7

by Van R. Mayhall Jr.

  “We have no business with you,” cried Cloe. “Stand aside!”

  A man stepped from the ranks of the hostile force.

  Cloe gasped. It was the fiery-haired man from the hangar.

  “Good evening, Dr. Lejeune,” he said with a smirk. He drew a razor-edged machete that reminded Cloe of the fabled Roman short sword she had seen in paintings and drawings. “We know you are virtually unarmed, as mechanical weapons are useless here behind Icar’s wall.”

  “He’s right, but we are not unarmed,” said J.E., drawing from its scabbard a threatening knife designed for hand-to-hand combat.

  The man laughed and took a step forward. “I have come for you and the boy, Dr. Lejeune. Where is he?”

  So Icar does not have Robby …

  “He is safe and beyond your reach and that of your master,” she responded.

  “Nothing is beyond Icar’s reach,” said the redheaded giant, becoming angry. “Where’s the boy?”

  “I’m here!” said Robby, stepping from behind a rock fall near the middle of the two groups. “Go back to the bad man and tell him to leave us alone.”

  At that, the redheaded man and his cohort howled with laughter.

  “Hey, kid, that’s funny, but you don’t know our boss,” said the soldier. “He’s a hard case and wants you and the doctor. Come here, and we’ll take it easy on the others.”

  Zack and the other five came up to Robby. He and Mel flanked the little boy. The others lined up behind the three of them. Robby reached out and grabbed Mel’s and Zack’s hands, and the rest of the group also joined hands. Power surged through the line.

  The monsignor stepped away from Cloe and moved opposite the leader of Icar’s troop. There was no hurry in his steps but a reluctance.

  The monsignor squarely faced the mercenary. “You can still save your own souls. Move out of the way. We are only after Icar.”

  The leader did not smile but only brandished the menacing machete. It made a terrible sound as it slashed through the air.

  “Our boss would not understand,” he replied. “We only want the doctor and the kid, but we will kill you all to get them if necessary.”

  The monsignor drew the sword of St. Michael from his belt and said, “So be it.”

  Cloe watched as the monsignor advanced toward the monster. On her right, the seven arrayed on either side of Robby advanced, and a humming began like high-voltage electric lines. Cloe thought about the prophecy about relying upon an innocent. Robby? She glanced back toward the monsignor, who seemed to have grown in size and power to equal the redheaded man.

  The leader of Icar’s thugs took a step backward. He then lunged at the monsignor with his machete, swinging in a gigantic, powerful arc.

  Surely such a blow would cleave the monsignor shoulder to breast!

  “Albert!” she cried.

  But the monsignor lifted his sword and blocked the hammer-like blow as easily as a child might swat a fly. The giant went flying as the monsignor deflected the swing’s momentum. He landed in a heap at Robby’s feet.

  Rolling and half-kneeling, the redheaded man drew back the machete and thrust it toward Robby’s little body. The point rushed toward Robby’s heart—the monsignor could not possibly get there in time.

  “Robby!” she screamed.

  A huge body flew through the air, and a terrible roar overtook them. Bully seized the hand wielding the machete and slammed it away from Robby’s small frame. He bit down hard into the hand and wrist with his massive jaw and violently shook them. As big as the man was, he looked like a ragdoll in Bully’s jaws.

  Cloe heard a sickening snap and, one final shake of Bully’s head separated the man from his hand about halfway up the arm. The man screamed as blood squirted everywhere. The devil’s mercenary rolled on the ground and cried in pain.

  The monsignor turned to face the others who had drawn their machetes. He took a step toward them, the sword of St. Michael raised and flashing even in the dim light. They bolted in all directions.

  CHAPTER

  86

  “Ha!” cried the monsignor as he watched the devil’s brigade run for the hills. Without their leader, they were nothing.

  Cloe looked down at the red-bearded man, now near death from his blood loss. He was trying to say something. She leaned in close to his face.

  “Priest,” he whispered faintly.

  He knows he’s dying and wants a priest. The leader of the devil’s troops wants a priest.

