The Sunset Prophecy (Love & Armageddon #1)

by P. J. Day

  After picking up a cell phone his brother had on his coffee table, Logan walked toward the penthouse’s main entrance, and opened one of the ornate doors from the double doorway. With his face stilled, clean and unwrinkled with calmness, he stared at Keelen who stood next to a resigned Adam and said, “I’ll meet you outside. I need to make a quick call.”

  Keelen eyed Adam, giving him a slight grin. She took a deep breath and asked, “You can help, too, you know?”

  Adam shook his head and said, “Unfortunately, I can’t. I don’t know what Logan is trying to do. But if I were to wager, this Prophecy is coming true. I have a role bonded by divine contract, and the contract states I must return to my world. I am sorry to say, but this is your fight.” Without looking at the piece of paper Logan handed to him, he walked up to a scanner that sat on his work desk and scanned and emailed the sheet to Tracy’s email address. It was a business routine and he didn’t think much about it; he thought even less of Logan’s earthly pursuits as he tossed the piece of paper away in the trash bin on the floor. Adam cared deeply for his work, and if the magazine were to survive by some miracle after his departure, Tracy would have it all under control.

  “If you change your mind…well…,” Keelen said, with her arms folded across her chest.

  Adam didn’t let her finish her sentence and waved at her to leave.

  35

  Doubt

  “Logan Drake is the brother of Lelantos,” Fisker asserted, as he sauntered into the hollowed rotunda underneath the studio. He wore his torn suit, wings retracted back into the fabric. “He might be searching for his mother, but something tells me she might not be his main objective,” he added, his face worried, but not overtly. In his heart, he felt that all attempts and efforts against the Prophecy were mild at best.

  Israfel hid beneath his wings and pulsated slowly, while supplanted on top of his rock in restful breathing. The collection of lips that covered his body remained tightly closed. Fisker felt ignored. “Israfel, did you hear what I said?”

  “Yes, I know,” Israfel said without inflection. The massive cherub turned its head and neck, which seemed to be one and the same, down to where Fisker stood, forcing him to step back a foot or two. “Where is Thalia?”

  “She is not well. I believe she may not have long to live, which is a good thing. It’s too late for her to live if Theolodus were to find her.”

  “I sent Seraphs to the arena. They have not returned. The arena has imploded into a vacuum of some sort, most likely due to the singularity caused by the disrobing of one of their heads.”

  “I told you it was risky having them on Earth. As of right now, we are fortunate that humanity still thinks everything that is happening is due to natural phenomena. I mean, an entire arena has disappeared in front of their noses, but the consensus so far, is that it wasn’t supernatural.”

  Israfel slid down from his rock. His large and leathery feet thumped the floor, vibrating the soles of Fisker’s shoes. He walked toward the trumpet mechanism and began to caress one of jutting, golden mouthpieces. Israfel turned toward Fisker. “Where is the Apocryphon?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How can you not know? Whoever reached the Kronotos’ lair and released Thalia must have it in their possession.”

  “Does it matter? They’re too late. She is near death. Plus, the fools with her are just mortals. They’re not gods or divine beings. I’m more worried about Logan Drake and his fat brother.”

  “Sloppy, Uriel. Very sloppy work...”

  “...but letting the Seraphs patrol the skies right before the harvest isn’t?” interrupted Fisker.

  “You tell me, if I blow this trumpet again, will everything still go as planned?” asked Israfel, anxiety creeping into his resonant voice. “Because if Lelantos survived the arena’s collapse, he will have vengeance on his mind, as I clearly breached our verbal agreement.”

  “What agreement was that?”

  “I promised I would call off the Seraphs because he promised me he would find his brother at the arena.”

  Uriel let out a deep breath then bit his lips in frustration. “Knowing Lelantos, knowing what a resilient god he truly is, I’d wager he is still alive. I’d say we have a potential problem on our hands. Coupled with the fact that this Logan Drake character is out to start a revolution in the middle of Armageddon...you tell me, is revolution one of the prophesied disasters, along with earthquakes, floods, and fires?”

  “Instability is one of them.” A long pause preceded Israfel’s considered words. “Uriel, what is like outside? How are the mortals behaving?”

