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

by Mark Carver

  A large man lay on the ground, barely alive. His face, though streaked with soot and blood, was as white as a sheet. His combat uniform was stained with blood in several places, and he was cradling what was left of his hand.

  “We have a survivor,” the team leader announced, motioning for one of the soldiers to hand him a med kit. He whipped out several strips of alcohol pads and began swabbing the man’s injured hand.

  The man grimaced and clenched his teeth but did not cry out. The other soldier searched him for weapons but found none. He gave the man water from his canteen, and the man greedily swallowed several mouthfuls.

  “Can you speak, son?” the team leader asked as he hastily bandaged the man’s hand.

  The wounded man nodded feebly, choking on some water after taking a large gulp.

  The team leader finished dressing the man’s hand and peered at him closely. He didn’t think this man was a threat but he couldn’t be too sure.

  “What’s your name, son?” he asked.

  The man looked at him for a moment.

  “Philippe Chevallais,” he whispered. “I…am a lieutenant under the command of Captain Claude Jeraque.”

  The team leader glanced at the other soldiers. He flicked the safety on his gun.

  “Well, that means we’re on the same side, son. You’re safe now.”

  The large man nodded gratefully and struggled to remain conscious.

  “You…you are from…?”

  The team leader nodded.

  “I’m Corporal Max Baker of the 21st Battalion of the American Christian Militia. Where’s Captain Jeraque?”

  Philippe shook his head.

  “I…don’t know…”

  Corporal Baker scowled for a moment, then placed a reassuring hand on the man’s shoulder.

  “Don’t worry, son. The cavalry’s here, and we’re gonna send every one of them devil-worshiping bastards straight to hell.”

  ****

  SCORN

  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 my beautiful daughter Zoe Ann, who is exactly five days older than this book.

  I am very grateful that you slept so much during those first months.

  I love you always.

  PART I.

  “For he easily drives into all evil doings those whom he has deceived

  in the matter of religion.”

  - Pope Leo the Great

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Get down on your knees! Now!”

  Christine clenched her jaw as she stared at the man with the gun. Defiance flashed in her eyes and she fought to maintain control of her tears, but her gaze never wavered.

  The man with the gun tightened his lips, then lashed out with his left foot. The blow caught her leg just behind her knee and she crumpled to the floor. Her hands were bound behind her back so she had nothing to brace herself against the fall.

  Nothing except her forehead. Her skull cracked against the cold, wet cement floor and a wave of pain blazed through her brain like a wildfire. A gurgling groan slipped from her mouth and she rolled over like a helpless child. She stared up at the man, ignoring the gun and looking directly into his eyes.

  The man frowned for a moment, then turned away. He tried to act like he was irritated, but Christine saw it for just a moment: shame. Blood seeped from the gash above her eyebrow and trickled slowly towards her temple before dripping to the floor in large drops. Her captor looked at the red puddle pooling beneath her head before cursing and storming out of the room.

  Christine heard the door slam, and she groaned again. Summoning all of her strength, she hoisted herself into a kneeling position. Blood and sweat dripped down onto her heaving chest as she quickly scanned the room.

  It was dark, too dark to see anything clearly. A glowing fluorescent bar flickered on the wall to her left, weakly illuminating the cave-like room. It looked like a cellar of some kind, with numerous pipes snaking across the walls and several open drains dotting the floor. A rat skittered from one drain hole to another, pausing for a moment to glance at Christine. With a grumpy squeak, it disappeared into the void.

  There had been several moments in Christine’s life when she felt truly alone. Forsaken, abandoned, helpless. She was no stranger to these words. The first time had been that fateful day when she timidly ascended the steps to the temple altar, unable to look at the ravenous faces of the half-dozen men waiting to “welcome her into Satan’s kingdom.” When the babbling priest ripped the robe from her body and rough hands started roaming her skin like spiders, she felt an emptiness sucking at her soul that was wider and blacker than anything she had ever felt before.

  She had made her choice to turn her back on God, her family, everything she had known. And she had paid a heavy price. But one good thing came out of that horrible experience: it showed her just how deep the abyss was, and it terrified her. She came running back to God and to her family, and though her world would never be the same, she knew where she belonged.

  But now, trembling on her knees in a cold, rat-infested dungeon, she felt it again – that gaping darkness that seemed to smile at her with invisible teeth, savoring her fear before swallowing her forever. Her lips quivered as she let the tears fall and mingle with the blood on her chest. Her soul cried out to heaven, but she could sense nothing, could feel no comfort.

  It was as if she was praying to no one at all.

  The door flew open and she jerked her head towards the light. A hulking shape with clenched fists walked into the room. Christine could almost smell the menace spilling off him like steam. She swallowed the fear thickening in her throat and blinked away the blood flowing into her eye.

  The fearsome shadow said nothing as it stood in front of her. Christine couldn’t see his face, which was strange because he was half-turned towards the feeble fluorescent bulb and should have been illuminated. But he wasn’t.

  Christine’s heart trembled. It seemed that the darkness boiling around her had congealed into this dark mass.

