The Seventh Seal

by J. Thorn

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” he said.

  Chapter 42

  Crystal wiped Alex’s head with a cool towel and then put a thermometer in his mouth. The biker chick set off on a daydream of warmer climes and peaceful times. Several minutes later, Alex’s eyebrows bunched up, reminding Crystal that it was still under his tongue. She shook her head and then removed the thermometer.

  “Looks normal so far. If you can make it through the first night without spiking, I think you’ll be fine.”

  Alex smiled. He reached for a bottle of water near his cot and froze. The pain radiated throughout his entire body.

  “I owe you everything.”

  Crystal smiled and kissed his forehead.

  “Rest up.”

  Alex fell back into a solemn sleep.

  Chapter 43

  The ride through the decimated city did not shake Father. He considered the Holy Covenant a rebirth, a new beginning from a violent end. They drove down crooked streets filled with the shells of automobiles and the vestiges of lives past.

  The young men in the troop transport did not say a word. They looked into each other’s eyes like souls facing the Styx. The eldest of the group, the driver, communicated with Father. He asked for clarification several times, but managed to navigate Mayfield into South Euclid without too much assistance.

  Father stopped the vehicle at the intersection of Mayfield and Plainfield. The men emptied the truck and checked their gear. The snow subsided for the moment, although renegade flakes still danced from roof to roof. Father studied the pristine snow on the road, the unbroken seal on a new winter.

  He led his group down the middle of Plainfield Road, concentrating on John’s aura. As they pulled up to the house, Father inhaled the mystic scent until his eyes locked onto an irregularity in the blanket of snow.

  Pink and lavender splotches mottled the ground covering near the house. Broken glass lay on top of the accumulation, not under it. Father saw the front and side door swinging, hammered at the mercy of the southwest wind.

  “Secure the place. Something is wrong.”

  The young soldiers fanned out and took up positions. Numerous of sets of footprints circled the house and scattered in various directions.

  Father remained in the truck, lit a cigar, and gave the men time to secure the structure. He heard shouts of “clear” as each man rummaged through the various rooms. Father exhaled the smoke and watched it float toward the barren trees. The driver exited the house first and delivered the status to Father.

  “Father, the place is empty.”

  Father continued chewing on the end of his cigar while the lit end flickered. He motioned for the man to continue with his explanation.

  “There are at least twelve bodies in there. We found Commander Byron. He is unconscious and bound, lying on the kitchen floor. All the others are dead.”

  The man waited for Father’s response with clenched fists and a furrowed brow.

  “Have the men make Byron comfortable, and get him whatever medical attention we have here. I wish to speak with him as soon as he is lucid. Is there any sign of John the Revelator or the woman?”

  “No, sir, we have not found either.”

  “I would like to see it with my own eyes,” replied Father.

  The soldier locked his weapon and led Father through the living-room door.

  The place reeked of gunpowder and burnt flesh. Evil, black eyes stared at Father from where bullets penetrated the drywall. Father’s troops cataloged the dead bodies. They took pictures, detailed the numbers, and stole anything of use.

  Father cast a sideways glance at the black body bags containing his soldiers. He walked past corpses wearing the vest of the Keepers of the Wormwood. Two of the soldiers carried Commander Byron out the back door as Father stepped into the kitchen.

  “You have cleared every room, every closet, everything?” he asked his escort.

  “Yes, Father.”

  “I can feel him. He is here.”

  Father turned and climbed the steps to the second floor. The furniture in each bedroom had been tossed multiple times, every closet door open or ripped from the hinges. He proceeded up the steps and into the attic. A couch sat against the right wall, and a desk fit under a window looking out upon Plainfield. Father moved the computer monitor out of the way and stared into the dead neighborhood. He saw the roof of the nearest neighbor and the freezing mix of snow and leaves in the gutters.

  He pulled the couch from the wall and pushed open an access door, which gave way to a crawlspace – too narrow for adults to hide. The cold air rushed in, along with brown leaves and balls of dust.

  Father returned to the main floor, where the men stood in a circle. They’d secured the place, tagged the bodies, and waited for their spiritual leader to give them the next command.

  He stopped and looked at them, and then continued down the steps into the basement. The darkness consumed everything. Father shouted for a flashlight, and one of the men brought it to his side. He swung the beam around the basement to get a closer look at more damage. Father stepped into an empty laundry-room area and a workroom. He opened the door into a pantry. The garlic from the broken jars of tomato sauce caused his stomach to rumble.

  The furnace-room door stood open, revealing boxes and plastic bags, but not much else of value. He was about to head back upstairs when the beam of light caught hold on a set of hinges. Father moved in closer and discovered yet another door, composed of panels of wood. Its rusted hinges looked as old as the house. The open slide bolt in the top, left corner of the door avoided the creeping rust.

  Father pointed his flashlight at the ceiling and put a firm grasp on the handle of the door. The curved, metal handle stunned his palm with an icy touch. In one motion, he yanked the door open and aimed the beam inside.

