The Paradise Prophecy

by Robert Browne

  And this was where Lucifer resided to this day. Forever in agony.

  Although they considered their cause a noble one, the remaining rebels disbanded, fearing their father’s retribution. They began fighting among themselves, dividing into clans, each clan led by the strongest of them.

  Belial. Moloch. Mammon. Beelzebub.

  Michael.

  And as time wore on, as century after century flew past-their spirits dampened and their memories blotted by war and greed and heartbreak-they forgot why they had come together in the first place. They themselves became tainted by their ever-growing thirst for power and the desire to control the playground their father had created.

  But these earth creatures, these humans, turned out to be more resilient than they had expected, and that playground could not so easily be dominated.

  Beelzebub, first brother to Lucifer, called for a meeting of the clans in Pandemonium, the one city in all of Abyssus that had not been marked by partisan politics-a neutral ground, built by the great Mulciber, where the leaders had no fear of a surprise attack.

  And in that meeting, an alliance was formed. An agreement made.

  A blood pact.

  It was said that their father and his angels in Caeli had long ago turned their backs on the world he had created and had found other amusements to occupy their time.

  No longer fearing his retribution, the clans would now work together for a common goal. If they could not return to Caeli, they’d create a heaven of their own. Their love for Lucifer had not waned, and because his fate had been cast under the bloodred light of the fourth moon of the tetrad, they would use the power of that moon to bring about the Final Conquest. They would open the seven gates of hell, release King Lucifer from his eternal bonds, and rule over their new paradise, forever enslaving these feeble humans as symbols of their father’s indifference.

  Only Michael objected to this plan.

  Perhaps, he told them, there was another way to achieve their goal. Perhaps if they honored their father, stayed true to the original intent of his creation, they could work together with the creatures of earth and live in harmony.

  Michael, however, was ridiculed by the others. Even his sister Belial called him naive, a fool to believe that honoring their father would bring them anything but more heartbreak.

  But Michael could not be deterred. As the others continued to corrupt mankind, harvesting souls, which together with the power of the moon would open the seven gates and bring forth their beloved king, he worked quietly and with purpose, undermining them at every turn, urging peace among the humans, using the mythologies his father created to help persuade them to remain good and pure, untainted by the rebels’ corruption.

  And with each new lunar tetrad, he managed to beat back the forces of the alliance and prevent them from achieving their goal.

  But it wasn’t easy, and Michael’s resolve began to weaken. In desperation, he called out to his father, insisting he listen, demanding that he pay attention to the world he had abandoned and bring it back to the light.

  Then one night, when he was all but convinced that his call had gone unheard, his father came to him, amused by his demand.

  “Look at this world you covet,” he said. “The people who inhabit it are as corrupt and self-serving as Lucifer and his creed. Why should I care what happens to them? Why do you care?”

  “Because I remember what it was to live in the light of your grace. And I want these people to know that feeling. Here on earth.”

  “They had their chance.”

  “But don’t they deserve a second one?”

  His father considered this. Then he said, “I’ll do better than that, my son. Look to the skies, and with each new lunar tetrad these creatures you so believe in will be granted another chance. During that time, you must listen for the song, the song of the Telum.”

  “Telum?”

  “A miraculous weapon so powerful that it will either give these creatures the peace you seek for them, or destroy them forever. And on the night of the fourth moon, whoever takes control of that weapon will control the fate of the world.” He paused then, staring grimly at Michael. “But be warned, my son, I won’t make it easy for you. That song will not be easily heard, and your enemies will know about this weapon as well.”

  “But . . . why?”

  “Because they are my children, too.”

  Thirteen lunar tetrads had come and gone in the last several centuries, yet nothing had changed. Michael had failed time and again to hear the true song of the Telum, and with each new blood moon, the rebels drew closer to their goal.

  But it would be different this time.

  It had to be.

  Because the rebels were closer than ever now, and he sensed that this was his very last chance.

  Ashout interrupted Michael’s thoughts. A burst of laughter.

  Keeping his hand clutched to his side, he turned and looked back toward the movie theater. Three men had stumbled out of a nearby bar and were eyeing the old man, working their way toward him.

  All three were the size of college football players. Military haircuts.

  Michael considered for a moment that they might be drudges, but he didn’t think so. The vibe they gave off was all too human-even from this distance.

  “Well, well,” one of them said as they came to a stop in front of the box office. “Check out Gandalf. He ain’t lookin’ so good.”

  “Isn’t that your pops?” another one said, and he and the third one doubled over in drunken laughter.

  Unamused, the first one moved up to the old man and nudged him with his toe. “Hey, dirtbag, what do you think you’re doing sleeping in my spot? I got this suite reserved.”

  The others laughed again.

  Awake now, the old man flinched and cradled his head, muttering incoherently as he curled into a tight fetal ball.

