As he inched closer across the grass, he became even more perplexed. It looked like a black tent pitched dead center in the field.
He covered more ground quickly, closing with the shadow, barely breathing as he carefully placed one boot in front of the other, setting each down with the care of a wild animal stalking its prey. He licked dry lips and worked hard to steady his arm and keep his weapon’s muzzle trained directly on the center of his target.
The moan was now continuous; undulating in tone, it rose momentarily in intensity and then subsided into a hopeless whimper of miserable suffering. Whoever the man was, there was little doubt he was mortally wounded.
GET AWAY!
RUN!
HIDE!
Inside, the small voice continued to urge him to forget his duty, to turn and run as fast as his legs would carry him from this place. His effort might be for nothing, the voice whispered. The PDF could be watching him from the jungle; he would be killed and the wounded soldier would die anyway.
FLEE...!
Clay ignored the voice, feeling an immense sympathy welling up inside him for the wounded soldier. Though he knew he was following the only moral course of action open to him, his sense of rightness smashed solidly against a deeper instinct, a genetically-based, primitive safety net dedicated to his own survival. It seemed to scream that it was HE who needed saving; the sufferer in the shadow was doomed.
A mere thirty feet from the black mass now, he inched forward in a low crouch, the pistol at arms length. The distance between him and the shadow lessened.
It was a tent!
He could make out the thick folds of heavy, black material that seemed to stir slightly in a light, cool wind which sprung from nowhere. Suddenly a foul stench wafted towards him on the breeze; it invaded his nostrils, a suffocating blanket of pus-like particulate, and a smell so pervasive, so repulsive that he gagged. Hot bile stung the back of his throat as he felt his stomach churning. There was no mistaking what it was; he’d smelled death often, but never with such intensity!
He swallowed, blinked back tears of effort and tried to block the smell as he continued to move cautiously forward. Another sound now displaced the moaning, a hungry, greedy sucking sound. What the hell was going on?
As he drew closer, the stench became so powerful, so unbearable that it smothered him, soaking him in a vile haze of rotted fog until he was loath to draw another breath.
Still he moved forward, the 23rd Psalm running through his mind. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death....!
He had-to-breath, had-to-breath, had-to-breath...!
He took a tentative breath but the putrid fumes stung his lungs once more. His head spun. Then the breeze shifted and the odor dissipated somewhat. Clean air flooded his lungs and his mind cleared.
Barely twenty feet from the object he realized that whatever it was, it wasn’t like any tent he’d ever seen. The material lay flat against an under-surface which rippled and throbbed like a living cell.
With hot sweat running freely down Clay’s face, he suddenly began to shiver.
Damn, he thought, now I’m freezing. The cold was coming from the tent, a nipping arctic-like chill that set Clay’s teeth chattering.
IT’S NOT HUMAN....LOOK OUT!!
The voice inside screamed its warning. Angrily Clay tuned it out.
His breath was coming in shallow pants now, frosting in the frigid air before him. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
The tent was moving...the whole thing was lifting, expanding, growing, and becoming HUGE...!
The silvery moon chose that moment to slide out from behind grey clouds and expose the body of PFC Osborne lying at the foot of the rising shadow. The boy was on his back in the grass, mouth wide open, arms out-flung like a ritual sacrifice awaiting the knife. From his sallow, ghostly face, a whimper of terminal suffering rose as his body involuntarily jerked in the final throes of mortal shock.
Meanwhile the shadow over the boy was rising like a giant black pillar into the night sky. Instinctively Clay recoiled at the immensity of the figure as it spun, threw back its cloak, and snarled a rasping hiss. Red hot, menacing eyes glared at Clay who tore his gaze from the young soldier on the ground and stared uncomprehendingly at the reality of the horror before him.
TIME TO PAY THE PIPER....
The face was malevolence personified, every horror movie he’d ever seen come to life.
WELCOME INTO THE PRESENCE OF THE LORD OF ALL EVIL....
