by Mark Carver
Stupido.
He considered setting the bullhorn on the ground but that would only make him look more ridiculous. There was no graceful way out of this gaffe, so he just decided to carry on as if nothing was amiss.
Time seemed to stand still as the two men walked towards each other. Behind the lieutenant, the sky glowed with the fires of deadly religious rage, and behind the hooded man, the Vatican reflected the beams coming from the floodlights.
The lieutenant felt slightly winded as he drew to a halt about ten meters away from the shadowy figure.
“Show yourself!” he commanded, hoping he sounded stern. His right foot slid back a few inches, bracing for the possibility of a quick draw.
The figure raised his hands and threw back his hood.
The lieutenant gasped.
It was him. Julian Rossa Monte, the master of the sun.
He took a step forward. Lieutenant Paganini instinctively tried to take a step back.
But he couldn’t. He was frozen, paralyzed. The policeman grunted with wide-eyed fear as he struggled to move, but his entire body felt like ice.
He watched with helpless terror as the man slowly approached. His face seemed to be made of stone, but there was a sense of menace pulsating from him, thick and oppressive.
Lieutenant Paganini swallowed painfully. His throat seemed to be the only part of his body that still worked.
Julian now stood just inches away. He seemed to loom over the lieutenant like the angel of death. The policeman’s thoughts flitted to his children waiting for him at home.
“Do you repent of your sins?” Julian asked. His quiet voice seemed mismatched with his ominous appearance.
Clouds of mist spurted from Lieutenant Paganini’s lips. “W-what?”
“Do you repent of your sins, and do you accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior, and do you pledge your life in service to God’s holy church?”
The lieutenant’s frozen muscles screamed out in pain. His eyes darted back and forth before fixing on Julian’s stone-cold expression.
“Yes!” he blurted. “Yes, of course. I repent!”
The barest hint of a smile tugged on the corners of Julian’s mouth as he raised his hand.
“Absolvo te.”
His palm touched Lieutenant Paganini’s forehead and the man’s skull exploded. Blood and bone showered the stones behind the headless corpse, which collapsed in a heap. Julian wiped his bloody palm on his robe and looked with menacing eyes at the unseen men, trucks, and weapons hidden behind the glare of the floodlights. But he could feel their eyes watching him.
He could feel their fear.
He looked up at the starless sky and spread his arms wide.
“Ecce ira Dei!”
There was silence. Then came a sound, small at first, then louder and louder, like the roar of an approaching storm. Terrified shrieks erupted from heathen mouths as bolts of fire blazed down from the sky. The ground quaked as vans and trucks exploded in ferocious fireballs and men and their weapons were incinerated. A boiling wall of yellow flame encircled the square and the screams of the dying were drowned out by the roar of destruction.
A stream of dark figures began pouring out of the basilica. The Christian mob gathered behind Julian, staring in awe at the fiery destruction blazing around them. Julian didn’t turn around or acknowledge their presence; he just watched with teeth bared as the inferno consumed the blasphemers. It was a fitting end to their earthly life, a taste of what awaited them.
After several long moments, he turned around to face his followers.
“Behold!” he cried, throwing his hands up to the clouds. “The wrath of God!”
The Christians knelt before him, bowing their heads low.
Julian frowned. “Arise, brothers and sisters. Bow before God, not me.”
They hesitated for a moment before rising to their feet, but they were still reluctant to look upon his face.
“What will happen now, Your Holiness?” a young man asked.
Julian looked over his shoulder. The reams of flame were beginning to die down, and there were no more shrieks of agony to be heard.
He turned back to his followers. “Go back to your homes. Go quickly, before they regroup. Spread the word that our church is rising up and we will take back this world.”
Their faces shimmered in the firelight.
“How, Your Holiness?”
Julian gestured again towards the burning vehicles and charred corpses surrounding the square in a dark ring.
“The Lord is with us. He shall rebuild his church upon this rock, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.”
The eyes of the mob were wide and fearful. Julian clenched his jaw in frustration, but he maintained a benevolent face.
“Guard your hearts against fear. The Lord will not abandon you, and neither will I. Go...go now!”
They scattered like a flock of startled birds. Julian watched as they disappeared through the wilting flames. The sound of sirens blossomed from the darkness and the air was battered by the whirring blades of a news helicopter circling overhead, broadcasting the horrific scene to the world. A searchlight darted across the square, coming to rest on Julian’s defiant expression.
Keeping his eyes fixed on the helicopter, he reached down and plucked the megaphone from Lieutenant Paganini’s dead fingers. His face twisted with hatred as he raised it to his lips.
“Hear me, heathens! I am Julian Rossa Monte, the instrument of God’s judgment upon this world! Witness the power that flows forth from my hands! I live and breathe the wrath of God! All who challenge me shall be laid to waste! I am the scourge of Satan’s kingdom, and I shall mortify the abomination that he has wrought upon the earth! All who defy me, defy God!”
