Inside Lucifer's War

by Smith, Byron J.

  I sit up straight in bed and look around. I am safely in my bedroom, in my bed. Of that, there is no doubt. I look down at my left arm and see the hairy backside of my forearm. The underside hurts slightly. I don’t want to look, but I slowly turn my forearm over. The entire time, I am telling myself, It was just a dream. It had to be a dream. Please, oh, please, let this have been a dream.

  It wasn’t a dream, though. As clear as it had been the night before is the mark Lucifer had stamped on me. I clinch my hand into a fist and close my eyes. No, I say to myself.

  I will not cry this morning, though. Instead, I am filled with rage. Rage against what, I am not sure. I hate the fact that I am in this situation. I hate Lucifer for putting me in this situation. If there is a God, which painfully I may have to accept, I hate him for allowing this to happen to me. No, I hate him for allowing Lucifer to rule over the dead. I clinch my fist again and let it go, as if I am clinching my hatred and releasing it.

  It is a beautiful morning. A classic September morning in Austin. The sun shines brightly, without a cloud in the sky to interrupt its rays. It will be a hot afternoon as is typical for this time of year. Looking at my clock, I see it is just after nine o’clock. I slept much later than usual. I walk to the south side of my apartment and step onto the balcony. The sun feels wonderful, especially after wondering if I would ever see or feel it again. I look over Town Lake and see a lot of people on the running trails. That, too, is typical of this time of year. New students trying to get into shape to impress their peers, and returning students trying to recover their former bodies. All of them are out running, biking, and walking. These are the casual exercisers, though. It is too late in the day for the diehards to be going around the loop. Those training for marathons and half marathons and even the triathletes would have been out earlier in the cooler weather.

  I wouldn’t call myself a serious runner. In fact, more recently, I have gravitated to a CrossFit workout. I am a casual runner. I enjoy 10Ks and half marathons, though mostly the former as of late. At age forty-five, I am aware that my joints have seen their best days, and I have no desire to push them to constant aching. Still, shorter running events are too much effort for the distance they cover. I don’t enter races to beat my best times; I enter races for other reasons. I enjoy the events themselves. Being around other runners feels good. There is camaraderie, a connection, with the runners at these events that is hard to explain. The events themselves cause me to work harder in my workouts than I might otherwise. For example, knowing that I am training for a 10K “mudder” in two months in Dallas keeps me motivated to run and lift throughout the dog days of summer. A mudder is an event that combines running, lifting, and obstacles, such as a mud crawl. Going to these events is also a way to meet attractive women who take care of their bodies, wear tight-fitting clothes, and have higher than average sex drives, thanks to the exercise. Waylon Jennings once sang, “There’s only two things in life that make it worth livin’ / is guitars that tune good and firm feelin’ women.” I have to believe he was in Austin when he first sang those words.

  I am a serious enough runner to know that if I am going to run today, I will need to wait until this evening, when it is a bit cooler. Still, I need to get out of this apartment, and I need to burn through some frustration, even if this means a poor workout in the heat. I pick up my cell phone and contact Mike, one of my running partners. Mike typically runs longer on Saturdays, usually with our running club or with me, and he would take off Sundays. Since he doesn’t normally run on Sundays, he wouldn’t have been out this morning, so maybe he wouldn’t mind a short run with me, even if it is hot.

  I suddenly think of a problem, though. I don’t have any memory of yesterday, so I wonder, did I run with him yesterday? I decide that if he refers to the two of us talking or running yesterday, I will chalk it up to memory loss from too much drinking and joke about it. Given my history, he would buy it.

  “Hey, Thomas. I’m just walking into church. What’s going on?” Mike answers on the other side of the call.

  “Oh, yeah. Sorry about that Mike. I’ll be quick. Is there any chance we could get in a short run when you get back home? Nothing big, maybe a four miler? I need to burn off some booze and food.”

