by Mark Carver
He rounded the corner and stepped out onto the platform of the press room. His head was held high and his jaw was set. His eyes simmered and burned, and whispers rippled through the crowd of reporters who were struck by his grave countenance. They had been expecting a contrite and even fearful leader; what they saw was simply a leader.
Nicholas Merdans quickly approached the podium, leaving a confused press secretary glancing at her peers in bewilderment. This caused an even greater stir among the reporters. Never had the president introduced himself to the press before.
Of course, everyone knew that this was no ordinary press conference. The president wasn’t planning on introducing a new jobs initiative or going to comment on a rouge regime’s unfriendly language.
Merdans adjusted the slender black microphone that reached up towards him.. He had always hated these particular microphones; they reminded him of insect antennae. He much preferred the kinds that actually looked like microphones.
He didn’t allow his discomfort to show on his face, and he cleared his throat loudly, gripping the podium with both hands. He stared at the wood surface for a few moments, though there were no notes upon it. He looked out over the squadron of journalists and photographers, then spoke.
“The nation of France is outraged over the atrocity that took place in Paris yesterday. It is utterly deplorable that one faith would attack another in a place of worship, under a banner of peace. Our country, and the office of the president, strongly condemns the assassination of the Voice of Satan, and I vow that justice will be served to those responsible.”
He took a deep breath, lowered his eyes for a moment, then continued.
“However, we are not under any illusions here. This was not an attack on a group of schoolchildren or seniors singing Christmas carols. Violence has followed the Church of Satan everywhere it sets its foot, and while I am not a member of their Order, I feel that I can say with certainty that they do not despise violence as other faiths do.”
He looked out over the silent gathering of notepads, cameras, and voice recorders. He spoke his words carefully and deliberately, lacing each syllable with scorn.
“The attack in Paris was cowardly and atrocious, and the violence that has gripped the world in its aftermath is equally appalling. Yet there are none who are innocent in this squabble, and the painful lessons of history have taught us that this storm will never stop.
“But this is France. We don’t follow history; we create it. Our nation will not bow down to tyranny, or give in to lethargy, or surrender in the face of catastrophe. This religious poison has festered in our veins for too long, and it’s time to purge these hazardous elements from our body.”
His eyes smoldered like coals. He raised his clenched fist in defiance, and countless cameras flashed. His face was tight with simmering rage.
“God is not welcome here!” he shouted. “Nor is the devil! This is our country, and we shall make – !”
He stopped.
The journalists and photographers held their breath, waiting, watching. They peered up at him with expectant eyes, but he didn’t move. He remained frozen, his mouth open, his arm still raised above his head.
His aides that were gathered behind the stage began fidgeting nervously. They too were stunned by the president’s audacious tirade, and his public-speaking coaches knew that every moment of silence was murdering his momentum.
After several awkward seconds, people began to murmur. Something was wrong. The president still hadn’t moved, though his face seemed different somehow.
As if he were screaming.
Everyone gasped with horror as red streams began to spill from the president’s eyes, which were ghostly white and bulging out of his head. Sweat gushed from his pores and giant veins stood out on his forehead and neck.
As soon as the screams started emanating from the crowd, Merdans’ medical attendant shoved his way through the crush of petrified onlookers. He approached the stage just as Merdans jerked, as if he were struck by lightning. A great gout of blood spurted from his lips, showering those in the front row. He fell heavily onto the stage floor, quivering violently and spewing blood.
Camera flashes popped and security personnel leaped forward, struggling to keep the horrified onlookers back. Some of Merdans’ aides sobbed as the doctor and his staff tried to help their stricken leader.
There was nothing they could do. Within half a minute, Merdans lay dead upon the stage. His immaculate suit was covered with flecks of blood, and hundreds of capillaries had burst beneath his skin, turning his face into a ghastly mask of red and purple splotches. The unspeakable agony he had just endured was written on his face, and his eyes were frighteningly wide. They stared out unseeing towards the terrified crowd.
Suddenly realizing the monumental importance of what they had just witnessed, the sea of reporters rushed out of the press room, frantically digging through their pockets in search of their phones. The air was filled with a flurry of voices, chattering like a flock of birds in numerous languages, describing the horrific event they had just seen. Several photographers had already connected their cameras to their phones and were uploading photos to the news offices.
Madeleine rushed past the cluster of speechless aides, stumbling slightly as her high-heeled feet faltered. Ignoring her throbbing ankle, she threw herself onto her knees beside the fallen president.
“No!” she wailed, fending off the medical officers who pulled her away. She clawed and screamed, but her efforts were futile. A female aide reached out and took the hysterical girl into her arms, stroking her hair gently.
Madeleine buried her face in the woman’s shoulder.
“It was that woman,” she sobbed.
“What woman?” the aide asked.
“That dreadful woman who always wore black. He was terrified of her.”
The aide frowned, tightening her embrace around the frightened secretary. She had never seen any woman in black in the presidential offices.
