The Demon Signet

by Shawn Hopkins

  “What the heck was that?” Marcus asked, standing and looking back down the road.

  Ashley stood beside him, her hand hanging limp at her side. Her face was screwed tight with dismay, unbelief, and terror. What littered the road behind them was nothing short of apocalyptic. Vehicles were overturned, scattered in pieces, on fire. Bodies were everywhere, flames reflecting off blood and melting ice. Women were screaming, running around, their clothes on fire.

  Another car exploded, its hood flying through the air, spinning. Ashley watched as it took the head clean off a man that had been bent over the body of a little boy. The sight fractured her mind further. The exposed vertebrae, the torn flesh, the way the head rolled and bounced…

  She felt Marcus pulling at her again, but she couldn’t get her feet to move. He was screaming something into her ear, but the dancing flames spilling across the highway held her prisoner in some far-off place. Then she noticed streaks of light, falling like meteors through the air. Only they weren’t millions of miles away and confined to the night sky—which, of course, she couldn’t see anyway. These shooting stars were small, like fireflies screaming down through the air and boring themselves into metal and flesh. Occasionally they caused something to explode. She saw what Marcus was pointing at and discovered for herself the origin of these darting lights.

  The flames cast their orange glow up and through the twisting snow, managing to illuminate the underbelly of two more black helicopters. Only these helicopters weren’t deploying troops, but indiscriminate death across the landscape below.

  “Come on!” Marcus screamed.

  When he pulled her sweatshirt, she lost her balance and fell, banging her head into the door of a minivan. The impact served to clear her head from her stupor, and she finally tore her eyes away from the hell around her. Another car exploded.

  Marcus led her to the guardrail, apparently giving up on trying to find Heather and Ian, and helped her over it. Only then, once they were off the interstate, did he release her broken hand and allow her to travel under her own power.

  They both sprinted across the white field, darkness and a wall of wind-tossed snow concealing from them whatever it was they were running toward.

  Others had the same idea, and a small exodus began storming across the field adjacent to them, preferring the cold unknown to certain death.

  After minutes of running, far enough away that they couldn’t see anything in any direction, Ashley lost her legs. They fell out from beneath her as if they decided on their own to just switch off. She hit the snow, and for a moment cherished the comfort of simply lying still. Her chest heaved beneath the Bills sweater as her body grew pleasantly numb. She didn’t want to go on, to move another muscle. She just wanted to lay there, to close her eyes and surrender. She couldn’t do this anymore. Whatever was going on, whatever horror had reached into their lives, she could no longer deal with it. She wanted it all to go away. Her eyelids grew heavy, flickered in minor protest, and then closed, shutting out the frozen nightmare she’d been sentenced to.

  That’s when she felt it.

  It was hard to define and unlike anything she’d ever felt before, but it was there.

  A spark.

  It erupted in her leg and moved up her side, into her chest, up her neck, and blossomed beneath her hair, tingling her scalp.

  Her broken hand, which she could no longer feel, began probing her pocket.

  She opened her eyes, conscious of a discovery though not yet able to feel it in her fingers. The wind whipped her hair back and forth, attempting to rip it from her head. Snowflakes attacked her eyeballs while the ground beneath worked to suck the life from her body. And yet, when she set her eyes on the object in her hand, she gasped, sure she had to be dreaming.

  The ring.

  Marcus was beside her, trying to help her up. “You okay?” he asked over the weather.

  She nodded, her eyes still captivated by the ring in her hand and wondering how it might have gotten there.

  Marcus noticed her expression and followed her eyes. Confusion wrenched his forehead.

  “Give it to us.”

  The voice seemed to come from all around them, though how that was possible no longer mattered. Ashley had stopped turning to conventional wisdom for answers a couple days ago.

  “Give it to us, and I promise all of this will stop.”

  They twirled about, using their arms as shields against the storm, but they couldn’t see anything beyond the ice chips flying in their faces.

