The Tears of Nero (The Halo Group Book 1)

by Jason Brannon

  Nero smiled again. This one was more unsettling than the last. “Under normal circumstances I would say you were correct.” The madman reached down the neck of his tunic and pulled out a vial on a chain identical to the one Edward was holding. “But not today. In my business I’ve learned it’s always best to have a little insurance. You never know when it might come in handy.”

  “So we play for both vials?” Edward said.

  Nero nodded.

  Edward considered the offer. “I could break my vial now and kill us both.”

  Nero shook his head. “No, you couldn’t. Because that would be suicide and you don’t believe in that.”

  “It wouldn’t be suicide. It would be a measure of sacrifice just like Christ dying on the cross for the sins of mankind,” Edward said, trying to buy himself some time. “He could have avoided crucifixion if He wanted to. But he allowed the Romans to do all those nasty things to him. He allowed himself to die for our sins.”

  “Ah,” Nero said. “That’s a little tricky, isn’t it? The difference here is that Christ was following God’s plan when he died on that hill. He lived without sin because He was so dedicated to that plan. Can you say without a doubt that smashing that vial on the floor and killing us both is God’s plan? I think not. I could smash my vial on the ground right now too. I won’t consider that option, however, if you agree to my game.”

  “What are the rules?” Edward asked.

  “We’ve based our little adventures on angelology. Why stop now? Why don’t we try to stump each other with our knowledge of angels. We’ll play until one of us doesn’t know the answer. I‘ll ask you a question. Then you ask me.”

  Edward knew he didn’t have any options. He had to play. “Ok. Fine.”

  “You can even go first,” Nero said. “And to play my game, we will examine other texts besides the Bible.”

  “Why would we do that? The Bible is the truth. Those other books are works of fiction.”

  “I don’t consider them to be fiction,” Nero said. “Besides, I’m the one who makes the rules.”

  “That puts me at a disadvantage since I don’t give any stock to those other books. I have only a peripheral knowledge of what they contain.”

  “Not my problem,” Nero said. “Let’s get on with it.”

  “Fine. What is the name of the angel of death?” Edward asked.

  Nero smiled. “Some report that it is Samael. What is the name of the angel of the bottomless pit?”

  “Some report that it is Abbadon,” Edward said. “What are the Nephilim?”

  “A half-breed child produced by the union of a mortal woman and one of the fallen angels. Name the angel that foretold of John the Baptist’s birth.”

  “Gabriel. By some accounts what is the true identity of the angel named Sandalphon?”

  Edward thought about this one for a moment, struggling to remember everything he’d ever read or heard about angels.

  “You don’t know this one,” Nero said with glee.

  “Not so fast,” Edward said. “Some people believe Sandalphon is the angel that the Old Testament Prophet Elijah was transformed into after ascending to Heaven in a fiery chariot.”

  Nero scowled. He hadn’t expected Edward to get the answer correct.

  Edward smiled, feeling confident for the first time. “If God knew that some of the angels would eventually revolt, why did he create them at all?”

  “That’s not the kind of question I can answer,” Nero protested. “You have to ask something different.”

  “You didn’t specify that the question had to have an answer. Your rule was simply that the question had to be about angels. My question adheres to the guidelines.”

  “If the question has no answer that we can determine, I can neither win nor lose.”

  Edward smiled. “Exactly. Which puts us in a stalemate position. But please, feel free to answer.”

  “I would assume the answer goes back to the free will topic you were busy trying to pound into my head earlier. He created angels to praise Him, and he gave them the free will to decide whether they would or not. I’m sure the notion of creatures praising you because they choose to is much more rewarding than the notion of creatures praising you because they are forced to.”

  Edward nodded. “Don’t you think God would be infinitely more pleased with you if you willingly chose the path He had for you rather than being forced down that road? No one made you become the man you are. Yes, things happened to you, but you could have made different choices along the way.”