****
Donatella lifted a spoonful of warm broth to Father DeMarco’s lips just as Benito, her 17-year-old orphaned nephew, burst into the room. Soup spilled all over the sheets, and Donatella huffed in annoyance. The young man paid no attention.
“Turn on the TV!” he said, then obeyed his own command as he snatched up the remote and turned on the television set.
Her lips pursed, Donatella began blotting Father DeMarco’s bedclothes with a napkin. The priest was about to shoo her away and take care of it himself, but he found his attention arrested by the news coming from the television.
“...was pronounced dead just a few minutes after collapsing on the stage. The nation is stunned as it tries to come to grips with this sudden tragedy, which is all the more bizarre in light of the president’s recent annual checkup, which declared him to be in perfect health. Rumors abound concerning foul play but as of yet, authorities have made no formal announcement regarding the cause of death.”
Father DeMarco’s jaw hung slack. Donatella and Benito were also speechless. They watched as shaky but vivid images of the president’s anguished, contorted face filled the screen, blood streaming like tears from the dead man’s eyes. Donatella’s hand covered her mouth and she looked at Father DeMarco with a fearful expression.
He laid a trembling hand on her shoulder to comfort her, though the gesture did little to help. His eyes were glued to the television screen as Nicholas Merdans’ final moments were broadcast again.
The French president had insulted both God and Satan, and then dropped dead. Had he been struck down for his blasphemy? It certainly appeared so.
But blasphemy against whom?
Benito seemed to read the priest’s thoughts, because he turned to Father DeMarco and said, “Did God strike him down, Father?”
Donatella glared at the young man, shocked that he would even consider such a thing. She looked up at Father DeMarco for support for her indignation, but was even more shocked to see the priest looking thou
ghtful.
“Father!” she exclaimed. “God would never do such a thing!”
The priest looked down at her. “The French president made a great many errors, my dear. He turned his back on God, the only source of safety and protection in this insane world. Look what’s happening to that country, and he openly defies heaven. He practically invited God’s wrath down on his head.”
“But what about the devil?” Benito asked. “He defied Satan, as well as God. Maybe this was the devil’s work.”
Father DeMarco shrugged. “Perhaps. Given the circumstances, I would even venture to say that Satan is a more likely candidate in this instance. God brings vengeance down upon the wicked, but I can’t believe that He would pour out His justice in such a gruesome manner. But the fact remains: whether this was God or Satan, man is at the mercy of both.”
With a stifled whimper, Donatella gathered up the now-cold soup and shuffled out of the room. Father DeMarco and Benito watched her leave, then the priest waved the young man over.
“Help me up,” he said, hooking his arm around Benito’s shoulder and hoisting himself out of the bed. Benito held onto him until he was certain that the priest was able to stand steadily on his own feet.
The group of believers huddled around the table looked up with surprise as Father DeMarco stepped into the kitchen, walking with cautious steps.
Donatella looked up from the soup pot and an expression of horror flashed across her face.
“Father! You shouldn’t be out of bed!”
Father DeMarco waved her off and staggered towards the table. Someone quickly stood up and offered a chair to the frail priest, and he sank heavily upon it.
The half-dozen people in the room waited in silence, their eyes fixed upon the man they all implicitly acknowledged to be their leader. Father DeMarco stared at the surface of the table for a moment, then opened his mouth to speak.
“Can I have a glass of water?”
A glass was placed in front of him and he downed it quickly. Then he looked up, scanning each face carefully.
“What should we do, Father?” Benito asked.
Father DeMarco looked down at his hands. They had once been so strong, enjoying honest labor and the heat of the sun. Now they seemed thin and weak.
But he was even more disturbed by the silence in his soul. He glanced around at the expectant faces surrounding him, but he had nothing to say. As he had lain in bed recovering from his near-fatal wound, he had waited and prayed for God’s direction. But now, only a grim and uncertain future stretched before him.
He shook his head as he rose to his feet.
“I don’t know what to do.”
“We should fight back!”
The room seemed to inhale a sharp breath. Everyone turned and looked at Benito.
“Speak, my son,” Father DeMarco said quietly.
Benito swallowed and looked around nervously.
“The Church of Satan is weak. Their leader is dead, the cities are burning, and now the French president drops dead on live television. This is the chance for our church to rise up!”
“And do what?” Lorenzo grumbled. “Throw rocks at bands of hooligans in the streets? What will that accomplish?”
“I’m not talking about protests and mob fights,” Benito answered, a serious edge creeping into his voice. “I’m talking about taking our churches back.”
Donatella held out her hands as if begging for an explanation. “Benito, what are you talking about?”
Benito threw a quick glance towards Father DeMarco. “Jesus himself drove out the heathen merchants and swindlers from the Temple grounds, so why can’t we do the same? Here in Susa, there is a church that was built in honor of Saint Guisto but now it bears the name of a pagan deity. This church glorified the Holy Trinity for centuries, and in less than ten years, it has become completely unrecognizable. I used to attend mass there when I was little. Now I tremble every time I walk past.”