The eyes gleamed like twin, fiery torches above the creature’s blood-soaked hole of a mouth. Black, viscous liquid dribbled unheeded down his chin as Adramelech issued another rasping hiss growing in bass intensity until it became thunder in Clay’s ears, knifing into his brain, and shaking him to the core.
Two white dagger shapes dropped from the roof of the creature’s mouth and Clay realized he was looking at shining, razor-sharp, incisor teeth.
Three things happened simultaneously.
Clay triggered his weapon. The M9 exploded and belched a foot-long orange flame. The heavy slug crashed into the Beast and rocked it back on its heels. And then, faster than any eye could follow, an arm snaked out from the huge creature with the fiery eyes and crashed into his skull flipping him over backwards.
The blow set Clay adrift in a sea of indigo and though he struggled to make out some light, to be able to fight the good fight, in a far off corner of his brain he welcomed the reprieve as he sank back into another bleak pool of darkness. His last bizarre thought was: This is getting to be a habit.
Adramelech looked down at the supine mortal, so close, so tempting, white throat exposed less than ten feet away in the tall grass. Blood covered the side of the man’s face and head and the arch demon lifted a claw-like hand to taste a red smear on one nail. Again he felt the familiar burning thirst, the unquenchable craving that drove him to kill and drink from his victims.
The other miserable human, almost used up, convulsed and moaned behind him. Without turning Adramelech stepped back and placed a foot on the young soldier’s throat. With a crunch of bone, he ground the neck, spine and esophageal tissue into a bloody jelly.
The boy shuddered and lay still.
At that moment, among the million points of light in the night sky, a shooting star moved purposely across the heavens. Just as purposely, it stopped dead. Then, ever so slowly, it grew in size as it descended rapidly towards the Panamanian jungle.
The creature approached Clay lying spread-eagled on the ground, his open shirt exposing his dog tags. A small gold Crucifix on a golden chain lay askew at the base of his throat. It shone dully in the moonlight.
From a thousand feet up, a pencil-thin, silvery blue beam shot from the arc-white ball of Light. It pierced the wetness of the jungle haze, slid between tree overhangs surrounding the clearing and focused on the small Crucifix.
The golden cross began to glow, growing brighter by the second.
The Beast stopped his forward motion. Slowly he lifted its head and gazed heavenward feeling a mixture of despair mixed with undying hatred. He looked back down at the soldier.
The Crucifix stood out bright and shining against his tanned skin....
THE HATED SIGN OF REDEMPTION....
The power of His presence was too near, too omnipresent for comfort. The creatures shrank from the gleaming cross which now seemed to throb with light, life and warning. He knew fear again as Clay stirred.
The golden cross pulsed, it’s metal almost white hot....
HOLY...HOLY...HOLY....
Adramelech screamed in frustration, the taste of human blood still on his lips. Angrily he shook himself to dispense the coppery weakness that rushed through his core muscles as he viewed the Savior’s cross.
Though disappointed, he knew the mortal’s survival was merely a temporary state. Like the other humans who had seen him in the past, he would eventually dispatch him to hell and mute a witness to his presence on earth.
R
ight now he would find his favorite familiar, Rosalita, and make her wake once more to serve his needs. Though merely a child, his undead servant would give him the allegiance he needed and be his passport to the world of the sun. Then, at a time of his own choosing, he would find and joyously dispatch this soldier into the eternal blackness of hell.
On the jungle floor, Clay groaned and stirred.
The Light in the sky remained like a guardian over the fallen soldier, its beam focused on the Crucifix which continued to glow as it pulsed like a living entity....
HOLY...HOLY...HOLY....
The Beast knew better than to defy an Emissary and tempt it to do battle. Better to retreat and strike when it had the advantage. It spun from the living soldier and crashed into the blackness of the jungle.
~ 8 ~
VETERAN AFFAIRS HOSPITAL
UPSTATE NEW YORK
SPRING, 1990
Father Benito Gallo answered the phone on the second ring. “Father Gallo.”