  He saw nothing but brick and mortar. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling, and the dirt on the floor showed a recent disturbance. Father shook his head and tried not to breathe in the musty air. He backed out and slammed the door shut.

  He stormed back up the steps, where the men snapped to attention. One of the younger soldiers stepped forward.

  “Sir, there appears to be a set of tracks leading through the backyard and into the adjoining house on Winston. It might be him.”

  “No, it isn’t. However, it is another thorn in the Lord’s crown.”

  Chapter 44

  Sully kept his head down, disguising the puff of warm breath sitting on the chilled air. He watched as Father’s men flooded the house. Their lights and laser beams pulsed through every room.

  He wiped at his eyes and brushed the memories of fallen brothers aside. Sully thought of those left at the safehouse, and of the news he would have to deliver.

  Sully checked the clip, making sure that he had enough rounds to take on Father’s men and take out the leader of the Holy Covenant. Sully drifted back through childhood with the cascading gusts of falling flakes.

  Fucking mother pretended like she didn’t know it was happening, he thought.

  Tears began to well up in Sully’s eyes.

  Sully appeared to have the childhood of Silverstein poems and Rockwell paintings. He grew up in suburban Cleveland, the son of an auto mechanic and a teacher’s aide. Sully’s dad made enough money to support the family, so his mom worked just to help “settle the rough edges”, as she used to say. Sully spent many days playing football after school, doing homework, and attending church like the rest of the families in the predominantly Irish neighborhood.

  When Sully turned seven, the pastor of their parish, Father William, made an appearance at school before recess. The man had eyes of steel, and his words grabbed hold with the abrasiveness of sandpaper. Most of the women of the parish, and the nuns that taught in the school, feared and respected their pastor, in that order.

  “You are all now of age to formally serve the Lord,” he had announced.

  The girls sat still but did not pay much attention, forbidden to serv
e as altar boys.

  The priest followed the statement with fiery rhetoric straight from the Old Testament, brimming with holy vengeance. Several of the boys in Sully’s class raised their hands and promised the pastor that they would attend the orientation on Sunday morning.

  The nun, Sully’s homeroom teacher, ushered the class out of the room and toward the playground, where games of tag and kickball would consume energy and renew fierce rivalries. Except for Sully. The priest put his hand on Sully’s shoulder, and told Sister Ann that he would be staying after with the young man. She bowed her head and pulled the door shut. Sully watched his fellow classmates run and shriek in anticipation of the big game. He bit his bottom lip, eyes darting back and forth between the door and the clock.

  Father William pulled the blinds shut on the classroom windows. He turned the lock on the door. Sully thought about all of the rules he had broken, none of which would warrant a visit from the pastor.

  “You can be of special service to our Lord,” said Father William.

  Sully did not respond, mindful of the wooden paddles wielded like samurai swords. Father William sat in the desk next to the young man.

  “I need you to expel Satan from me. You can help cleanse my soul of evil and bring the light of our Lord Jesus Christ to both of us. Can you help me?”

  “Um, yes, Father.” Sully broke his silence, not wanting to risk the disrespect of not answering an adult’s question.

  Father William unbuckled his pants. With his right hand, he removed his penis, which jerked about in a haphazard way. Sully’s eyes widened in a mixture of shame, fear, and curiosity. Father took Sully’s tiny hand and placed it on his growing erection.

  “If you move your hand up and down, the evil will be dispelled from the top.”

  Sully did as he was told.

  For eight years, Father William visited Sully. It happened in the church basement, the rectory, the school gymnasium, and anywhere else Father William could find that provided them time alone. Sully told his mother on his tenth birthday. After three years of the abuse, he was convinced he could not live with it any longer. She slapped her son in the face and it hurt worse than any punch or blow that Sully had taken his entire life. He was never able to look his father in the eye.

  By the time he was fifteen, Sully considered stabbing the priest. What would they do to him, if he did…? But the next month, the organist made the announcement at the end of Mass. The Catholic Church thanked Father William for his service to the parish and wished him best of luck on his new assignment.

  A squirrel darted across the tree above Sully’s head and scurried onto the electrical wire running toward the house. The tears made it hard for Sully to focus on the animal, while the spent ones froze in his beard.

  Sully was not sure when Father dropped the “William” from his surname, or how he had managed to return to Cleveland. However, he did know one thing. He would face his abuser, speak his piece, and send the man to Hell.

  Chapter 45

  John knew that the first shots came from outside the house. It took a pause and the thumping of boots on the kitchen floor before Father’s troops returned fire. The men yelled about a sniper behind the garage. One called for grenades strapped to another soldier.

  John pushed the thin piece of paneling to one side and crawled out from underneath the basement steps. His legs felt cramped, but he was otherwise thankful for the hidden storage area.

  Light from the late-evening sun filtered through the open side door and down the steps into the basement. John remained in the dark for a minute to make sure he was not giving up his position to one of Father’s men.

  Glass broke and bullets launched into the soft cedar shake of the house’s exterior. John tasted dried, burnt wood on his tongue, and covered his mouth to stifle a cough.