  Without warning, a powerful hand reached out and clamped around her neck. A hoarse gasp was choked off as she was yanked to her feet. The ropes restraining her wrists bit into her skin as she twisted and lurched in pathetic attempts to free herself. Or even breathe.

  She was dragged out of the dungeon and hauled through a series of featureless corridors before being flung through an open door. Her head crashed to the floor, tearing her wound even wider. A sob escaped her lips before she could choke it back, but she didn’t care. She didn’t even open her eyes; she just lay there on the floor, motionless.

  “Where is he?” she whispered, not knowing if there was anyone else in the room.

  A dry, raspy voice said, “Christine? Christine, is that you?”

  Christine’s head jerked up off the floor, sending drops of blood flying in a red arc.

  “Papa?”

  Claude coughed violently, thick and harsh. “Christine! Oh praise God!”

  Christine twitched and bucked frantically, trying to raise herself without use of her hands. “Papa! Are you all right?”

  “Yes, yes my angel, I'm all right…”

  Another bloody cough. Christine’s heart ached and she snarled in frustration. She finally managed to twist her body into a kneeling position and she looked around the room, but could see nothing. Only shadows.

  “Papa!” she cried. “Papa, where are you?”

  A light flicked on in the far corner.

  Christine screamed.

  Her father, Claude Jeraque, was lashed to a chair. He was covered in blood. His face was almost unrecognizable and his right hand had been mashed into a gory mess that looked like tenderized meat. Blood seeped from numer
ous lacerations across his bare chest and festering scorch marks were scattered across his skin.

  “Papa!” Christine wailed, lurching forward and fighting a surge of nausea. “Oh, Papa!”

  Claude looked down at her through swollen eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but his face suddenly froze in horror.

  “No!” he shouted, blood gurgling in his throat.

  Christine felt rough hands seize her from behind and drag her out of the room. She screamed and kicked, and she watched helplessly as the door closed with an echoing crash that sounded like a funeral bell.

  ****

  Patric’s hands were burning.

  He couldn’t see them, but he could feel it. White-hot fire, concentrated in the center of his palms, spreading searing heat throughout his body. It was agony, but he didn’t give in. He refused to open his eyes and wake up.

  He knew the moment he did, it would all rush back to his mind. It was good to just lie here, in this cocoon of darkness, forgetfulness.

  Oh God, the pain…

  He couldn’t fight it any longer. Like a drowning man coming up for air, his eyes snapped open and he screamed with all his might. Three nurses and a doctor rushed to his bedside, their faces dark with concern and their lips moving with hurried words. Patric didn’t hear what they were saying. He felt the pain wash over him like waves on a beach, each ebb giving him time to breathe before allowing him to scream again.

  The doctor’s gruff voice pierced through the fog for a moment, though he couldn’t make out what was said. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a nurse move her hand. Something flashed, and then darkness – beautiful, merciful darkness – rolled over him like a warm blanket.

  When he awoke again, he tightened his chest in anticipation of another onslaught of pain. But he felt nothing.

  Nothing…

  His eyes bulged with panic.

  My hands are gone.

  He looked down at his arms and nearly fainted with relief. There were his hands, tightly bandaged with white gauze. A small amount of blood bloomed in the center of his open palms. Patric recalled a word his mother had mentioned a few times when he was a child.

  Stigmata – when the wounds of Christ appear on mortal hands.

  Silent tears trickled down his face and clung to his jaw like icicles.

  The horror, the sheer indescribable horror, of his experience at St. Nero’s Square…

  He choked on his tears, sputtering and gagging. A voice squeezed through the nightmare dancing in his mind.

  “Signore, are you all right?”

  Patric squeezed his eyes shut, trying in vain to exorcise the flood of memories. The assault on the compound, Christine’s brush with death, being captured by Vatican mercenaries…

  The crucifixion.

  The wounds in his hands blazed hot again and he clenched his teeth. He could hear the hammer pounding the savage iron spikes deep into the palms of his hands as he cried helplessly towards heaven.

  To a God that didn’t hear him.

  A voice, nearly drowned out by his pain, whispered from a dark corner of his mind.

  But you’re alive, aren’t you?

  Patric gasped and he opened his eyes. He saw a kind face. A girl, young and pretty. Almost a woman, yet still rosy and childish. A strange kind of fear seized his heart as he looked into her warm, empathetic eyes, a fear that her pleasant face would suddenly transform into a hideous mask of demonic cruelty, eyes blazing with the fires of hell…

  “Signore,” she said again. “Are you all right?”

  Patric stared at her for several moments, hardly daring to breathe. He suddenly realized that aside from the Italian word for sir, she was speaking heavily-accented French.

  “Y-yes,” he stammered, blinking away a drop of sweat that wandered into his eye. “I think so.”

  He looked around, trying to focus on the threadbare furniture and faded pictures that decorated the room. A living room, not a hospital. Patric blinked rapidly, struggling to grab the reins of his frantic emotions. He needed something to anchor his mind to reality.

  “Where…where am I?” he rasped. His vocal cords felt like two stones rubbing together.