  “Albert,” she said. “Will you minister to him?”

  The warrior-priest spun around, his blood still high from the fight. He seemed to deflate a bit.

  “Of course,” he said, stooping and drawing the vestments and oils for the last rites from his inner pocket.

  The monsignor carefully bent over the man. “Albert, watch out in case this is a trick,” said J.E.

  “Thanks, J.E. A priest I may be, but a fool I’m not,” said the monsignor as he observed the fallen man. Apparently satisfied, he began to intone the blessings of the last rites. He anointed the man and took his last confession. Regardless of what the man might have done in life, the monsignor seemed pleased that he had the opportunity to deliver a soul into paradise.

  Cloe had never thought about it before, but it was as much a blessing on the priest as on the dying man to reclaim a soul for heaven. A man had been lost but at the last hour was saved.

  When the man had gone, the monsignor stood wearily and looked around. Everyone was staring at him.

  “Bless you, Father,” said Robby at last.

  ***

  Smoke and mist swirled around them, and visibility was very limited. They had piled some stones over the redheaded man and now were once again headed for Megiddo. The group included the seven, J.E., the monsignor, the curator, and of course Cloe. Bully jogged along with them.

  As they hiked up the incline toward the rise that was Megiddo, Cloe wondered what awaited them at the summit.

  “Do you believe this has all been foretold?” she asked the monsignor.

  “Yes, Revelation has told us this was coming or, maybe, coming again,” said the priest. “Left alone, evil will begin to grow. Good must rise up periodically and tamp it down. Indifference only allows evil to bloom.”

  They approached the crest of the hill on which the old city had once been located. At first, it appeared to be a nondescript plateau. Gradually, while the mist shrouded the periphery, Cloe could make out seams and formations that might have been ancient walls and buildings.

  There, in the center of the hilltop, stood two figures, one tall and straight and the other shorter and bent as if in pain. A third figure was off to the right. Cloe looked at J.E. and at the monsignor.

  “Now what?” she asked, softly.

  “Oh, come now, Doctor! You’ve come this far … approach!” said a voice that she knew must come from Icar. They were still some distance from the two figures in the center, but the voice sounded as if the speaker were right next to her. There was a smile in that voice.

  Doubt leaped on her back and sought to weigh her down. Her mind spun, and she could not think clearly. The horror of the evil that they now confronted washed over her. How could they possibly prevail? What had they been thinking?

  “J.E.!” she cried, but her son and the others had been similarly affected.

  As she wondered what they could do, she heard a small voice.

  “You are a bad man,” said the child as he gathered the seven to himself. “Stop hurting Dr. Cloe.”

  They clasped hands, and that thing happened again. The power within them rose up. Cloe felt she had somehow awakened from a deep sleep. She shook the devil’s cobwebs from her head and focused on the figures in the center of the plateau.

  The seven moved forward with Robby at the point. Bully was completely silent, but he stood o
n his hind legs and snapped his jaws. He stared at the taller of the two figures. Icar had a huge hound on a tether of some sort—a hellhound.

  As they moved a little closer, Icar raised his hands and moved them in a circle. Immediately, the wind arose and began to blow like a cyclone. It was as if a tornado was trying to touch down within Icar’s wall. Icar was standing in the eye of the storm, but where they were, the agitated air screamed around, trying to tear them apart. Dirt and small stones filled the air, and still the wind speed grew.

  Cloe saw a stone hit the curator, a glancing blow in the head, and he fell in a heap. The monsignor leaped to his side and helped him up. Blood trickled from a cut above one eye. Quarter-sized gravel pelted them like hell-sent hail. If this continued, they would all be stoned to death.

  “What do we do?” cried Cloe.

  J.E. yelled, “To Robby!”

  Robby and the other six were enveloped in a cocoon of some sort against Icar’s storm. She and the others fell in line behind them. There, the air was calm, and no dirt or stones penetrated. Above and away from that sanctuary, the air roared and whipped. It had become very dark and hard to see.