  “They’re starting to scramble a little, but there have been moments of defiance leading up to the initial calamity...nothing that would break the prophecy, though. Why do you ask such a question?”

  “I’ve waited two thousand years to fulfill my role, yet I feel conflicted,” Israfel said, still curled up like a large, fleshy ball. “I’ve annihilated other gods with my bare claws, yet, I didn’t feel pity. But I feel pity and slight regret for what we are doing to these lesser beings.”

  Uriel paused before he provided an answer to his superior’s heavy-handed thought. He remembered his role during the plagues. “When I was sent down by Adonai to oversee the affairs in Egypt, I had no idea what my role was at the time. Just oversee that my followers remained devoted during an extreme time of upheaval, he said. They were a hardy bunch, and faithful. Adonai’s investment had paid off. These chosen people were the blueprint for our subjugation of humanity. However, I was not to meddle directly with any of the politics between the slaves and the Pharaoh’s slavers. In fact, I ended up befriending families from both camps at the time. I posed as a nomadic trader and received sustenance, comfort and housing from a beautiful widow named Kiya; her son, Akil, was an intelligent, strapping young boy, destined to be head of household as he was three years older than his younger brother and eight years older than his sister, who had her first birthday just as I arrived. This family had no ties to the politics of the time. Kiya worked as a servant for one of the Pharaoh’s nieces. She was ignorant to the happenings of the time and didn’t benefit from any of the slavery that was rampant during that time in Egypt...directly, at least. For all intents and purposes, she was innocent and her son, who was really an amazing young boy, was even more innocent. He taught me how to fish from the Nile with nothing but a papyrus stem and a sliver of dried muslin. He also treated his siblings with kindness and benevolence. I used to sleep in the pantry. One night, I woke up to get a drink of water. He was awake and stood guard over his little brother with a stick in his hand. I asked him, ‘Why are you awake? It’s midnight.’ With the most serious of looks, he responded, ‘The rats...they come and nibble on my brother’s cuts. When they show up, I will beat them to death. I will make sure they don’t feed off the blood of my brother again.’ He was very noble, and he would do anything to protect and care for his family. The next morning Adonai called for me as I was to meet him in Giza at dusk. He appeared to me in the form of a small flock of marsh warblers. Every time the group of birds collectively twisted and turned in the air, a word was spoken.”

  “…and he communicates through the derelicts and the homeless me with me. I would rather have the warblers. Even a burning bush would be better,” Israfel added.

  “It pays off to be favored, I must say,” Fisker said. He continued. “I was entrusted by Adonai to paint the doorways of his chosen people with lamb’s blood. I asked him for what? He said that those who had children and didn’t paint their doorway with lamb’s blood would be subjected to the death of their first born. I immediately thought of Kiya and Akil. Akil was Kiya’s foundation after her husband’s death. She was an innocent woman who really had no choice in the matter and who was not exposed to the realities of celestial politics or even the politics of her own kingdom. And Kiya...poor Kiya. The strong boy deserved better. His caring smile, and the skills he possessed, which could have been attributed to someone t
wice his age, definitely deserved to continue benefiting his family and community. But I complied. As I knew that everything Adonai requested or commanded was for our preservation.”

  Israfel interrupted as he moved one of his wings away from his lipped torso, “Have you ever pondered that there might be a better way than to keep sacrificing the lives of these beings? Why is questioning considered rebellion? The very act which I have just committed, if heard by Adonai’s ears, would sentence me to the outer reaches of Caeli.”

  Uriel sighed, with unease, as he also didn’t like discussing topics that could be considered treasonous by some in the divine order, which he was a part of. But he knew his intentions, as well as Israfel’s, were pure. “The reason that we must avoid subversion at all costs is due to the delicate nature of our existence and how a single misdirection in the behavior of society could upend the balance of our existence and roles. You and I know no one knows what came before Adonai. I don’t think even think Adonai knows. But he does know one thing for certain, that the absorption of mankind is necessary for our preservation. Without them, we are nothing. Their prayers, their devotion, their hymns, the killing, the maiming, and the politicking they do in our name keeps the gate open. It gives us an entrance to their world. If they rebelled, if they collectively found out what their fate was, the Prophecy would go unfulfilled. But it won’t happen. They are too splintered, too divided and selfish. They were warned, which was part of the grand bargain, but did they listen? Of course not. Which is how a Prophecy functions. No matter how much is revealed, or known, or forewarned, it always comes to fruition, because nothing can stop what was set in motion by the natural state of beings, environment, or divinity.”