  “But my father abused me,” Lindell said, throwing the Nero persona off like an unwanted suit of clothes.

  “And my wife and son were killed,” Edward offered. “The pain that I still feel about all that is nearly unbearable some days but I can’t focus on that forever. Remember what pressure does to coal. It doesn’t destroy it. It turns it into a diamond which is infinitely more valuable. That‘s what our experiences should do for us. We can be valuable to someone else.”

  “But my father beat me in God’s name,” Lindell whispered.

  “Your father didn’t serve God. Not only did he abuse you but he abused the name of the Lord too. Yet you knew he was a fake. Your mother, however, was the genuine article. She was the example you knew to follow.”

  “Nero used Christianity as an excuse to do lots of nasty things.”

  “So did your father,” Edward said.

  “Nero made a name for himself at the expense of the children of God.”

  “Nero could have easily been a champion for God. His road, like all others, forked and he could have chosen differently. How do you choose? The road to redemption is always one step away. You can make a U-turn whenever you want. It‘s not too late.”

  Lindell looked at him and all the stained glass angels. A look of realization flashed across his features as he understood the magnitude of what he had done…what he’d been about to do. “I’m no better than Lucifer,” he said. “I’ve rebelled against God.”

  “But God will forgive you,” Edward said. “You’ve preached on the forgiving nature of God all these years. You know it’s true. Practice what you preach, Halford. Make your mother proud. Make God proud. Put Nero in a shallow grave.”

  Lindell began to sob and fall to his knees. He wept openly and trembled. Edward watched the broken man reach rock bottom and decided to leave him alone there. He wasn’t worried that Nero would reassert control. Not any more.

  What he didn’t realize, however, is that Lindell in his broken form was every bit as dangerous as Nero.

  “I’m too far gone,” Lindell wept, hugging himself for comfort. “There’s no hope for me now. I‘m sure my mother‘s looking down on me from Heaven and she‘s so ashamed. I must pay for what I‘ve done.”

  And with that, he tore the vial from around his neck.

  The shadows reacted immediately, peeling away from the walls and pooling on the floor, swirling and whipping themselves into a frenzy, taking a vaguely demonic shape.

  “Alastor,” Edward exclaimed, backing away. “He's here.”

  “This isn't what he planned,” Lindell said. “He's not going to be happy.”

  The TV preacher seemed more in control of himself now. That wild look of mania was no longer in his eyes. Instead, there was a firm gleam of determination and an underlying sense of guilt. He was all too aware of the mistakes he had made, and nothing was going to stop him from punishing himself. Not even the angel who had given him access to the Morningstar virus in the first place.

  Alastor the Executioner rose up above them, growing taller, stronger, larger with every passing second as all the blackness in the room bled into something cohesive, something winged, something darker than the shadows that composed him. His eyes smoldered like embers, and his mouth opened in a snarl of rage. He wielded an obsidian sword that looked like it might have been forged in the fires of Hell itself.

  Edward scurried backward, knowing he was no match for this kind of adversa
ry. Lindell, however, stood his ground. Alastor roared his disapproval of the way things had been handled and lifted his sword above his head, fully intending to live up to his name as The Executioner.

  From somewhere within the folds of his robe, Lindell pulled out the bone that they had retrieved from deep inside the limestone cave, the relic that Solomon's Hammer claimed could be used to exert influence over angels. Alastor visibly recoiled at the sight of the bone, and Lindell advanced on the fallen angel with the relic held out in front of him. With every step the evangelist took, Alastor shrank. Shadows fell away from him like leaves falling from the branches of a tree in winter. It was like watching black ice melt in the noonday sun. Soon, there was so little left of him that the remaining darkness dissolved into an oily puddle on the floor of the underground cathedral.

  Then, something even more unexpected happened. Alastor began to pull himself back together and laughed at Lindell. The demonic cackle was like fingernails being raked across a chalkboard, and Lindell dropped the bone, clamping his hands to the sides of his head to block out the noise.