  They were now no farther than thirty yards from Icar and Michael and they continued to push forward. The third figure appeared, still indiscernible.

  The tornado roared, but in the lee of the seven, it was still calm. Soon enough they would be face-to-face with the beast. Then, Cloe thought, she would know for sure who was innocent.

  CHAPTER

  87

  The seven bent into the blast of the wind and debris. The power that pulsed through them warded off most of the storm. Still, their progress was only in inches. It was the brute force of the devil versus the power of good. Robby and his cohorts kept moving forward like a small fleet of battered ships in the face of a hurricane. Cloe wondered how such a young boy had the strength to keep going. She remembered the simple prayer of the congregation of St. Anselm Catholic Church in her hometown so long ago. They had prayed to Our Lady of Prompt Succor to protect them against the storms of the Gulf Coast. She reached out and prayed to the Lady now. She prayed hard, but she looked for opportunity.

  They were now within fifteen to twenty yards of Icar, and Cloe could see his menacing leer. Not a hair on his head was out of place. The wind had died down considerably.

  “The storm’s abating!” she called to the monsignor to her right.

  “No, we have only entered the eye wall,” said J.E., on her left.

  Sure enough, as she gazed outward, she could see the monster storm still raging. Strangely, the eye was very tight, possibly no more than fifty yards. It was more like a tornado than a hurricane.

  Now in the center, the air was calm and clear, but the light was low and filtered due to the wall. Cloe felt like she was in a nightmare landscape. The mega-storm roared around them, howling in rage, tearing everything in sight to pieces. Thousand-year-old stone dwellings were flung like toys.

  Cloe turned back to the middle of the plateau and saw the beast, Icar, smiling. The redheaded man’s troop had reformed with their ruler as its center. They brandished their machetes and hollered obscenities. Once again, the holy warriors were outnumbered by the fighting men.

  The monsignor moved close to her and said, “They have no heart. If we can strike a strong blow, they will run again.”

  Icar, seemingly anticipating this tactic, moved forward and released his giant hellhound. The dog stood immobile for a second, contemplating his freedom, and then Icar screamed, “Kill!”

  The hound bounded for Robby, covering the distance between them in a handful of seconds. Bully screeched a horrific canine roar and leaped forward, intercepting the hellhound in mid-leap. The hound must have outweighed Bully by fifty pounds, but the bulldog had the mass of a brick wall.

  Bully bowled the hellhound over backward and rolled on top of him. Jaws of glittering teeth from both dogs snapped with the force of bear traps, each seeking the vulnerable tissue. The hellhound’s maw found Bully’s chest beneath his massive chin. He bit into the soft flesh, and Bully squealed in pain. The hound held tight and shook his head, opening a large, shallow wound that began to bleed.

  Robby, distracted from the seven, cried, “Bully! Run!”

  Bully shook himself free of the devil’s pet and rolled over trying to regain his feet. It was no good, and he collapsed on his side. He struggled to get up, but the hound was fast approaching, seeking to press his advantage. He plowed into Bully and sank his teeth into his shoulder.

  Cloe screamed and ran toward Bully. She grabbed him around the shoulders and made to protect him from the next attack. She could hear Icar laugh at her meager efforts.

  “J.E., Albert!” she cried. “Help!”

  Before either could even move, the hound sprinted at Cloe and Bully and slammed into Cloe with the force of a small locomotive. Cloe went sprawling, and the hellhound stood over Bully, ready to administer the final blow.

  As he bent down to seize Bully’s vulnerable neck, he briefly exposed himself, and Bully, seemingly near defeat, leaped for the monster dog’s jugular. He clamped down with bulldog ferocity, severing the artery, mauling the hellhound’s throat.

  The devil’s dog stepped back, bleeding profusely, with a terrible look of mortality on his face. After a few seconds, his front legs simply crumpled, and he fell face-first onto the rock-strewn plateau. He rolled over, twitched, and then was still. Bully somehow climbed to his hind legs and let out a primal, animal roar of victory.

