s face.
Tourec’s listless eyes were fixed on the wall in front of him. He made a gurgling sound, and a bright red stain grew rapidly on the front of his shirt. A moment later, he fell dead on the floor.
Patric stared at his brother’s body, his mind gripped in the paralysis of shock and disbelief. Then he scrambled away as if Tourec’s corpse was a mass of squirming snakes. He scurried to the opposite wall and looked up at his rescuer.
“Natasha...?”
Patric didn’t know if he was hallucinating. He reached out a quivering, bloodied hand, and Natasha took it in hers. Patric closed his eyes and felt as if he was going to melt into the ground. Her skin felt so warm and...alive.
“Natasha,” he finally managed to croak in a raspy voice. Her name felt warm and sweet on his tongue. “Natasha, what are you doing here?”
She didn’t answer; she only smiled at him. But it was not a smile of affection, or relief. It was a smile of sympathy.
At that moment, Patric noticed t
hat she was draped in the robes worn by members of the choir that had been singing so majestically just moments ago. Patric’s head began to swim as a wave of nauseous confusion washed over his senses.
“What...?” His voice trailed away.
Natasha knelt down and touched his face with a soothing hand. “I am so sorry, Patric. I didn’t know all of this was going to happen.”
Patric could feel his heart began to quicken with anxiety. “You…you were kidnapped. They threatened you, threatened our baby....”
Natasha rose to her feet. “It’s not our baby, Patric.”
An icy dagger of terror gouged Patric’s soul. His fingers felt numb.
“What…what are you talking about?”
“You are not the baby’s father, Patric.”
Natasha’s beautiful face was cold and rigid. Patric’s hands began trembling and his heart pounded wildly. “If I’m not the…then who is?”
Natasha inhaled deeply and she stared at him with steel-cold eyes. “I cannot tell you.”
Electricity surged through Patric’s nerves and painful tears welled in his eyes. “Natasha,” he said with a quivering voice, “we were going to make our future together, all three of us. If you knew the baby wasn’t mine, why did you — ”
“She made a deal.”
Patric’s head jerked to the right to see where this alien voice had come from. The rusty iron door creaked open and he saw the woman who wore a blazing white dress, the woman who had led him to the open manhole in the plaza above. Now she was wrapped in an impossibly tight black dress, black as the void of space.
The agonizing hum immediately returned and stabbed Patric’s brain. He pressed his hands to his temples and squeezed his eyes shut.
He felt like such a fool.
“What kind of deal?” he snarled.
The woman sauntered over and stood next to Natasha, who did not seem threatened by her presence. The woman’s face exuded a haughty exultation of triumph, and she stroked Natasha’s face with a frighteningly long, slender finger.
“She was never going to tell you the truth about the child, and like a foolish girl, she believed that the three of you could live a happy, unremarkable life together. When we snatched her away from you, she was scared at first, but she soon realized she wasn’t in any danger, and she became quite attentive when she learned how special her child was.”
Patric groaned with pain. “What are you talking about?”
The woman snorted, evidently enjoying Patric’s torment. “The Voice had become a lunatic, and we made plans to have him eliminated. That’s why we needed your brother. We could have done it a thousand different ways, but a Christian assassin killing the leader of Satan’s church...it would create pure pandemonium. That’s what’s happening up there, right now. Chaos, fear, horror and confusion. All of it, music to his ears....”
His cranium felt like it was literally cracking, and Patric tried to scoot away from the woman, hoping distance would dull the pain, but it was no use. The woman in black placed a spider-like hand on Natasha’s shoulder, who remained motionless.
“He doesn’t need a church to rule this word,” she continued, smiling at Patric’s increasing agony. “His goal is simply to watch God’s creatures rip and tear themselves to pieces. Organized religion, in his or any other name, is the opposite of what he wants. Now the head has been severed from the body, and the whole world is going to plunge into chaos.”
“Why me?” Patric growled. “Why us?”
The woman chuckled and regarded Natasha hungrily. “Some things are beyond your ability to understand. But I can tell you that you were chosen simply because you had a famous brother. Once you brought him here, I took over the rest. I gave him a gun, I removed the guards, I laid out a clean, smooth path for him to follow. And follow he did, all in the name of God.”
“But...but his eyes...I saw them. He was...possessed!”
The woman laughed deeply. “All one has to do is crack open the door and they will find me inside without even realizing it, even if they have promised their souls to another. All it takes is one moment of deviation from their faith....”
Her blackened finger stroked Natasha’s cheekbone. As Patric watched, he felt anger and fury boiling within him so hot, he thought his skin was going to burst into flames. He screamed with rage and tried to jump to his feet, but an invisible weight pressed him to the ground.