  Edward ran to him and pulled him away from Alastor as the shadows flocked to their master. “That bone is worthless,” Edward said. “There is no power and authority here but that of the Father. Alastor tricked you into believing that. Prayer is our weapon in this fight. Not some old relic and a bunch of nonsense written on parchment. We aren’t alone in this. We have an adversary down here.”

  Lindell looked at Edward uncertainly as the former preacher knelt to pray again. As he did so, all of the light in the room began to coalesce, to spark, to assemble into a bright, glowing mass in the center of the room. It was like watching electricity take human form and was so bright that both Edward and Lindell had to shield their eyes. However, they caught a brief glimpse of the figure and saw that it, too, had wings and a mighty sword. Without a doubt, this was the figure that had touched Edward earlier in the glass casket. This was the angel God had sent.

  The two figures rushed at each other and hit head on. The impact was like an explosion, and the resulting fight was like nothing anyone had ever seen before. Light and darkness battled for supremacy. The angel of light swung his sword, temporarily chasing away the shadows. The darkness, however, returned with a vengeance, dimming the light, gnawing at its brilliance with millions of blackened teeth. Meanwhile, Edward continued to pray for God’s help in this most desperate of times.

  “Pray,” he called out to Lindell. But Lindell was transfixed by what he saw, unable to tear his attentions away long enough to fall to his knees.

  Seeing that Lindell wasn’t going to join him, Edward redoubled his efforts and called out to God as darkness and light tore the room apart. Thunder reverberated through the walls and the floor. Lightning crackled, dancing over the flagstones. The air was rife with the smell of ozone.

  For a moment, it looked like Alastor had the upper hand. The angel of light was dim now, ripped apart by shadows in so many places, no longer the creature of brilliance it had once been. Yet, just as Alastor was about to move in for the kill something happened. Edward lifted his eyes to God one final time and begged for the Lord’s intervention. The room was suddenly filled with angels that hadn’t been there before, and Alastor was outnumbered four to one. The seraphim used their fiery swords to mow down The Executioner like wheat at the harvest, and soon the room was alive with flames and light so bright it was excruciating to behold.

  Edward saw enough to know that God had delivered them from harm, and he bowed his head anew, offering praises of thanksgiving up to Heaven. Lindell, no longer the fragmented man he’d once been, was still broken. Now, with some clarity of thought, he became burdened by the weight of his mistakes and wept.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said as he broke the glass vial containing the Morningstar virus.

  Chapter 41

  Edward gaped in horror at what Lindell had done and then quickly covered his mouth with his sleeve. Lindell glanced up with understanding. “The Morningstar virus won’t kill me for quite a while,” Lindell explained. “In its most concentrated form, I would already be dead. The horsemen mutated it so that it wouldn’t kill immediately, allowing for a longer incubation period and a potentially wider hot zone for the outbreak. It will make me suffer for a long time, and that is what I deserve.”

  “But what about me?” Edward asked, panicking.

  “You’ve been inoculated against it. Everyone in the group was given immunity before being dropped off on the island. The games wouldn‘t have worked very well if all of you were stumbling around, suffering from open sores.”

  “Why did you do it?”

  “I’m confused. Angry. Psychotic. I’ve fought with Nero for so long. I listened to Alastor, and that led to all of this chaos. I finally realize that I’ve been deceived. I’m tired now and want this to be over. The angels haven’t heard my prayers. God isn’t listening to me anymore. Maybe this one last cry for help will get somebody’s attention. The way out of here is easy to find. I‘m sure the real police are already topside by now. Give them the vial around your neck. It contains the cure for the Morningstar virus. In good conscience, I couldn't allow my mother to be the source of a plague that killed millions, now could I? Her memory deserved better than that. Nero didn’t see things that way, but I managed to win that fight. Of course, none of that matters now. So leave me. Please. I won‘t run.”

