by Lars Teeney
“Sí, chica, ¿Qué es? (Yes, girl, what is it?) he asked while coughing.
“Veo el pentagrama pintado en la casa y otras estructuras. ¿Qué significa eso? (I see the pentagram painted on the house and other structures. What does it mean?)” Consuela asked with concern in her voice.
“Sí, Sí, chica—La Orden del Pentagrama haber conquistado todo. Derrotaron a los cárteles y crucificaron a algunos a hacer ejemplos de ellos. La Orden decretó que su marca sea en todas las casas , o de lo contrario... (The Order of the Pentagram have conquered everything. They defeated the cartels and crucified some to make examples of them. The Order decreed that their mark be on every house, or else...)” the Old Man recounted with a dour expression. He turned away and began to assist with the fuel siphoning operation. Consuela’s optimism began to plummet.
After an hour, their refueling had finally been completed. The Driver of the bus cursed and swished water in his mouth because he could not escape the taste of gasoline in his mouth. As the bus continued on through town Consuela had noticed something else peculiar about the houses of the town. There were brightly-colored paper garlands placed around doorways and windows, and candles lit on makeshift altars, with ornate, white skulls that had been embellished, that acted as the centerpiece of many of the altars.
“Dia de Los Muertos!” she thought to herself. She had been gone so long that she had forgotten about some of the cultural holidays. The bus passed by a cemetery and Consuela could see that some of the locals were busy decorating gravestones with garlands and skulls. Then, as they reached the south side of town, about to turn onto the rough highway, she saw the row of nearly twenty crosses, with long dead bodies affixed to them. She assumed it had been the work of the Societatum Pentagram.
⍟ ⍟ ⍟
The mood on the bus had turned from jovial to silent and solemn the closer the checkered bus got to Nueva Grenada. Once Western Nicaragua had been a stronghold of the ‘Database’ Cartels, now thoroughly under the thumb of the Order. The bus passed countless burned down towns with the inhabitants crucified near the main entrances. At last the checkered bus had reached the gates of Nueva Grenada. The town still stood, and to Consuela’s surprise there were no crosses erected at the gates. Consuela’s spirits soared, she could hardly contain the desire to scream with joy and relief at the prospect of seeing her family. The driver pulled the bus over once they had reached the cluster of modest family compounds in the middle of the village. They walked through the alleys and streets, not failing to notice the same pentagram insignias that were painted on the sides and doors of houses, huts, and shanties. This fact troubled Consuela. Many of the houses had also embellished their houses with ‘Dia de Los Muertos’ decor.
Soon, Consuela and her Rude Boy detachment neared, from the rear, the house that Consuela had grown up in. Off in the town square hints of a band’s horn section started the notes of a funeral march. Onward the group walked. As Consuela rounded a corner, a child collided with Consuela and nearly knocked her off her feet. The child looked up, with a face painted to mimic a skull, clad with an elaborate design, and embellished with what looked to be various candies. The skull mocked Consuela. The child with the painted skull face, stared at her for a moment, then muttered,
“Consuela!”
“Sid?” she asked, recognizing the neighbor, under the makeup.
“Consuela! Consuela Grajales ya está aquí! (Consuela Gajales is here!)” Sid yelled, as he wrenched away from her grasp. He ran through the winding alleys of the shanties, repeatedly yelling the line.
“¡Espera! (Wait!)” she yelled. She started after the boy, passing by the front of her old home, something caught her eye. She looked. There were garnishes and bouquets of flowers, some withered and dead, others new and fresh, had been laid at the foot of an altar. Two framed illustrated portraits stood atop the altar, they were endearing depictions of her parents, her mother Christina and her father Juan-Carlos. Consuela looked upon them with fond sentimentality. She noticed two posts flanking the altar and the stench of death. She hesitantly looked up, slowly. There, nailed to two crosses were two corpses, one male, and one female. Judging from the condition of the bodies and the clear signs that carrion birds had done their work she deduced that they had been on the crosses for months. Consuela fell to her knees, barely recognizing her parents. She let out a whimper, and tears streamed from her eyes. There were wooden planks hung around the necks of the departed, with hastily carved letters, that read,
“Los Padres del Pecado Reciben las Llagas de Cristo. (Parents of Sin Receive the Wounds of Christ.)”