  “What happened to the boy?” asked Israfel.

  “As soon as I saw the white mist crawl in from the moonlit horizon, I raced back to Kiya’s home. I was like you, Israfel. I intended to help the boy. I planned to lift him up above the cloud of death. On the way to Kiya’s home, I saw young boys and girls dropping to the ground around me, gracefully, gently, as if they were made of material lighter than air. They laid on the ground, eyes closed, breathless bodies in eternal sleep. Their parents wept over them. As I reached Kiya’s door, part of me hoped Akil was spared, praying Kiya had an illegitimate child somewhere. But what I yearned for was inconsequential in the eyes of Adonai. In the instant after I opened the door and I peered inside, I saw that he was gone. Taken. Kiya cradled him in her arms. His perfectly shaped head draped over her arm. I helped Kiya put him on the dinner table. There were no visible injuries on his body. He still had color to him, but no pulse. She wept hysterically. The pain was deafening, Israfel. The pain ran deeply, it haunted me for hundreds of years thereafter. I hugged Kiya and said, ‘I’m sorry.’ I then walked away from Kiya and Akil without saying another word. I did not look back. But the image of his lifeless body has shaken me ever since. Again, though, we are here because of Akil. Think of it that way, Israfel. Their sacrifice is so we can continue to shape life, morality, and the universe to ensure a decent existence for everyone. They need direction. They need purpose.”

  The large creature plodded on all fours toward its rock. While lifting himself on top of it, he said, “Before today, all I ever wanted to do was sound the call. For hundreds of years, I looked forward to fulfilling my role, but as I prepare to blow in it once again, the thought that suffering will commence, once my breath reaches the piston, makes me fearful—fearful that the cycle of harvesting is going to eventually affect us. I do not foresee the multidimensional universe continue to tolerate endless suffering and infinite implementation of pain, no matter how insignificant those beings might seem.”

  “Consumption is the linchpin of existence. In order for something to thrive, to breath, to reproduce, to reign and serve, they must consume whatever is available to them. Unfortunately, the consumed sometimes are alive and sentient, and therefore suffers,” Fisker said, as he walked right up to Israfel. “Now, can you tell me why you walked away from that trumpet?”

  “We’re failing, Uriel. Something is happening and we’re failing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t feel compelled to blow the trumpet. I cannot control my actions in spurts.”

  “You’ve blown the trumpet. It has started. The Prophecy cannot be stopped. We can head back to Caeli.”

  “No, Uriel. Can’t you see? These doubts I have about my role, the fact that the trumpet does not work at times, how the humans are becoming more unpredictable during the upheaval. Something isn’t quite right. We cannot report back to Adonai.”

  “Summon the tsunamis, now. Get the big one going. Brush fires. Let us see it all.”

  “No,” Israfel stated. “Do you understand that it all should have started as soon as I blew into the trumpet? Instead, it didn’t. We are not as in control as you think.”

  The squabble was interrupted by Fisker’s cell phone. He pulled it out of his coat pocket. “I’m surprised we get reception down here?” he said. The caller I.D. flashed a number he had not memorized but was familiar nonetheless. “Mark Cohen,” he said to himself, as he answered the call.

  “Agent Fisker?” asked Mark. With the news of protests, and natural disasters, it was clear by Mark’s paranoid inflection he had barricaded himself in his home.

  “Mark, pleasure to hear from you again. What’s the scoop?”

  “He called me.”

  “He did?”

  “Yes, he revealed himself to me. It’s Logan Drake...the artist. Says he’s got the elite around the world by the balls. Part of me is breathing easier, because I’m not the only one who’s been blackmailed into doing something stupid. The markets are collapsing, Augustus. You need to stop this guy.”