A young female voice was on the other end. “Father, it’s Amy Pruett, the duty nurse on the second floor. I’m afraid Lieutenant Montague is critical. His kidneys are failing and we don’t expect him to last the night. His sister is on her way up from New Hampshire but it’s unlikely she’ll make it in time.”
“I’ll be over directly to administer the sacraments,” Gallo answered. He paused for a moment. “There’s no hope at all?”
“The doctors say no; right now we’re just keeping him comfortable.”
“Very well, Nurse. About twenty minutes.”
“Thank you, Father.” The phone went dead.
Twenty minutes later Gallo shuffled down the corridor of the Veteran Affairs hospital towards room 218. He sighed as he passed a recent arrival lying asleep on a gurney in the corridor. A plastic IV bag hung over the man and a urine bag was clipped to the side of his sheets.
A pretty, young dark-haired nurse carrying a tray of medication smiled at the priest as she hurried past. Gallo paused by the sleeping soldier and watched her turn into one of the rooms, unable to help noticing the tightness of the green scrubs on her lithe figure and the firm roundness of her bottom.
The familiar stirring was quickly followed by the familiar guilt. Though celibacy was a cross which Gallo had successfully managed to bear throughout his priesthood, he knew he was forever damned with impure thoughts. In fact, he resented the Almighty for saddling His servants with sexual urges. Right now, he thought, he wouldn’t mind saddling that nurse. He said a quick Hail Mary asking for forgiveness.
The elderly priest realized his thoughts merely reflected a personal crisis of faith. His years as an Army Chaplain in Vietnam had sorely damaged his beliefs. As the war progressed, he had found it harder and harder to pass out benign platitudes to soldiers laying out their fears of death to him. And, even as he spoke liberally of a heavenly afterlife, he wondered if he was selling snake oil. Had he chosen the wrong vocation? Was he wasting his life in a thankless calling of sacrifice and self-denial destined to accomplish little and reward him with a cold grave and the nothingness of death; a black plum similar to that earned by an adulterer or murderer? In the final analysis, was there no cosmic difference between saints and sinners?
Regretfully, his doubts had extended far beyond either his moral or his dogmatic concerns. He found himself posing the same questions many parishioners routinely dumped in his lap. Was there really a loving and merciful Being who had sent His own Son to suffer the indignities and pain of Crucifixion, to die in a predestined ritual of sacrifice to atone for the sins of mankind? If so, who was the object of the atonement? The Father? Wasn’t that like cutting off one’s nose to spite one’s face?
And, if God was all-knowing, all-good, and all-powerful, why was He content to allow wholesale slaughters such as the Crusades, two World Wars, or Vietnam? How could He stomach the eternal global hypocrisy and inherent cruelty of the human race; a race supposedly created in His own image?
Last, but not least, why didn’t He show Himself rather than hiding in the shadows of faith, hoping for perfect contrition for the wrongs perpetrated by humanity, all the while knowing His creations were only capable of, at best, imperfect contrition for their sins?
Gallo felt his ulcer begin to throb and abandoned the introspection. After all, he wasn’t about to solve the pandemic puzzle of man’s God-given right to exist any more than the billions who had pondered it before him, and the billions who would probably ponder it long after his tired old body had been shoveled into a hole. The only thing the priest knew for certain was that he had sacrificed a helluva lot to follow in the footsteps of someone who might have been no more than the son of a Galilean carpenter, a man with a gift of gab and no obvious desire for pecuniary rewards.
As a boy he dreamed of glory, and with the proper coaching, was led to enlist in God’s army – the priesthood. The harsh realities of his decision came in adulthood, as he suffocated under a series of disappointing diocesan appointments while being ruled by the stuffiness of ecclesiastical doctrine.
Forty-five years ago, he had been certain he’d made the right choice. His mother and father had wept for joy at his announced vocation and reaped new respect and honor in their village when he’d finally been ordained.
Now he wondered if his motivations had been based on a love of God or on an adolescent yearning to belong to a collective that would accept him for who and what he was, a simple man looking for answers to the riddle of existence.