Consuela, in her grief, grabbed both the portraits and pulled them close to her. She cried and said a prayer. Shamrock approached her, not knowing what to say.
“I am sorry, Consuela,” he offered. Then, suddenly, she shot her head up to her old house. Her eyes darted about frantically.
“Lupe! Javier!” she called desperately. A neighbor’s door opened, and out stepped a middle-aged woman, and she started toward Consuela.
“Consuela Grajales! ¡No te preocupes! ¡Lupe y Javier están aquí y seguro! (Do not worry! Lupe and Javier are her and safe!)” she cried to Consuela, who turned to her with red, puffy eyes. Consuela watched the door to the woman’s shanty, as she called their names. Soon, a familiar, one-armed teenage boy emerged. She recognized the face of her brother, Javier, who had paid the price for wanting to join a cartel: which was his arm. Then, a girl came forth, barely seven years of age.
“¿Consuela?” both of the children asked in unison. They could barely believe their eyes.
“¡Niños!” Consuela called out. Lupe ran to her older sister and embraced her. Lupe began to cry for her mother and father. After a moment, Javier came to Consuela’s side. Then he broke down and embraced his sisters. The three siblings remained there for some time more, while the Rude Boys and neighbors looked on.
⍟ ⍟ ⍟
After the cathartic outpouring of emotion, Consuela’s former neighbor, Danica, had brought the Grajales children into her house for refreshments and to explain the circumstances that had led to their parent’s demise. Danica explained that after Consuela had left, the town had received word of the fall of La Chorrera, Panama. This news had emboldened the cartels, who broke the peace with the Order of the Pentagram, assuming that they had been destroyed in the battle with the Apostates. The cartels soon moved to reclaim their lost territory and conquered town after town. Nueva Grenada had soon fallen to a reformed ‘El Paradiso’ Cartel. The Cartel used the village’s resources and manpower in the production of ‘Database’, intent on finding new markets abroad for their product.
After several months of Cartel rule, news spread of a reunified Order of the Pentagram that moved north from Panama. Having actually not been destroyed, the Order rebuilt its peasant army and pushed north against the cartels, winning back territory. Before long, the Order assaulted Nueva Grenada and pushed the ‘El Paradiso’ Cartel out of their town. But, it had not been a battle of liberation. A veiled woman, calling herself the ‘Monsignor’ had the villagers rounded up. The ‘Database’ workers had been crucified without mercy, then the ‘Monsignor’ made her way through all the townspeople, asking their family names. Methodically, she isolated the Grajales couple, Christina, and Juan-Carlos. The ‘Monsignor’ showed special interest in them. But, the children had been sent into the surrounding jungle, hidden among the jungle mounds of an ancient city, Juan-Carlos had told Lupe and Javier to remain there out of harm’s way. Because of his actions Consuela’s siblings did not share their parent’s fate.
After Consuela had settled down and had heard Danica’s tale, she thanked her for her hospitality. Consuela resolved to take her parents down and give them a proper funeral and burial. Danica warned her not to remove her parent’s bodies because the ‘Monsignor’ had threatened to crucify the entire village if this occurred. Consuela scoffed at this and told the women not to worry, because she was going to singlehandedly d
ismantle the Societatum Pentagram, vowing this before God.
When Consuela’s family had said their farewells to their parents, and had buried them in the family plot, Consuela instructed them to pack only what they needed. The Grajales siblings boarded the checkered bus, along with the Rude Boys, and the bus pulled out of town, heading north, leaving the town to celebrate dead that night.