  The first guy nudged him again. “Get that dick outta your mouth and speak up, buddy.”

  A renewed wave of laughter overtook the other two, but the first one still didn’t join in. He was an angry drunk, and the hate and disgust in his eyes was difficult to ignore.

  But the old man was trying. Kept muttering to himself.

  Michael got to his feet then, feeling the sudden need to reassure him. He didn’t normally do this-it was against his code-but there were always exceptions.

  Always.

  It’s all right, he said, burrowing his way into the old man’s brain. I won’t let them hurt you.

  But the old man didn’t seem to hear him, his mind rapid-firing-

  – Count to ten and they’ll go away. Count to ten and they’ll go away. Count to ten and they’ll go away. One two three. One two three four. One two three four five. Count to ten and they’ll go away-

  But they didn’t go away. The angry one crouched in front of him now, poking a finger into his shoulder. “You hear me, you stupid shit?”

  – One two three. One two three four. One two three four five-

  “Come on, Jimmy,” the third one said. “This guy’s a wack job. Let’s get out of here.”

  But Jimmy shook his head. “Fuck that. I didn’t spend six months in the desert so this asshole could collect welfare and wallow in his shit all day and night.” He poked the old man again. “Where were you when I was chasing towel heads, you ungrateful prick? Sucking off Uncle Sam’s tit?”

  – Count to ten and they’ll go away. Count to ten and they’ll-

  “Come on, Jimmy, give it a rest. He isn’t bothering anyone.”

  “You might want to listen to your friend,” Michael said.

  He was standing less than three feet away from Jimmy now. Just off to his right side. The jump had been difficult in his condition, but he’d made it anyway.

  Jimmy wheeled around and stood up. “Where the fuck did you come from?”

  “That’s a longer story than we have time for. But I’ll tell you where you’re going.”

  “And where’s that?”
<
br />   “Away,” Michael said. “Right now. Whether or not it’s voluntary is entirely up to you.”

  Interfering directly in human affairs was well beyond his boundaries, but he couldn’t help himself. The old man had enough troubles and Michael couldn’t stand there and watch this idiot treat him this way.

  Jimmy did a slow burn, looking him up and down. “What are you-king of the bums or something?”

  “Something like that.”

  Jimmy glanced at his two friends. “You believe this asshole?” He gestured. “Look at him, he’s bleeding all over the goddamn sidewalk.”

  That much was true. The stitches had all ruptured now and the gash in Michael’s side was widening. “You will be, too, if you don’t walk away.”

  Jimmy stared at him. “You got balls of steel, buddy, I’ll give you-”

  Michael delivered the punch hard and fast, bloodying Jimmy’s nose and knocking him on his ass. Then he turned to the other two, who had sense enough to back away.

  “This isn’t your fight,” he said. “Pick your friend up and get him out of here. I really don’t want to have to-”

  The blow came from behind, delivered directly into the wound in Michael’s side. It made a sick, sucking sound on impact, as pain radiated up through his central nervous system, nearly paralyzing him on the spot.

  He grabbed at the wound and fell to one knee, knowing that Jimmy had once and for all rendered this body useless to him. He suddenly felt no connection to it, had no real control. And before he knew it, the three gorillas were standing over him, showering him with punches and kicks, Jimmy’s the most vicious of all.

  Then Michael was on the ground, staring into the frightened eyes of the old man-

  – Count to ten and they’ll go away. Count to ten and they’ll go away-

  But Michael knew they wouldn’t go away. When they were done with him, Jimmy would again turn his drunken fury on someone who wanted nothing more than to be left alone.

  So Michael did what had to be done. Once again violating his code, he burrowed his way into the old man’s brain.

  Let me in and I’ll free you, he said. Let me in and all of this will go away forever.

  – One two three four five. One two three four five-

  Let me in and they can’t hurt you. No will ever hurt you again. It’s the only way. You know it’s the only way.

  He had no idea if the old man was listening, and as the blows continued to rain down on him, Michael felt darkness closing in.

  When the bum stopped moving, Jimmy spat on him and said, “Guess your balls ain’t so big after all, are they, asshole?”

  Cuddy crouched over the guy, feeling for a pulse. “Jesus, Jimmy. He’s dead. We fuckin’ killed him.”

  Jimmy shrugged. “Self-defense. Besides, he was already halfway there. We just gave him a nudge.”

  “You think the cops are gonna believe that?”

  Jimmy saw a bulge in the guy’s back and bent down, pushing his jacket aside. There was a Glock 20 in his waistband. “You see? Fucker was packing. And I don’t see any reason to get the cops involved.”

  Cuddy’s eyes were wild. “We’re just gonna leave him here?” He turned to the old bum by the box office, who was still cradling his head. “What about this asshole? He saw the whole thing.”