  The girl poured a cup of clear, delicious water and held it to his lips. He drank greedily, sputtering the last few drops as he swallowed too quickly.

  “You are safe,” she said as she set the glass on the table beside the bed.

  Patric squinted, trying to read the expression on her face. “And who are you?”

  “I’m Sophia.”

  Patric swallowed gingerly, relieved that the pain in his throat was subsiding. “How did I get here, Sophia?”

  The girl looked over her shoulder as a large man with a bristling black moustache approached.

  “We brought you here,” the man said, also speaking in French. His eyes were kind and he smiled warmly.

  “Why?” Patric frowned. His heart was racing with uncertainty. If these people wanted to harm him they would have done so already, but he wasn’t about to trust a couple of strangers, no matter how kind they seemed.

  The rotund man smiled again, his massive moustache lifting at the corners.

  “Because we know who you are, Signore Bourdon.”

  Patric’s heart sank to his knees. They’re going to nurse me back to health so they can torture me for weeks before killing me.

  The girl’s father must have seen the alarm on his face, because he chuckled heartily. “Do not be afraid, signore. We will not hurt you. No one knows you are here. We want to keep you safe.”

  Great drops of sweat trickled down Patric’s temples. “Who are you?”

  “I am Dr. Rosetta.”

  ****

  Julian Rossa Monte stared through the shattered windows at the burning city. He smiled mirthlessly. “Saint” Nero would have been proud.

  Except this time the Christians actually were the cause of the blazing skyline. He could feel their energy surging through him, righteous fury from thousands of oppressed souls exploding across the city. It was a cleansing wave of judgment, washing away the years of blasphemy and defilement.

  Corpses and debris were still scattered across the Vatican plaza, and several armored vehicles carrying heavily-armed attack teams had assembled in front of St. Peter’s Basilica. They didn’t attack though, and Julian shook his head at their cowardice. They were afraid of the man who had been blessed by the Holy Mother in front of countless witnesses, the man who controlled the sun with mere words.

  An important-looking man was standing on the roof of one of the trucks and was shouting into a bullhorn. Julian paid no attention, absently stroking the triggers of the handguns still clutched in his hands. His ears were tuned to the sounds of chaos and mayhem echoing through the great Vatican halls. The screams of the dying and the sounds of slaughter had died away hours ago, and the rabid Christian mob was now destroying every remnant of Satan’s power, no matter how insignificant.

  Yet he could feel something else, something within these walls that wasn’t there when he had visited the Vatican as a child.

  It hung like humidity in the air. After several minutes of careful concentration, he knew what it was.

  Satan’s energy still flowed through this place, through the walls, the windows, the domes, the porticoes. An infection, saturating the entire complex with evil and loathing. Julian feared that no matter how many unholy icons or blasphemous images were destroyed, Vatican City would never be clean again.

  The chamber burst open and he whirled around, his weapons drawn with rock-steady aim. A middle-aged man spattered with blood and clutching a large knife rushed into the room and screeched to a halt. He looked like he might have been a mathematics professor or insurance salesman, but here, he was a warrior.

  And he looked terrified.

  “Forgive me, Your…Holiness,” he stammered, bowing low.

  Julian lowered his weapons and narrowed his eyes. Your Holiness… I like the sound of that.

  “Speak, my s
on.”

  The man was at least ten years older than Julian but he seemed as humble as a child in his presence.

  “They’ve given us one hour to surrender,” he said with a glance towards the broken windows. “If we don’t give ourselves up, they say they are going to storm the Vatican.”

  Julian regarded the man for a moment, watching the sweat carve skin-colored rivers through the blood smeared across his face. He took a couple of steps forward, and with each step, the man’s head bowed lower and lower.

  “What is your name?” Julian asked.

  “R-R-Ronaldo.”

  “Ronaldo. Tell me, Ronaldo, what do you think will happen if we give ourselves up?”

  Ronaldo was silent for a moment. “Well, I suppose we will be executed. There’s no way they will let us live after…after what we have done.”

  “And what have we done?”

  A tear mingled with the sweat dripping down Ronaldo’s face. “We…we…”

  “Yes?”

  “We followed the will of God and cleansed His holy church.”

  Julian nodded slowly. “Yes, we did. And did we do all this for our own glory, or for riches, or fame?”

  “No,” Ronaldo answered with a shake of his head.

  “Then why? Why did you take up a weapon and charge into the holiest building on earth and slaughter the heathens hiding inside?”

  Ronaldo began to weep. He collapsed to his knees and dropped the bloody machete, raising his hands to cover his face.

  “It’s okay, my son,” Julian said quietly, “it’s okay.” He reached down and placed his hand on the man’s shoulder.

  Ronaldo flinched at his touch. A dark smile spread across Julian’s face, then vanished quickly. It was an incredible feeling, to be feared and loved.

  “What shall we do?” Ronaldo sobbed.

  Julian turned away and directed his gaze towards the pillars of smoke rising above the city of Rome. The wailing sirens, the blathering idiot shouting furiously into the bullhorn…it was music. The labor pangs before the birth of a new age.