⍟ ⍟ ⍟
THE SEAT OF SCOFFERS
The vehicles that had been seized from the Regime military base at Wainwright, Texas, by the Societatum Pentagram had sped up their advance quite a bit. With the leadership of Monsignor Francis, the Order had blazed a trail of destruction and conquest through Eastern Texas. As the Order had conquered they had also force-conscripted former New Megiddo citizens into their Holy Army. The Order’s militia had been transformed from a ragged peasant army to something that resembled a professional army. But, the Order of the Pentagram’s branding lacked subtlety or grace, as all the vehicles had hastily been painted white, with a haphazard black, encircled pentagram blazoned on the side, dripping paint. Monsignor Francis had coerced ‘Remnant Regime’ engineers to allow access to the vehicles under threat of crucifixion. She used a Martyr tank as her command vehicle, having decreed that the Friars should give up their mounts and modernize their modes of transportation.
Monsignor Francis could hardly believe the Order’s forward progress. Never could she have imagined that she would be invading the former infidel power that had been New Megiddo. She had always found the Church of New Megiddo’s doctrine backward and blasphemous. When she had read about the history of the religion she had been disgusted, having learned that Brigham Wainwright was a polygamist. There was nothing worse than a false prophet to her. Monsignor Francis had scoffed at the Brigham’s claim that he had been the Last Prophet of God, after all, she had proven Brigham wrong with her uncanny success in conquering the land that once adhered to Brigham’s doctrine. That was proof enough to her that she was the Last Prophet. Even more absurd to her is that the Church of New Megiddo had revised its cannon to state that the Reverend Wilhelm Wainwright was the true Last Prophet of God, undercutting the Church’s founder.
The Order, under her leadership, had conquered the spiritual capital of New Megiddo, Wainwright, Texas. She had sat on Brigham Wainwright’s throne. Now, she would lead her crusading army and build her new capital atop the ashes of New Megiddo City. From there she would send her forces in every direction to stamp out the Apostate movement, and drive Chinese forces into the sea. But, for all these fortuitous events, there was one factor that was ever-present in the back of her mind that constantly worried her, Consuela Grajales still lived, and she possessed the Order’s sacred relic: The Spear of Destiny. She would never rest until she has driven the Spear through Consuela’s heart.
The driver of the commandeered Martyr tank pinged the Monsignor, and she accepted the message,
“Holiness, the Mississippi River is within visual range. What would you have us do?” the driver inquired.
“Good, halt the column here—we will send recon teams to scout Baton Rouge’s river defenses. I will give them the opportunity to submit to the Order in the meantime,” she said.
“Very good, Holiness,” he confirmed.
The armored column halted its advance, and the vehicles fanned out to form a protective cordon, on a ridge just off of old route 10 in Port Allen. Monsignor Francis stood atop her Martyr tank scanning the river with field glasses. She could make out that there were only two immediate crossings over the Mississippi into Baton Rouge, and she noticed that they were both heavily defended. Even with her newly acquired force, the Order would take heavy casualties trying to take the bridges. Alternatively she had sent envoys to the city with a demand to surrender to the Order. Perhaps there would be no need for the fight? She could only hope that the infidels would see the veritable light, and avert bloodshed.
Friar Fabian stood silently, by the side of the Martyr, as usual, peering blankly off into the distance. Monsignor Francis looked down upon her.
“I am sure if you could, Friar Fabian, you would probably ask me what I am doing sitting here, and not boldly attacking the infidels across the river, wouldn’t you? I bet you are dying of suspense. Not to worry, you will get your answer soon. We will put our newest member to the test,” Monsignor Francis mocked her. Friar Fabian averted her gaze and closed her eyes for a moment.
⍟ ⍟ ⍟
Darkness had now settled in to reign over the land in the sun’s absence. Friars’ Anastasias and Pius were moving south of both Port Allen and Baton Rouge, reconnoitering the river for an alternative crossing. The further they went the more it was apparent that there would be no other crossing for miles, and so the Order would not be able to use the cover of darkness to attack. They walked for some time in silence, except for the faint hum of Friar Anastasias’s drones that hovered at shoulder level, following the Friars. The big, Argentinian man known as Friar Pius was notkeen on conversation, and that suited Friar Anastasias as she was not a ‘people person’ either. She thought to herself that she had rarely met people in life who complimented her reserved temperament. She caught herself thinking she could get used to the man’s company, after all, he was an excellent physical specimen—then she remembered how she had been disfigured in all the fights with the Apostates. And, then, she put those thoughts out of her mind, because she was a hardened soldier of Christ, and such worldly temptations were below her.