  Then, walking out of the darkness, the snow parting like the Red Sea around him, was the dark man. His hat was gone, and they could now see the hideous scars that navigated his bald skull. He was wearing a glove on one hand, a long, red knife held in the other.

  “Just give us the ring. Solomon’s ring. Give it to us, and we will let you go.”

  Another explosion flashed momentarily in the distance, touching the scene before them and backlighting the man like the demon from hell they knew he must be.

  Marcus reached for Ashley’s hand. “Give it to me.”

  “What?”

  “Give me the ring!”

  Reluctantly, she released her hold on it, surrendering it into Marcus’ palm.

  The man stopped, scowled. He was thirty feet away, but the storm seemed confined to the space around them…though somehow not between them, as if they were in some tunnel, its composition transparent. They could see him clearly and watched as he reached up to pull the sunglasses from his eyes.

  Ashley was sure they were about to die, to be dragged into the pit that Marcus’ much-quoted pastor had spent his entire ministry warning about. She knew deep down that to surrender to death wouldn’t stop all this, that it would only prolong the nightmare…forever. Her mind began to fill with scenes of the rape. Only this time, the face of the assailant wasn’t that of the man who had attacked her, but of the glassy-eyed monster standing thirty feet away. He would have her for all of eternity.

  She watched, helpless, as he cocked his arm back and then let the knife go. It flew, end over end, straight at her face. She closed her eyes and waited for the warmth of hell to replace this world of ice, waited to feel this monster violate her over and over again on a bed of hot, unquenchable coals. A tear slid down her face, freezing to her cheek, as the lyrics of a Christmas song began permeating in her soul. Fall on your knees… “Oh, God,” she whispered.

  Thirty

  Jacob stares into the mirror, adjusting his tie. He has exchanged the Society’s ceremonial attire for a tuxedo. There is a Christmas Eve gathering he is to attend, guest of the president of the United States. The event has yet to be cancelled due to the inclement weather, though with all that is transpiring, Jacob hopes that it will be. He knows the importance of entertaining kings and queens and does not shun such an opportunity lightly, but the matter at hand is more important than the power of any one man. Still, the meeting with this particular president has been too long in the making to simply blow off. The Society needs to know where things stand with him, whether he will best be used as a willing accomplice or as an ignorant puppet. All indications point to the former, but policy rarely reflects the true heart of the policy maker. Perhaps his globalist agenda is formed in good faith, truly seeking the betterment of mankind. If that is so, if the president is a true utopian, his methods can be used even if his heart is on the other side of the fence. Both sides will eventually lead to the same ultimate conclusion.

  A man of tremendous wealth and power in the private sector, Jacob’s secret identity as member of the ancient Order is kept at bay by his public profile. Just as he turns away from the mirror, removing the rings from his fingers one at a time, Stephen barges into the room.

  “Tell me the damn party has been cancelled,” Jacob hopes aloud.

  Panting and trying to catch his breath, Stephen shakes his head. “Jacob…”

  Jacob stops, the chill in his friend’s voice gripping him with an anxiety that is mostly unfamil
iar to him. “What is it?”

  “They found the Saab stranded in traffic on I-81, just as we hoped.”

  “Go on.”

  “The ring wasn’t there.”

  Jacob squeezes his eyes closed. “Where are the four people?”

  Ignoring the question, Stephen stammers through the events that have transpired over that particular stretch of interstate.

  “What?” he screams when Stephen mentions the helicopter’s attack on the trapped motorists.

  “Police helicopters had just left the airspace after getting a quick look at the situation. The strong winds and blinding snow forced them to back down.”

  “What department did we use?”

  “Delta.”

  Jacob swears. “Terrorist suspect armed with a WMD?”

  “Heading for Philadelphia in a stolen Saab.”

  Jacob’s mind races through the mess, tries to understand what might possibly make two different pilots decide to open up on stranded citizens. Could Jonathan’s influence over the other dimension be that great without the ring? Or could it be something else entirely? He knows the demons would do such a thing, but even Jesus declared that Satan doesn’t cast out Satan, didn’t he? So… “What about Jonathan?” he asks, ignoring whatever destination his thoughts were approaching.