  With me, burning off alcohol and food is common, so Mike wouldn’t question it. Plus, this would lay the groundwork in case I can’t recall something from yesterday. I had forgotten about his church involvement on Sundays, as going to church was never a consideration of mine.

  Mike responds, “As long as it’s a short one, I can do it. We’re having some people over later to watch the Cowboys, and I need to help Therese get some things done around the house. What do you say I meet you at your place a little after one? Will that work?”

  “That’s great,” I say. “It’ll give me a chance to grab a bite. Thanks, man. I owe you.”

  I hang up the phone and look at the clock again. It is several hours until one o’clock, and I am still not comfortable hanging out in the apartment. I quickly go to my closet and put on some running clothes. I grab my shoes and turn them over. There is very little dirt on them, and the dirt on them is dry, almost dusty. That’s a good sign. I probably didn’t run yesterday . . . at least not on the trail. I wonder if I went to a CrossFit class. My legs do feel a little sore, but that could have been from what happened in Lucifer’s lair.

  After getting dressed, I grab my phone, watch, money holder, and apartment key and head out the door to the elevators. I bolt out of the elevator into the lobby, barely recognizing the twenty-something girl behind the desk telling me to have a nice morning.

  I am surprisingly hungry, and coffee sounds great. I rarely make time for a hot breakfast, but today is an exception. I try to put on my watch as I walk, but where I would normally strap it on my left arm, I now have a sore—Lucifer’s mark. I attempt awkwardly to strap it to my right arm before deciding to stick it in my shorts pocket. Running shorts don’t allow much room for personal items, and the pocket is almost overloaded with my money clip and keys.

  I walk a few blocks to a small café, Bluebonnets and Beer, which the locals have shortened to Bonnets’ Beer. I sit down at a booth and am quickly approached by a waitress. The place is mostly empty except for an older hippy couple sitting a few tables over and a college couple whose body language suggests they are in love. The waitress is young and pleasant, with a spattering of tattoos down her arm and some piercings in her brow. It is nice to hear a sweet voice talking to me. It’s a stark contrast from what I’ve been through. I have her bring me some coffee as I look over the menu. When she comes back with my coffee, I am still staring blankly at the menu. I haven’t read a word. My mind is focused on a single thing: Lucifer. After a few indecisive seconds, I ask her to bring me one of her favorites, as long as it has bacon and overhard eggs. She obliges happily.

  The meal smells wonderful when she sets it in front of me. She has chosen well: chicken fried steak covered in egg and some gravy. On the side are several pieces of bacon and two slices of thick toast. I compliment her. She asks if there is anything else she can get for me, but I don’t answer. I am already lost in a memory.

  I’m thinking about a time when my parents took me to breakfast. I couldn’t have been more than ten years old. My mother was lovely, and my father doted on her. She was taken from him long before he was ready to accept it, long before I was ready to accept it. I couldn’t understand how a loving God would do that to a family. I couldn’t understand how my dad could still love his God after that. Her passing was part of the reason my father and our relationship meant so much to me. He was all I had. I loved our occasional trips for breakfast. It always seemed more relaxed to me. For some reason, my parents would act silly at breakfast.

  I finish the meal in a fog, though I am present enough to realize the food is surprisingly delicious. It is far more food than I need, but I eat it all. It has been so long since I had a slow Sunday breakfast, but I vow to do it more frequently in th
e future. Feeling uncharacteristically generous, I leave the waitress a twenty-dollar tip, knowing that it will probably make her morning. I applaud my generosity.

  I step out of the restaurant and immediately feel the heat emanating from the sidewalk and the sky. Coming from the air-conditioned restaurant into the hot, humid air takes my breath for a second. I walk slowly toward my apartment. I feel sluggish as my breakfast sits heavily in me. I take the long way around to avoid getting back too early. In truth, I need the walk to help digest the food. I stare down at the sidewalk in front of me, which is a departure from my normal habit of simultaneously looking at my phone and the area in front of me. As I walk, I have a strange sensation that I am being watched. I look up a few times to catch a glance or two from strangers as they walk past me. His disciples or simply people walking past? I wonder.