Lorenzo took a step forward. “Benito my boy, I think you are very brave to suggest this course of action, but a strong heart cannot make up for a weak body. We are scattered to the wind and – "
“This is exactly what I’m talking about!” Benito cried as he leaped back, as if Lorenzo’s words were poison. “We have given up! We burrow into the ground like animals, hoping to ride out the storm. But now the storm has become a hurricane! It’s not going to get better – it’s going to get worse. And I say we need to seize this opportunity now, because we might not get another chance.”
Everyone in the room was silent. Benito’s words burned into their hearts, but no one knew how to respond.
Father DeMarco approached the young man and placed a fatherly hand on his shoulder. “God bless you, my son. I wish that the rest of our church had your passion. But as Lorenzo said, we are too weak. We have to nurture and protect what we still have, and be thankful to God for it.”
Benito recoiled from Father DeMarco’s touch. “What do we have? Are we part of an underground, covert network of believers worshiping in catacombs and basements? No! We are nothing! There is no brotherhood, no solidarity. Nearly everyone has fled to be with their families in faraway cities. We were planning to leave, too. If it hadn’t been for Lorenzo and Donatella, you might have died when – "
Lorenzo struck Benito broadly across the cheek. The youth’s eyes sparkled with tears.
“That’s enough!” the large man bellowed, his face flushing red. Benito stared at him with silent fury, then rushed out of the room.
Father DeMarco placed a firm hand on Lorenzo’s trembling arm. “Peace, brother. He was only speaking what was in his heart.”
“That boy needs to learn some respect!”
“Perhaps. But it is not right to force it upon him. And no one here can deny that he was right.”
Everyone in the room hung their heads to avoid the priest’s gaze.
Father DeMarco exhaled wearily. “I will talk to the boy. But we should also heed his words. I am not saying that we should storm the Satanic temples, but perhaps we should pray about grouping together with other believers. There have been times in history when God called His children to take up the sword. Such a time may be upon us once more.”
Lorenzo stared at Father DeMarco for a long moment, then stuck out his bearded chin and nodded. “Okay, Father. We will pray.”
“And you will rest,” Donatella commanded as she took the priest’s arm and steered him back towards the bedroom. The faint sounds from the television news report fluttered through the open door.
“…of emergency as Parliament convenes to decide what comes next for the people of France.”
****
Patric couldn’t feel anything.
He couldn’t feel the weak, stagnant rays of light trickling down from the overhead lamps. He couldn’t hear the announcements perforated with static echoing through the train station. He couldn’t sense the frantic urgency of angry, frightened Parisians fleeing their beloved City of Love as they jostled for tickets. When Patric magically found himself in front of the ticket window, he couldn’t feel his hand reach into his pocket and pull out a crumpled wad of cash. He couldn’t feel his lips move as he spoke one word.
“Limoges.”
Everything felt muted and gray, even though danger and panic were crackling all around him. The television screens mounted overhead were blaring horrifying reports of riots around the world, mingled with up-to-the-minute coverage of President Merdans’ sudden death. Newly-emboldened Christian gangs were taking to the streets in force, viciously attacking Satanist mobs and defacing virtually anything with a pentagram. The temples had thus far remained untouched, but the Church of Satan was taking no chances, and heavily-armed security guards sprouted up around temple doors like weeds.
Patric didn’t see or hear any of this.
He oozed into the train car and numbly searched for his seat. He sank into the soft cushion and felt a slightly warm sensation trickling through his nerves. He glanced down
at his hands.
They were shaking.
He clenched his fists, painfully stretching the broken skin across his knuckles. His thoughts flashed back to that unlucky soul in the brothel. He looked down at his hands again, every cell feeling the impact of his fists against that man’s face.
Patric leaned back and closed his eyes. He had been in a few fights before all of this, but he had never found violence to be cathartic. Sex and drugs had always been his sweet release. But this time, it felt different.
Part of him felt utterly sick with himself. The other part was grinning ear to ear.
The train lurched forward, and the wheels screeched and skidded over the cold iron tracks. The car jerked again, and with an urgent hiss, the train whisked out of the station and into the night.
As the kilometers rushed past, Patric felt an uneasy tranquility slowly begin to wash over his turbulent mind. Like a child determined to resist falling asleep, he fought against the lead weights pulling his eyelids shut.
No, he couldn’t fall asleep now. Not here.
Maybe not ever.
The seductive sway of the train car and the clack-clack lullaby of the wheels on the track were starting to prevail, and Patric was powerless to resist. The last thing he saw with conscious eyes was a middle-aged woman seated across from him, staring at him with a curious expression.
With a whooshing sound, the train blasted into a tunnel, shattering Patric’s slumber. Jolting awake, he glanced around at the strobe effect of the tunnel lights rushing by at blinding speeds. The train car flickered like a camera snapshot at two-second intervals, one moment immersed in darkness, and the next, bathed in glaring electric light.
Patric looked at the sleeping woman seated in front of him.
There was darkness, then there was light.
Her eyes shone black.
Patric’s blood turned to ice.
There was darkness, then there was light.
The woman was asleep.