His thoughts swept back to his youth; the choice, back then, had seemed simple.
As a young boy in a poor Italian village, he’d been very lonely. Fortuna, his older sister, had shunned him with disdain because of their seven-year age difference. His mother and father, working hard to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table, seemed only interested in having young Benito help in the vegetable store or do other chores to earn extra money to help the family.
After school each day, there was no time to play. He’d sweep out the village carpenter’s shop, clean and polish boots at the boot-maker’s store and then run home to work in their own little store until supper. After that he did his lessons.
Not that he regretted being unable to form many friendships; he’d never been comfortable with his peers. Their simplistic and foolish pranks and hi-jinks had both distressed and unnerved him. He preferred a much simpler, orderly life of contemplation while discovering the wonders of literature, science and mathematics. His studies were his recreation and he looked forward to finishing his jobs, bolting down his food and attacking his books.
Ultimately, his hard work paid off.
His teachers, impressed by his quick grasp of lessons and his love of study and scholastic exploration, had pronounced little Benito exceptionally bright. In fact, he heard them whispering that he was gifted.
The boy was elated; he was someone special. But, if he was so smart, how come he didn’t have any friends? How come he didn’t have one school chum?
His school counselor patiently explained that, intellectually, Benito was light years ahead in intelligence and maturity. He further urged the boy to forget the ninnies, assume a responsible air and apply himself even harder to his studies.
The counselor resolved his gift must not be wasted.
Though it was doubtful Benito’s parents would have the money or the inclination to allow him to fulfill his full educational capabilities and ultimately progress into university, the counselor told Benito there were other ways.
Upon hearing of Benito’s extraordinary gift, the village priest, Father Vocelli, had taken a keen interest in the boy. After meeting him, he felt sure that a boy of Benito’s intelligence would positively flourish in an atmosphere of learning, of rigid and studied discipline. He would make an excellent candidate for the seminary.
Secretly, he also believed that given the right training, the youngster would climb to great heights in the church hierarchy. He made it his mission to secure a new recruit for the Rom
an Catholic Church and lured Benito with the possibilities the clergy had to offer: education, security, opportunities for travel and advancement, and the honor of doing God’s work. His family didn’t take too much convincing. As for Benito, well...he’d always listened to his parents.
The course was set, and at nine years of age and throughout Benito’s subsequent schooling, his chosen vocation was well-known.
He became a favorite of Father Vocelli. On visiting day at the school, the priest never failed to slip little Benito a piece of candy or gum, rarities in their village.
But, while he was thrilled by the attention and the exclusivity of his position, there were times as he grew older when he found himself wishing that his father or someone would volunteer to act as a counterbalance to the priest’s persuasive indoctrinations; that a friend or confidant would encourage him to determine his own wants from life. Benito himself was a timid lad, too frightened to disappoint those who held out such high hopes for him. And, the public knowledge of his calling, and the focus of the village priest on Benito, helped discourage any other friendships. He became known as the “holy boy” and as far as the rest of the students were concerned, Benito was going to be a priest and that was that.
The result was the boy led a solitary life of study and hard work. Now, his parents encouraged his studies. After all, Benito had been called by God to take on an onerous responsibility and he must be ready. There was little time for enjoying boyhood in his youth.
Another, equally pretty nurse passed Father Gallo in the hospital corridor. This one was tall and leggy with blond hair drawn into a tight bun at the back of her neck. He wondered what it would look like spread out on a pillow, a golden halo about her perfect features and startling blue eyes.
Angry at his own thoughts, the priest thought back to his ordination, the day he had taken his final vows and become a priest. Triumphant in having attained his goal, in the back of Benito’s mind, doubt still festered like a hidden cancer.
Before long, however, he found himself embarked on a busy schedule of assisting at various parishes around Rome and quickly fell into the mindless routine of self-denial, service to God and attempting to sustain piety. Once in the rut, he found it really was quite easy to serve and comply.
The Plan Page 4