  “A 1971 Camaro was also found stranded a mile or so behind the Saab.”

  “This is his doing,” Jacob growls, fists tightening.

  “The local authorities have requested help from the National Guard. They’re mobilizing as we speak. After what happened in 2007, they won’t be wasting any time in getting out there once they have a plan of operation.”

  “Can Delta’s presence be traced back to us?”

  “No, of course not. But if the press puts pressure on the investigation, which they will, it’s going to be hard to spin. How do you explain Delta Force opening fire on hundreds of helpless American citizens?”

  “How many helicopters?”

  “Three Blackhawks. One crashed and exploded in a nearby field, the two others, as of now, are still lighting up the interstate.”

  Jacob sighs. “If it were just one helicopter, we could have the press focus on the pilot. But three helicopters?”

  “The CIA is going to question where the intelligence came from. That could lead back to some channels we’d like to keep intact.”

  “What was the weapon our terrorist was taking to Philadelphia?”

  “A bomb.”

  “Nuclear? Dirty?”

  “No.”

  Jacob sighs in relief. “Good. Make it happen. I don’t want anything left.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t care. But do it now, before the Guard shows up.”

  “What about Jonathan and the ring?”

  “If the legends are true, then the ring will be fine. But the abandoned cars suggest the chase has moved away from the highway, anyway.”

  Stephen’s cell phone rings in his pocket. After taking it, he reports, “The plane is waiting for you. The car is out front.”

  After placing his rings in a wall safe and sealing it shut, Jacob turns and walks past Stephen, heading for the door. “The terrorist detonated the bomb when confronted by soldiers. That’s as far as any investigation should get. Nothing about the helicopters shooting motorists.”

  “Understood.” His cell rings again.

  “What is it?”

  “Another helicopter crashed.”

  “Clean this up, and mobilize another force to go after the ring. I want Jonathan dead.”

  “Military?”

  “No. Use our own this time.” He walks out the door, heading for the car waiting to take him to one of his private jets. He has an appointment with the president that must be kept. The future scope of the Society and the fulfillment of its purpose within this lifetime could well depend on it.

  ****

  He freezes, caught completely by surprise by what happens when the black man takes the ring into his hand. The connection, the voice, is broken. Lost. He stares at the young man, eyes boring holes into his soul, and he knows. Knows why he hasn’t been able to acquire the ring, what has been preventing his reunion with the ancient relic. His former inclination, back at the woman’s house, was correct.

  The black man. The Negro.

  He isn’t a racist like his father was. At least not exceptionally. He hates all people groups. But then, he suddenly realizes looking at this man, maybe the Mormons were right about black skin being God’s judgment on some former sin. But the thought is ludicrous, he knows, the man before him the furthest thing from being cursed by God. Such a realization sickens him and only reinforces his need to usher in a new world—a world that will be void of such pollutants. How could God look down at this man and choose him? It! This subspecies. How could God love that? It doesn’t matter. He promised the man that he is going to kill him, and indeed, he is. But first…

  He whips the knife back behind his head and launches it forward, sending it screaming through the air, end over end, straight at the girl’s face.

  The black boyfriend shouts out, his hand thrusting forward in protest, and the knife moves to the side, missing the girl’s face and disappearing into the darkness.

  Jonathan narrows his serpent eyes, hatred coursing through his veins. No, he thinks. It’s impossible. And yet it happened. His strike missed the mark, moved away by the pleading of the Negro.

  The angels are present, summoned by the righteousness of the ring-bearer.