  “Is Barry still there with you? Did he trace the call?” asked Fisker.

  “Yeah, hold on...you want me to put Barry on the phone?”

  “Of course.”

  With nervousness, Mark handed the phone off to Barry, almost fumbling it to the ground in the process.

  “Sir?” Barry asked. “Sorry about that.”

  “Where’d the call come from?” asked Fisker.

  “It’s a prepaid cell. There are no accounts tied to the phone. We couldn’t get a link on the line. Good news is though he’s no longer hiding. Are you watching the news?”

  “No, what’s going on?”

  “He’s gonna speak downtown around noon. There’s a mass gathering of people at MacArthur Park —thousands, if not hundreds of thousands —all converging due to some social media buzz all started by this fellow. Some Hispanic lady who claims to have seen this guy in person, and who received his message, has managed to rally everyone downtown. She’s babbling about the end of the world and how this guy is gonna save everyone.”

  “Did you get info on this lady?”

  “Mirabel Maria Hernandez...Los Angeles, lives off Hope Street. Mother of two, husband works in the garment industry. She’s legal...I mean that’s all I can tell you. No criminal history...hardly any debt. I can’t arrest her, judge won’t grant a warrant for her arrest, citing lack of evidence and gross overreach.”

  “Get me Mark...” Fisker ordered.

  Barry handed Mark back his phone. “This is Mark.”

  “What did Logan tell you? Did he give away any of his intentions?”

  “Basic revolutionary shit. I mean, he doesn’t sound all that special or what he said was special. In fact, the guy sounds like walking cliché. Other than him getting his hands on a treasure trove of information that has indicted the financial sector, he’s really just spouting platitudes. He said he’s challenging the divine order of things now that he has everyone’s attention. A crackpot if you tell me. Also, I have this meteorite sitting in my backyard, you know anyone who come get it for me? I’ve called...”

  “...thank you, Mark,” Fisker said, interrupting Mark’s spastic chatter. “Help out Barry with whatever he needs.”

  Fisker hung up the phone and turned towar
d Israfel. “He is heading toward MacArthur Park. How should I approach the situation? Should I use everything we have at our disposal on Earth? Call all units, take him out like a mortal, or will should I risk revealing our hand by taking him out as a demigod, you know, with the Seraphs?”

  Israfel’s large body rested, as it usually did, as Earth’s gravity made it hard for the large Seraphim to move around swiftly like his underlings. He pursed all his lip before granting his order. “Uriel, no more Seraphs, no more handling the situation by revealing ourselves to the world, we’ve made too many errors. We must approach Logan with the mortal expertise you have accrued in the time you have prepared for the harvest. The police presence will already be at full maxim at the park. Assemble your best sharpshooters and snipers and position them around the rooftops surrounding the park. Remember, Logan is a demigod. He can be taken out just like a man.”

  Fisker nodded. “We shall neutralize him.”

  “Be wary, Uriel. Calculation might be involved.”

  “Once Logan is neutralized, we’ll shall ascend to Caeli and witness Adonai’s son descend to absorb all.”

  36

  The Shrine

  Bernadette Harris was 63. Her small apartment in Echo Park was just large enough to hold a small fridge, her twin-sized bed, a 19” LCD television, a worn-out loveseat, and a miniature cutting table she’d use to prepare her favorite dish of paprika sugar pears—a simple recipe, actually. The ingredients included paprika, sugar, and pears; not the fresh ones though. She felt that the taste was “accentuated” by the kind that came in the syrupy can. Bernadette rented the apartment on the floor level of a four-unit building built in 1918. It sat on a basement of some sort. In the cellar, the only civilian-made shrine of Thalia had been erected. It was assumed that it was the last of its kind and the only one built since the year 3 A.D. when a sheepherder name Nikos, on the isle of Delos, built one, hoping Thalia would appear and teach his awkward, unibrowed daughter how to sing. A statue of Thalia, a most necessary artifact if one were to build a shrine for a forgotten goddess, stood at the center of an improvised wooden altar, pieced together from the remnants of a particleboard end table. Made of cheap plaster from a do-it-yourself pottery store, the statue stood with pride but still looked somewhat malformed.