His words echoed across the plaza and were lost in the smoke billowing from the ring of destruction on the perimeter. Julian’s shoulders trembled with the rage and hatred that seethed in his soul and he bellowed into the megaphone once more.
“This is but a taste of the power that burns within me, the power of the living God! I am the flame that will burn the blasphemous cancer from the face of the earth! Hear me, those who believe and do not believe. I will convene an assembly of the leaders of the true church. All those who have been called to lead and who still hold true to their faith are commanded to gather here. Three days! Join me, or join them!”
He stabbed the air with his finger and a blazing bolt of fire materialized from the sky and pulverized the helicopter. The fuel tank ruptured and gouts of flame enveloped the metal bird as it plummeted towards the ground. It exploded again upon impact, showering debris and glass across the square.
Julian watched the destruction for a moment, then spun on his heel. He tossed the megaphone onto the chest of the headless corpse, where it landed with a sickening smack. He turned away from the flames and the smoke and stalked back into the church, silent and alone.
****
Corporal Max Baker of the 21st American Christian Militia looked very concerned, an expression that rarely crossed his stoic face. He stared at the sergeant and rubbed his creased brow.
“You’re sure about this?”
The sergeant nodded gravely. “It’s all over the news, sir. I can bring in a television and have it hooked up in – “
Corporal Baker waved the man’s words away. He shoved his hands into his pockets and started pacing. “This whole continent is insane,” he grumbled. “The stories we get on the news back home don’t tell the half of it. And we still don’t know where in the blue blazes Captain Jeraque is.”
He whirled around, as if looking for a table to pound his fist against. Then he remembered he was standing in a sprawling vacant warehouse and the nearest poundable item was more than a dozen yards away. He let his hands fall to his sides.
The sergeant wore a grim expression as he shifted his footing. “Did we make a mistake in coming here, sir?”
Corporal Baker fixed his eyes on an invisible point in t
he distance. After a few moments, his shoulders heaved with a silent sigh. “I hope not, son. My gut tells me no, that we have work here to do. But I certainly didn’t expect all this. I was expecting to see my old friend greet us with a full regiment locked and loaded. Now all we have is that wounded private, what’s his name? Phil- something?”
“Phillippe Chevallais.”
“Right. Where is he?”
“We set up a temporary triage for him by the east wall. There were some offices there.”
Corporal Baker looked towards the shadows. “Is he well enough to answer some questions?”
The sergeant straightened his spine. “I believe so, sir.”
“All right, let’s go have a chat with the boy.”
He followed the sergeant across the oil-stained warehouse floor. The building looked like it hadn’t been used in years, and it hadn't been difficult at all to sneak their trucks in between some rusting silos and break into the warehouse under cover of darkness. Compared to the nerve-wracking experience of arranging a ride to Germany on a Boeing cargo jet with a sympathetic military friend in high places and then sneaking across the French border, breaking into the warehouse undetected was a cinch. After discovering the decimated compound where Claude Jeraque’s forces were supposed to be waiting, Corporal Baker didn’t want to hang around and see if the assailants returned. He was itching for a good fight but he needed to know what they were dealing with. And with the near-total eradication of Captain Jeraque’s forces, his prognosis for the future wasn’t looking good.
He matched the sergeant’s brisk pace and the clack clack of their boots echoed sharply across the iron rafter beams and aluminum siding. They were swallowed by shadows, then the sergeant opened a door and a blade of light sliced across the floor. He motioned for the corporal to precede him, and then he closed the door behind them.
Corporal Baker looked down the austere hall. His eyes darted up and down the corridor. “Which way?”
The sergeant motioned to his left. Corporal Baker turned and marched down the hall, glancing through the small windows in each door.
At the third door on his right, he stopped, peering closely through the tiny window. He saw Private Chevallais lying on a small cot with his eyes closed. What remained of his left hand was bandaged tightly, though small spots of red showed through the white gauze.
One of Corporal Baker’s men was standing in the room with the private, and he snapped to attention when he saw his commander peeking through the door. He rushed forward and opened the door with a salute.
“Sir.”
Corporal Baker nodded curtly and approached the cot. Private Chevallais had apparently been asleep and was struggling to wake up when he heard the corporal enter the room.
Probably giving him too much drugs. Corporal Baker had little formal medical knowledge but he knew when a soldier was being doped up to the point of ineffectiveness. He made a mental note to speak with the squad medic later.
“How’re you feeling, son?” he asked as he drew alongside the bed and gave the young man a fatherly smile.
Private Chevallais nodded and closed his eyes for a prolonged moment. “Your doctor gave me something for the pain but it makes my mind feel…”
He frowned, searching for the right word in a language that was not his mother tongue. Corporal Baker set his mouth in a tight line.
“Groggy. That means hard to focus, sleepy.”
The wounded man nodded again. “With my hand hurt like this, I don’t know how I can be useful anymore.”