  I return to the apartment building lobby and decide to wait for Mike here. I fiddle with my watch for several minutes, trying to get it on my right wrist. I’m actually a bit fascinated that it’s this difficult. I never thought about the mechanics of putting on a watch. I just did it. My first two attempts end with the watch falling to the floor. On the next attempt, it keeps going in circles around my arm as I try to strap it on. Finally, with my mouth serving as a third hand, I get the watch in place on my right wrist. Of course, the first time I look at the watch to check the time, I look at my left wrist. I wonder how long it will take to get used to having the watch on my wrong hand. Will I need to get comfortable putting the watch on my wrong hand, or will the mark heal? My watch exercise occupies much of my time before Mike, thankfully, arrives in the lobby.

  CHAPTER 7

  The Run

  Mike is a finance professor at a nearby smaller, private university. From what I can tell, he is a very good teacher, and he chooses to stay at the smaller college in order to spend more time with his family. There are many differences between us, and that is just one of them. I can’t understand how someone would sacrifice his goals and professional advancement in order to resign himself to a personal obligation, but I respect Mike’s contentment with his choice. Another major difference between us is his faith. Mike is my only Christian friend. I probably have other Christian acquaintances, though they don’t seem to be very open about their faith. Mike isn’t afraid to speak about his faith, though somehow he never comes off as obnoxious. We sometimes have wonderfully heated discussions about God and Christianity during our runs. It always seems like those runs are our fastest. Although we disagree on the subject, we are respectful of the other’s beliefs. It’s actually a compliment that he tries to witness to me, given his beliefs. That is, I genuinely believe he is concerned for my well-being. I am concerned about his as well, though, I might express it differently.

  I met Mike several years ago at a local conference for professors. I don’t recall the topic, but I believe it was on how the latest technology could help professors in the classroom. Mike and I selected the same breakout session and found ourselves at the same table. It was one of those horrible breakout sessions where each table was required to come up with a solution to a hypothetical situation. Mike was sitting next to me, and he expressed the same frustration I did when we were given the assignment. We had some good banter about the various lectures and technologies while the rest of our table did the legwork for the assignment. It was the last session of the day. The instructor, before dismissing us, reminded us that there was a gathering that evening in the dining room. I asked Mike if he was going to be there, but he said no. He was going for a run before heading home. We compared notes on our pace and decided we were compatible running mates. That’s not a trivial thing. You can run only with someone close to your pace, who knows when to speak and when not to, and can carry on a good conversation. We have been friends ever since that first run.

  “Hello, Mike,” I say when I see him enter the lobby. “Are you ready for this heat?”

  He smiles slightly. “Absolutely. Can’t imagine a better time to run. What are we looking at—ninety-nine, maybe a hundred degrees out there?”

  I grin, knowing he will enjoy my response. “It’s good for the soul, right?”

  He responds within my territory—Nietzsche. “What doesn’t kill us, makes us stronger. Of course, the problem is, Thomas, we are getting to the age where this type of thing may kill us one day.”

  Quoting one of his favorite movies, a grin spreads across my face. “But it will not be this day.” Mike chuckles at the reference to The Lord of the Rings.

  We stroll down the path that leads from my apartment building to the trail, casually stretching along the way. The Town Lake trail is relatively smooth, with minimal elevation changes, which allows a person to look up instead of constantly looking four feet in front of him. It also can easily fit three people abreast in most areas, which makes it easy to run side by side. There are some spots where it narrows, and bikers sometimes force runners to run in single file. For the most part, it’s great for running with a partner and carrying on a conversation.

  “How about a bit slower pace today, maybe an eight or an eight-and-a-half pace?” I ask as we start down the trail. Mike’s silence and steady pace alongside of me confirm that he is comfortable with this pace. We start the jog in silence. Mike seems distracted. He can’t possibly be more distracted than I am, though.