  Edward considered what Lindell was suggesting, but he couldn’t go without trying one more time to sway the wayward preacher. “Judas should have been the embodiment of Christianity. He was one of Christ’s twelve apostles. He witnessed the Lord perform miracles. He learned from Christ. And yet he betrayed the Lord. He sinned against God. Some would argue that he did exactly what he was supposed to do, that it was all part of God’s master plan. Assuming that Judas was an integral part of what God intended for his son, can we assume that Judas’ behavior was pleasing to God? Without Judas’ betrayal there might not have been a crucifixion, and without the crucifixion there would be no salvation.”

  “I don’t get your point,” Lindell said, lifting his tear-stained eyes long enough to consider Edward’s question.

  “My point is that your father could be seen as your own personal Judas. Maybe his behavior and actions were the catalyst that drove you toward your mother and her love for God. Without your father, maybe you wouldn’t have been nearly as close to your mother. Maybe her morals wouldn’t have become so firmly engrained in you. Maybe you would have never started your ministry and done all of the good works you’ve performed.”

  “So you’re saying that my father’s abuse might have been part of God’s plan?” Lindell said, not buying it.

  “It’s a question. I don’t have the answer to it obviously. But it’s something to think about. Your life doesn’t have to be over at this point. You still have the ability to touch lives and do good. It doesn’t have to all end right here.”

  “No,” Lindell said, shaking his head. “This is the point where I’m supposed to drink the Kool-Aid and go down with the ship.”

  “The choice God gave you over your own life is still there. It’s not too late to turn back and take the other path. Surely you've preached this same sermon time dozens of times. You're never so far gone that God can't reach you.”

  “Do you think God would forgive Lucifer if he repented?”

  The question took Edward by surprise.

  Lindell had found his angle. “Is Lucifer so far gone that even God can’t reach him? God is merciful, but is He that merciful?”

  “It's not a question I can answer,” Edward said. “I believe that God offers forgiveness to those who are sincerely repentant, but you aren’t like Lucifer. God has promised you forgiveness if you seek it. The Bible says so. Your soul is the one you should be worried about. Not that of a fallen angel.”

  Lindell trembled as the germ from the broken vial began to do its worst on him. “If my father’s abuse was part of God’s plan, I’m not s
ure I want to follow God.”

  “You aren’t the only one who has ever been through something traumatic. You aren’t the only one in history who has suffered. Look at Christ. He suffered more than you ever thought about.”

  “But surely there was some consolation in being the Son of God,” Lindell said as a tiny trickle of blood ran from his left nostril.

  “Christ was human while on earth,” Edward said. “You know that. You’re arguing the other point because you want that side of the argument to suit you.”

  “I’m arguing the rational point of view,” Lindell said, coughing.

  Edward felt his blood pressure rising and knew that it had nothing to do with the Morningstar virus that was floating around in the air. He could feel his anger building, and he clenched his fists while trying hard to control himself.

  “You know I’m right,” Lindell said. “Maybe you’re on the wrong team and don‘t realize it.”

  Before Edward knew what he was doing, he was on top of Lindell, shaking him by the lapels and shouting into the madman’s smiling upturned face. “My wife and son are dead, and it’s all because of you. I could choose to stay angry about it for the rest of my life. But I can’t sustain that kind of rage forever. I thank God for the time He gave me with them, and I know I will get to see them again one day. That's the reassurance I get from following Christ. If you truly believe your mother was such a saint, then surely you don't doubt her faith. If she's in Heaven, isn't that where you want to be? I know I will see my family again. You can know that too.”

  “Do you really know that?” Lindell said with a smirk, knowing he’d found Edward’s weak point.

  Edward wanted to strike the fallen preacher, but he controlled himself. “I imagine that sounds like something your father might have said. Your mother raised you better than that.”

  The words were more effective than fists could have ever been. Lindell’s face fell, and he began to weep anew, this time so forcefully that his body shook from the effort.