Corporal Baker exhaled slowly, then reached behind him and pulled up a chair. “A soldier is useful until he’s dead,” he said as he sat down, “no matter what condition he’s in. And right now, you can be very useful to us.”
“How?”
Corporal Baker paused before answering. He could see the pain and desperation shimmering in the man’s eyes.
“Information. I need you to tell me everything you know.”
Private Chevallais turned his head and looked up at the ceiling. “I…I really don’t know very much. My mind feels…what was it? Grock…grog…”
“Groggy.” Corporal Baker struggled to keep the impatience out of his voice. “It’s okay, son. Just take your time. Anything you can remember is important.”
Private Chevallais nodded his understanding, then knit his brow with intense concentration. Corporal Baker waited, but after a couple of minutes, he had still received no response.
“Listen, son,” he said as he folded his arms over the back of the chair, “do you know why we’re here?”
Private Chevallais shook his head. “Captain Jeraque said that someone was coming to help us in our fight but he did not say it would be you from America.”
“That’s right. Captain Jeraque and I go way back, before all this madness started. When you were still just a kid, he and I were tearing through Iraq and Afghanistan, disarming bombs, extracting targets in the middle of the night, and blowing Al-Qaeda right into the arms of the seventy virgins. You know what Al-Qaeda is, right?”
“I…think I remember that name. They flew the airplanes into the towers of New York, yes?”
“And a whole lot of other cowardly acts. It was America’s war, by and large, but terrorism was an international threat and we cooperated with other armies quite a bit, including the French. Captain Jeraque, or ‘Cloddy,’ as I called him then, was a born war machine. He taught me quite a bit and we’ve been good friends ever since.”
“Is that why he asked you to help us?”
Corporal Baker nodded. “But not the only reason. I don’t know how much you know about North America these days, but it’s a whole other world compared to the EU. It’s God’s country again, away from all the devil worship and voodoo and whatnot going on here. Some of them Satanic bastards pop up now and then but most people have the fear of God in them again. Or maybe it’s just fear of the devil. At any rate, it’s pretty much the opposite of your situation here, where Satan is sitting pretty and has his hand over everything. Or at least he did until a few weeks ago, with all that assassination nonsense and that war going on at the Vatican. I don’t even know what to think of that whole situation, but that’s neither here nor there. The point is, Captain Jeraque asked the American Christian Militia to come to France and help him with a bit of fumigation. I don’t think he was planning an assault on the government or anything, since our outfit ain’t that large, but I knew that whatever he had in mind was bigger than he was capable of, and I always help a friend in need.”
Private Chevallais smiled weakly. “Captain Jeraque didn’t want to make all of France to be a Christian nation. He only wanted to take back a small part of it and create a Christian community there.”
Corporal Baker’s eyebrows rose. This was news to him. “You mean, secede?”
The French private narrowed his eyes in confusion. Corporal Baker hastened to explain.
“Captain Jeraque wanted to take a part of France away from France? Make a little kingdom or something?”
Private Chevallais considered the corporal’s words for a moment, then nodded hesitantly. “Yes, I believe that is what he wanted.”
A mischievous smile spread across Corporal Baker’s face. “That son of a gun. He told me that he wanted to ‘reclaim some territory’ but I thought it was to drive out some Satanists that had occupied some Christians’ properties or something. Well, don't that beat all... I’ll tell you something, young man. I was born and raised in Texas, and Texas has been trying to extract itself from the clutches of the US of A ever since they slapped the word ‘state’ on it. Your captain has some kind of balls trying to carve out a piece of France for himself.”
“Oh no, not for himself. For the Christians of France. We wouldn’t even need to be ‘independent'...we would just want to be left alone to worship God in peace. But we knew that we wouldn’t be given such a place.”
His eyes darkened.
“We knew we would have to take it.”
Private Chevallais blinked rapidly, trying to keep up with the corporal’s rapid-fire diatribe. “We were prepared to give our lives to reach this dream. But now…”
His face fell and he gingerly lay back down on the cot. Corporal Baker wrinkled his nose and looked at him as if he were a piece of rotting meat.
“So that’s it? Just lie down, think about what could have been?”
“Captain Jeraque is dead,” Private Chevallais said quietly, keeping his eyes on the ceiling.
“You don’t know that. And until we do, we’re going to assume he’s alive and he needs our help. We’re not throwing in the towel until that final bell has rung, son. And if he is dead, then we’re going to bring down the wrath of God upon whoever is responsible. Quitting is not an option. You Frenchmen might be used to defeat but we’re not.”
Private Chevallais shot him an irritated scowl but said nothing.
Corporal Baker shifted his feet, realizing that he might have been a bit too harsh.
“Look, uh, I didn’t mean that like it sounded. You’re a soldier and you fought bravely, and you have my eternal respect. And now we need your help.”
The wounded man drew a long breath through his nose. “How can I help?”
“Your captain told me of a place where we could rendezvous in case something like this happened.”