  Never before has Jonathan witnessed the ring in the possession of a qualified being, one deemed worthy. The legends told of the boy Solomon gave the ring to, and the boy, with it, was able to bring Asmodeus in chains before Jerusalem’s king. And though Solomon had also used the ring to enslave the demons, over time, due to the corrupting influence of his pagan wives and his increased involvement within the Occult, even Solomon himself had become “a sport of demons.” That the man before him could have been sentenced by the dark judgment stone as pure is a phenomenon that only proves his theory as to why the ring has been so elusive. It was never just the four passengers in the rental car. Like Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, there had been another Presence in the fire, keeping them one step ahead of him. He thinks back through the legends, through Solomon’s Testament, tries to think of which angel could be here in their midst. Raphael? Michael? The Lookers. He searches for his glasses, can’t find them.

  It doesn’t matter, he convinces himself. Let them see into his soul. They can’t have it. He is the Crest of Dragons, and not even God Himself or all His hosts will keep him from fulfilling his destiny this night.

  He turns his attention from the girl, who is now on her knees and sobbing like a little bitch, and takes steps toward the black man.

  ****

  She cowered beneath the intensity of Ian’s brown eyes. They were more than just balls of jelly, more than a physiological and biological ingredient resting in the skull. It’s the reason the big toe isn’t called the window to the soul. The fingernail, the ear, the nipple, the anus… There’s only one window in the human body that communicates something beyond the mere physical. And right now, the depths of that other stuff, whatever it was, focused on her in a way that was both overwhelming and terrifying. She prayed—though to whom she didn’t know—that Ian would believe her words, that, unlike his first fiancée, she never would’ve gone through with aborting his child. Her child. She believed it now, for herself, but would those probing eyes detect the sincerity of such a conviction through her own pleading eyes? There was no doubt in her mind that her life depended on it.

  “Ian…please…” she cried, begged.

  He continued to study her, examining the truth of her words. And just like that, the anger burning across his face disappeared. A softness returned, and the muscles around his mouth and eyes relaxed. He exhaled, his body sagging as if suddenly free from some tremendous strain.

  “The ring,” he mumbled. “It did some
thing…inside me.”

  Heather crawled to him and wrapped her arms around him, scared but needing to do anything within her power to keep the Ian she knew and loved present with her. “You’re scaring me, baby.”

  For a while, he didn’t say anything, and then, “Maybe you should go on without me. Just in case.”

  She shook her head. She couldn’t go on alone. Not in the storm and not with the driver of the Camaro out there. She could already feel the sluggish pull of sleep and cold surrender seeping into the marrow of her bones. Exposure would end her life within an hour. But then she began to wonder. What if, just over the hill and through the woods, rested a warm neighborhood, its arms open wide and beckoning?

  An explosion in the distance lit the sky for a moment.

  No, she couldn’t just leave him to die out here. This was her fiancé, the man she loved more than anything in the world. She was carrying their child in her womb. She couldn’t give up on him now. There had to be a way to—

  He pulled away from her, his head whipping to the right. Something in the white-washed void had captured his attention. She looked in the same direction and saw nothing.

  “What is it?” she asked, afraid to know.

  “Marcus and Ashley.” He stood up. “The driver is here.” He took off, racing into the open mouth of the blizzard, and in a second, he was gone.

  Heather screamed after him.

  When he didn’t reappear, she started running after him, staring down at the ground and following his footprints, which were now the only discernible things in her world.

  ****

  Marcus could tell that touching the ring had done something, something the man hadn’t expected. But whatever that something was, it didn’t seem to trigger anything within him. He didn’t feel bold and aggressive like Ashley had, and he certainly didn’t feel the fury it had conjured in Ian. He felt the cold smoothness of the metal in his hand but nothing more.

  For a moment, as he watched the demon begin walking toward him, the tunnel of snow still encompassing the encounter, he considered the possibility that the ring itself might not contain any supernatural powers or abilities. Perhaps the object worked like a Ouija board, nothing mysterious in its composition, but rather a catalyst for connecting the user with the paranormal. Or maybe the ring was just being blamed for horrors that belonged solely to the corrupted hearts of the people around it. Whatever it was or wasn’t, Marcus gained no new experience by holding it in his hand.