“Well, it looks like we will have to report that there is no other river crossing to the Monsignor!” Friar Pius said in a thick accent with a scowl on his face. He squeezed the hilts of his duel trench daggers hanging off his belt to contain the pint up rage he experienced.
“Nonsense, Pius, where is your sense of adventure?” Friar Anastasias jested.
“What did you—” Friar Pius composed himself then continued, “You are new to the Order so I will give you the benefit of the doubt. What do you propose?” Friar Pius asked.
“I propose that you and I clear the way for the Order’s army to cross the river ourselves!” she announced.
“That is still very vague. Can you be more specific?” Friar Pius growled.
“No time, just follow my lead,” she instructed. She sent commands to the swarm of disk-like drones that accompanied her. Three drones formed up in a row in front of them. On the bottom of the drones a slot opened on each, and out popped a handle grip. When Friar Pius observed this he began to understand, the drones would fly the two across the wide river. Two drones were slated for Friar Pius and he jumped to grasp the handles on the underside of the drones. Friar Anastasias used her one good hand and grabbed hold of one drone. Up, into the cold night air they were carried. As Friar Pius was carried over the mighty river, he could make out the original shoreline that had long ago been inundated by increased water level. He could also see the search lights of sentry boats that ‘Remnant Regime’ forces had deployed further north, on the lookout for infiltrators. Friar Anatasias was thoroughly satisfied that they were well out of range for being detected. The drones, working overtime to bear the weight of human bodies, finally carried them nearly half a mile over the swirling waters of the Mississippi to the opposite bank. Once they composed themselves they started north, staying close to the trees and foliage that lined the riverbank. The swarm of drones flew low to the ground and followed slowly behind the Friars.
“Where did you get so many drones? You’re better equipped than any of the Order,” Friar Pius remarked. She shot the man a sideways glance.
“An official of New Megiddo fancied me, he had connections. It’s a long story,” she said, eager to shut down the discussion.
“That’s some infatuation,” Friar Pius remarked.
“I don’t see the Monsignor complaining about them!” Friar Anastasias retorted.
“This is true,” Friar Pius conceded.
“Quiet! Look there—a Martyr tank—and its crew is m
illing about and drinking!” Friar Anastasias had switched to communicated via her neural implant for stealth’s sake.
“How do we tackle this? Want to send your drones in?” Friar Pius accepted her ping and suggested the course of action through their shared sub-neural-network.
“Negative, I don’t want to commit them just yet. We should take them by hand,” she replied.
Near the parked Martyr tank were three men, the tank commander, the pilot and gunner. The men sat around a small fire passing around a bottle of whiskey, taking swigs, and swaying to the tunes of the gunner’s harmonica. The drunken men clapped hardily to the melody, and the tank commander got up on his feet, clumsily, to dance vigorously, then promptly fell on his backside, whereupon he conjured up a bellicose laugh with mouth agape. The Friars moved silently toward the scene. The tanker driver was belting out a tune on the harmonica, and his throat was slit so quickly by Friar Pius’s trench dagger so rapidly, that his death moans manifested themselves in a macabre, erratic song from the harmonica, then he expired. The other two tried to react but due to their intoxication levels they just fumbled around yelling incoherently. Friar Pius dispatched the tank commander and Friar Anatasias quickly killed the third reveler with her plasma blade. Friar Anastastias approached the dead tank commander, and went about the grisly work of removing his head from his body with the plasma knife, then she carried it to the top of the tank where the biometric signature of the head’s neural implant allowed access to the hatch.
Friar Pius quickly hid the bodies in some nearby scrub, then he moved to join her in the tank.
“Monsignor Francis! You should maneuver your forces to attack the Airline Highway bridge. We will take this bridge,” Friar Anastasias suggested the action.
“Friar Anastatias, how can you possibly think you can take the bridge alone?” the Monsignor asked with doubtful contempt.