The woman turned to him with bloodcurdling eyes. Crushed beneath an unseen hand, Patric screamed, “Demon!”
A sly smile crossed the woman’s terrifying face. “It doesn’t matter what I am. I serve my master, and today his will has been done. All thanks to you.”
Patric arched his back and cried out as he struggled to raise himself up from the ground. “Natasha,” he gasped, “don’t follow her. You’ve seen what these people do. They murdered His Worship, our master’s chosen voice! Whatever they promised you, it’s a lie!”
Natasha shook her head. “It’s too late. I’ve made my choice.” She caressed her bulging stomach. “Our order has been cleansed, and this child will grow up in this new world and become a mighty weapon for our Great Lord. I am sorry, Patric.”
Tears gushed from Patric’s eyes and he felt his heart shattering like glass. “I came here for you!” he roared with heart-wrenching anguish. “For both of you! Not for myself, or for the Great Lord. For you!”
Natasha's eyes sparkled with tears. “You are a good man, Patric. But our destinies take us on different paths, and we cannot change any of it.”
These words sliced through Patric like razors. His energy exhausted, he slumped to the ground, feeling as lifeless as his brother lying just a few feet away. Sobs escaped his lips like groans of pain.
The woman in black slithered towards Patric, kneeling down beside him and stroking his sweaty brow. “You were part of one of the most important days in human history,” she whispered. “That is quite extraordinary.”
Patric gathered all of the venom and hatred he had left within him.
“Go to hell,” he spat.
The woman laughed, a genuine hearty laugh, then rose to her feet. She glided to Natasha’s side and put her arm around her waist, then turned to look down at Patric.
“Farewell, Mr. Bourdon. Perhaps we’ll meet again.”
Patric lay gasping on the cold floor like a stranded fish. He watched helplessly as the two women walked towards the door, and then they dissolved into a black mist.
****
The heavy stomp of boots and the clattering of metal and chains jolted Patric out of his daze. He squinted and smacked his dry lips, then cried out as he was jerked to his feet by rough hands. He felt cold steel constricting around his wrists and felt himself being shoved towards the iron door.
The fog began to clear from his mind and he could make out faces and hear voices. His foot struck something soft, and he glanced down and caught a glimpse of Tourec’s lifeless body.
A flood of memories and emotions washed over him like a dam bursting.
Natasha....
Indescribable pain seared his heart, and he began to weep. The police officers took no notice and shoved him up the stairs and into the sanctuary which bore the telltale signs of panic and bedlam. Curtains lay in tatters, the altar was overturned and blood was splashed across the floor where the chalice had been thrown aside. Beyond the bloody streaks were several scorch marks on the intricate marble floor, and one was piled high with flowers and Satanic icons. The colossal sanctuary still seemed to echo with screams of terror, and the stench of smoke was thick in the air.
Patric felt his feet give way beneath him, and the officers caught him just before he crashed to the ground. They propelled him towards the south transept and led him into the shadows behind one of the shrines, where a secret door opened to the cool night air.
As they hurried down the stone walkway, Patric could hear throngs of people gathered at the temple’s west entrance, wailing and shouting. He glanced up and saw t
he Paris sky glowing red.
The woman in black was right. This was going to be chaos such as the world had never seen before.
He was still in a trance and didn’t even think to raise a word in his defense. He found himself being bundled into a waiting police truck and several officers squeezed in with him. The driver slammed the accelerator and the truck lurched forward, followed by several identical vehicles. The convoy skidded across the south plaza which was kept free from the crowd by police barriers, then swerved into the dark Paris streets.
The vehicles sped around corners and squeezed through alleyways, jostling its occupants like popcorn. In the midst of his utter despair, Patric realized that there were no sirens wailing or lights flashing. With infinite caution, he turned towards one of the officers and studied his face. The man suddenly seized him by the collar and stared into his terrified eyes. Any words Patric could have said froze in his throat, and his eyes dropped down to the man’s bare forearm.
A bold, black tattoo of a cross was stretched across the weathered skin.
Patric’s sorrow turned to terror, and he shook his head in desperate denial.
“No,” he pleaded, looking at each of the officers like a mouse surrounded by hungry cats. “No...!”
The officer flung him back against his seat and his lip curled with contempt.
“Be silent!” he growled, smashing his fist into Patric’s cheek.
All was darkness.
****
BLACK SUN
Copyright 2014 Mark Carver. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. All names, places, locations, and corporate entities are either
the product of the writer’s imagination or are used in a satirical and/or non-literal
manner. Any resemblance to any persons, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
For Tina, my sunshine