  He heard the first of two explosions roll back to the house like a seven-ten split at the bowling alley. The second explosion followed a minute after the first, and the retaliation shook the foundations of the house. John thought that the old colonial, built in the early 1920s, might come crashing down, burying the remains of his life. John’s ears rang, and dust rained down from the rafters, covering him with a thin layer of grime. He crept up the steps, gun barrel leading the way.

  When John reached the side door and mudroom landing, he stopped and flattened himself against the wall. The men in the kitchen talked, but he could not make out what was being said.

  One soldier appeared in the driveway, three feet from John. John held his breath and pulled tight against the wall. The soldier aimed his gun in another direction and moved down the driveway toward the garage.

  Chapter 46

  Through the pain, Sully welcomed the warm embrace of his own blood. He wiped the red shade from his face and watched three men closing on his position. His left arm snaked back over the hedge at a bizarre angle. It did not follow the directives from his brain. Sully felt a burning sensation in his stomach, and phantom pains pulsed where his right leg used to be. The grenade left a divot in the snow bank.

  “Drop your weapons!” came the first command from the soldier closest to him.

  “Does it look like I’m holding any, numbnuts?”

  The other soldiers surrounded Sully, each aiming the barrel of their machine gun at his head.

  “Hold your position,” said the lead soldier to the other men.

  Sully closed his eyes and his body spasmed from the pain he tried to ignore. When he opened them again, Father was coming down the steps out of the kitchen door. He had a Bible in one hand, and swept his robes back and forth through the cold wind.

  “You are an agent of Satan,” said Father.

  Sully laughed and spit blood onto the pristine, white snow next to his head.

  “How’ya been there, Father William?”

  Father looked at Sully’s face. His skin matched the pasty white flakes falling from the sky.

  “What? Don’t remember each piece of ass you’ve had? I sure do.”

  Father turned and instructed the soldiers to take his weapons, which they did. He ordered them back into the house, out of earshot of the conversation.

  “How do you know I am Father William?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe you were the pastor of my church when I was a kid?”

  Father’s face contorted as misty recollections passed through his mind.

  “How many little boys have sucked you off? Did it start with Sister Anne’s class, or have you been taking cock your whole life?”

  Father drew a leg back and drove his black, steel-toed shoe into Sully’s abdomen. “Shut your mouth, right now.”

  The biker froze, his mouth agape with silent pain. When his wind returned, Sully screamed.

  Father peered into Sully’s eyes as his own lit with a distant memory. A faint smile broadened his rough face.

  “Michael Sullivan. How could I forget your face? You were easy because your parents were stupid.”

  Sully sat up with all of his remaining strength and lobbed a slow, long punch at Father’s knees. Father stepped back and stood on Sully’s arm. With his free leg, he delivered a blow square on Sully’s nose. The explosion sent bone and cartilage flying through the air.

  “Before these men send you to your Judgment Day, I’m going to give you one last chance to make amends before the Lord. Since your days in the parish, you have strayed. Come back to Him now and save your soul before it is too late.”

  Sully pulled himself to an upright position with his back leaning on the garage. He spit more blood and looked up at Father as his vision clouded. Sully saw Father as he stood now, but he also saw Father William superimposed. The two images floated back and forth between each other. Sully shook his head and spoke.

  “You are nothing but a rotten pervert. A sick, twisted son of a bitch. You used your power and influence to abuse little kids. There ain’t nothing beyond this, so you ain’t scarin’ me with your threats of Judgment Day. But let me tell you this. I know tha
t the cosmic balance of the universe will correct itself. You will leave this world with the pain you have inflicted on others. Fuck off, Father.”

  With a wave of Father’s hand, Sully sat back and closed his eyes as the machine guns cracked to life. Four men pummeled Sully’s broken frame with rounds of ammunition. Father held up his hand and the firing stopped. Michael Sullivan’s lifeless eyes stared up into the bare tree and beyond the blue-gray sky.

  Chapter 47

  Jana put her good hand to her mouth to stifle the cry. They gunned the man down like an animal. She was too far away to hear the conversation. The makeshift splint on her broken wrist immobilized it, but it did not hold back the throbbing, insistent pain.

  She pulled back from the window and reassessed her situation. After pulling both wrists, one swollen and shattered, through the loose zip ties, she’d managed to find a screwdriver in the storage room. With it, she’d slid the bolt back and ran out of her old house into the next-door neighbor’s. She timed it perfectly, as John and a gang of bikers approached the house just after her escape.

  She heard the stairs creak and spun around.

  “It is good to be reunited, is it not?”

  Jana shivered at the sound of Byron’s voice.

  “I need you to come with me, little one.”

  “Why? So you can serve me up to that sick bastard? Kill me now.”

  Byron hobbled through the room toward her. A lump stuck out of his forehead above the right eye. The swelling almost closed the only good one. Byron’s pronounced hobble worsened as he walked toward Jana. As if to answer her thoughts, Byron spoke again.