  At about a quarter mile into the run, he breaks the silence. “I think I mentioned that we’re having some people over tonight for the game. I’m going to barbecue. Are you interested in coming over?”

  I raise an eyebrow, expressing interest and a question.

  Mike, recognizing my look, continues, “It’ll be just a few of us. Very casual. Some neighbors you’ve probably already met. Stace and a friend of hers. We’d love to have you.”

  It’s an appealing offer. I certainly don’t want to spend all evening alone in my apartment, and Mike and Theresa’s barbecue dinners are incredible. The deal sealer, though, is the mention of Stacie, or Stace, as Mike calls her, coming to the gathering.

  “If you and Theresa don’t mind, I’d be delighted,” I say.

  Mike quickly responds. “Great. Kickoff is at seven. People should start getting there at six thirty, but feel free to come anytime. Actually, what am I saying? You’ve never been one to hold to a specific schedule.”

  I ignore his quip, but my mind doesn’t leave Stacie. I haven’t seen her in a while. I try in my most subtle and indifferent tone to find out more about her. “What has your sister been up to lately? Is she still dating that minor league baseball player?” I ask.

  I think I see Mike smile, but I can’t quite tell. Then he responds, “I don’t know. I haven’t spoken with her in a couple of weeks. She’s been traveling lately. I don’t think that social media is slowing down any. Besides, she talks more with Therese than me. Who can keep up with her dating? I’m not sure if she will ever be serious about anyone.”

  I was drawn to Stacie the moment I met her, drawn in a different way than I am usually with women. Stacie is different. She has the attractive element that seems to lure me to most women. She has short brown hair, with strawberry highlights, and blue eyes that are like gems. She’s very athletic, which is easy to see by looking at her arms and legs. She isn’t tall, maybe five feet four or so, but she carries herself so much taller. Knowing me, it is easy to see why I am drawn to her physically, but with her, it is more than that. I’ve heard the pickup line about a woman lighting up a room when she enters it. Stacie doesn’t light up a room with her smile, but when she enters the room, everyone and everything seems happier. She brings an energy that spreads throughout her company. When she leaves, it feels as if something left with her. Maybe it is just me who feels like something leaves with her. She speaks boldly, sometimes too boldly, but without an edge. She can disagree with you and leave you still feeling like you are best friends. She can be playful but stubborn. Mostly, she is elusive—to me.

  She is always kind with me, maybe even a bit flirtatious,
but she is that way with so many people. I am astute when it comes to determining a woman’s feelings for me. Within thirty minutes, I can usually tell if I can make her mine or if it’ll be a waste of my time. Making her mine or conquering her is often how I view my encounters with women. Though, to be fair, I am up-front with the women I date that I’m not looking for a long-term relationship. They just fall into that trap. Something inside them chooses to ignore my warnings, and they long for a relationship I can’t give them. With Stacie, it is different. I have no idea whether she is interested in me. Moreover, the idea of conquering her has never entered my mind. I simply want to be around her. This is uncomfortable territory for me.

  For the next half mile we don’t speak, and I enjoy daydreaming about the evening. I map out how I will approach her. My mind plays out the conversation, each scenario ending with my charming her. Although I know that usually the opposite happens. I feel like a teenager again.

  “Hey, man! Watch out!” Mike yells as he bumps me slightly, breaking my daydreaming. “Unbelievable. Did you see that biker?” he asks, apparently referencing the biker that has just passed us.

  “No,” I say.

  “His handlebars nailed my arm. He could have waited another five yards to pass us, where it is more open. He didn’t even yell, ‘Left.’ ”

  After Mike calms down, he looks over at me. “You seem distracted, Thomas. What’s up?”

  “What does the Bible say about Satan and demons?” I ask in a professorial tone so as not to indicate my true concern.