  ***

  Once more the seven advanced. It had only taken a second to regroup. Robby grabbed the hands of the others, and Cloe felt the power surge and dance. It seemed more powerful than ever and was growing stronger.

  Icar actually backed up a step when he saw this, but it was only for a second. He screamed at the devil’s brigade, exhorting them forward. The mercenaries advanced toward the seven.

  Once again, the monsignor stepped forward with the sword and spear of St. Michael. Cloe saw Louie finger his switchblade, ready to help. J.E. drew his combat knife from its scabbard. They were outnumbered two to one.

  They were no more than five yards distant from each other when the monsignor stopped and cried, “Lucifer, come forth! These men do not have to die!”

  As he said this, the soldiers stopped and seemed confused. Cloe watched as they considered the monsignor’s words. Why didn’t Icar come forth and make an end to these people? Surely, he could do so. Why didn’t he? Was he afraid?

  An awful silence hung over the battle scene while the storm, unabated, howled on outside. The two groups faced each other. Robby and his six cohorts advanced with Cloe and the others following behind them. The monsignor was slightly off to one side at the point.

  Robby stopped, and so did the others.

  “Lucifer, come out!” cried Robby.

  CHAPTER

  88

  Cloe stared at the beast and saw him smile. He was not afraid.

  He stepped forward, moving toward the point of his soldiers. His youth, good looks, and arrogance awed Cloe. His victory was dialed in. He had no doubt. He would brush them aside, and his future as Earth’s ruler would be secured.

  The phalanx of mercenaries parted, and Satan stepped forward in human form.

  “Where are you, Michael?” he asked.

  Confused, Cloe thought he was asking for her scarred nemesis. Then she remembered the archangel and the monsignor’s assumed mantle.

  “I am here!” said the monsignor.

  “Ha!” said the beast. “You are but a pale imitation of my ancient adversary. I have not forgotten.”

  “I am enough for the likes of you,” responded the monsignor. “Be gone, Satan! Get thee hence, in the name of Jesus Christ our Lord.”

  Icar laughed and said, “Oh please, not that crying in the wilderness thing. I don’t think I got very good pre
ss on the temptation in the desert. Your boss was tempted. I almost had him.”

  “Repent, Lucifer. Even now it’s not too late,” cried the monsignor. “God loves you and will accept you back.”

  Icar turned as if to walk away and then spun back to the monsignor. “By all accounts, I’m the only being God does not love. I was thrown out. Think of it! God loves all humans—even, especially, the sinners. Christ made that clear. Only Lucifer, once his favorite, is now unloved. I have no path to redemption.”

  Cloe had never had the opportunity to consider such things. Was the beast saying he had no free will, no path but evil? Yet at some point he had made the decision to revolt against God, and this was the result. Was this his hell? Could he repent as the monsignor was suggesting, and would God accept him? Or was the relationship between God and his angels entirely different from God and mankind, made in his image and likeness? She had nothing but questions.

  “Dr. Lejeune, I see you are puzzled,” said Icar, stepping toward her.

  “Stay away from her!” cried the monsignor, moving to intercept Icar.

  “Surely, Dr. Lejeune, you have given this all some thought,” replied Icar. “Where do you think my power comes from? You have studied Judas. I’m as much a pawn in the great scheme of things as he was. Without me, without evil, of what use is free will? If there are no choices, free will is but a pale ornament on a barren tree.”

  “But what you’re saying? I don’t know,” struggled Cloe.

  “Cloe, the devil is trying to appeal to you by presenting himself as some sort of victim,” said the monsignor. “He is not. He is evil, the very embodiment of evil.”

  “Albert, where does his power and authority come from if not from God?” asked Cloe.

  “No one can say for sure, but I believe when the angels were formed they were given certain powers,” said the monsignor. “Lucifer received the gifts all the angels received and indeed, probably more since he and a few others were favored by God and are sometimes referred to as archangels, the leaders of the other angelic hierarchies. But he perverted his gifts and chose evil to lead a revolt in heaven.”