  “Forget him,” Weasel said, starting to back away from them. “He won’t say nothin’. He’s a wack job, remember? He won’t do shit.”

  Jimmy pulled the Glock from the bum’s waistband and stood up. “Maybe not. But I’m not willing to give him that chance.”

  “What’re you gonna do,” Weasel said, “shoot the guy?”

  “I ain’t gonna take his temperature.”

  Cuddy shook his head and let loose a nervous laugh. “Jesus, Jimmy, that’s some cold-ass shit.”

  “Think about it. I shoot this asshole, put the gun in the other one’s hand and we got a bum fight gone wrong. Case closed.”

  Checking the magazine in the Glock, he snapped it back into place and stepped over to the box office, staring down at the old man.

  What a waste of fucking space.

  Jimmy pointed the Glock at him. “Better say a prayer, dirtbag, if you believe in that kind of thing.”

  “Oh, I believe,” the old man said. And to Jimmy’s utter surprise, he pulled his hands away from his head and looked up at him with unnerving clarity. “And so will you before I’m finished.”

  Then he shot a hand out, grabbing Jimmy by the ankle, pulling his feet out from under him. Jimmy brought the Glock up, but before he could fire, the old man had hold of his wrist. He felt the bones breaking and dropped the gun as he cried out in pain, begging for the old man to let him go.

  He heard footsteps on the asphalt behind him, but they were headed in the wrong direction and he knew that Cuddy and Weasel were running away.

  Now the old man was standing over him, a foot pressed against Jimmy’s chest, an odd, amber tint to his eyes.

  “You should’ve walked away when you had the chance.”

  Michael left the guy there by the box office. Not dead, but probably wishing he was. And once the police found him, good old Jimmy would have a lot of explaining to do about the badly beaten corpse that lay only feet away from him.

  What was it he’d said?

  A bum fight gone wrong?

  Moving down the street, Michael flexed his hands and rolled his shoulders. The punishment he’d doled out had been a good warm-up, but it would take him a while to break in this new body.

  He’d have to do it on the run, however.

  It was time to get back to Jenna.

  32

  The rumblings of disaster began on the Internet.

  Beel sat at his desk surfing the news sites. Maybe Moloch and

  Mamman were right, maybe the cumulative efforts of the last several hundred years were about to pay off.

  For weeks, the blogosphere and the social networks were abuzz with the news of the release of a classified document. One that allegedly offered proof that Hezbollah militants had not only gotten their hands on a cache of nuclear weapons, but intended to deploy them against Egypt.

  The debate raged over whether or not this document was real, but the damage had been done and the governments of Egypt, Syria, Iran and Lebanon were all on high alert, with Israel scrambling to cover itself as well. All parties concerned were spouting tough, heated rhetoric, which generally sent chills down the spines of anyone who was paying attention.

  Less than a week later, North Korea renewed its threats of aggression against the South and attempts at diplomacy by the U.S. secretary of state were deemed an unmitigated disaster. War between the two nations was considered unavoidable.

  Add to the mix the downward spiral of the world economy, the riots during the recent G20 summit, violent skirmishes in third world countries, the rise in black market weaponry-including rumors of enriched uranium being smuggled out of Russia-and the general consensus was that the world was about to see a shit storm the likes of which it had never before experienced.

  Rather than attempt to find real solutions to these problems, politicians took to the cable airwaves and blamed one another for their failings. Partisan mudslinging had reached a new high. Religious leaders told their followers to begin preparing for the Rapture as the rest of the world sat glued to their TV sets, wondering if they’d be alive for the next episode of Saints and Sinners.

  Who would be kicked out of the house? Andrew or Tasha?

  Beel smiled appreciatively every time his pet project entered the national conversation. To allow themselves to be distracted at such a critical time by television-well, in Beel’s opinion, they’d get what they deserved.

  Perhaps the tipping point was close, and his brothers’ little experiment in Amsterdam would push it over. Or maybe Belial was right about the girl, and the elusive Telum had been found. The ultimate weapon. Beel allowed himself a moment to consider how sweet it would feel to free her.

  The har
d truth was that nobody really knew what was coming, including-and especially-the world’s heads of state. And what chance did humanity really have with the four of them pulling the strings?

  And if this girl really is the Telum, Beel mused, these pathetic little creatures won’t know what hit them on the night of the blood moon.

  BOOK VIII

  Turbulence on the Road to Enlightenment

  Of these the vigilance

  I dread, and to elude, thus wrapt in mist

  Of midnight vapor glide obscure, and prie

  In every Bush and Brake, where hap may finde

  The Serpent sleeping, in whose mazie foulds

  To hide me, and the dark intent I bring.

  -Paradise Lost, 1667 ed., VIII:157-62

  33

  ISTANBUL, TURKEY

  Batty and Callahan caught a chartered plane at a small airstrip just west of Istanbul.

  But as they crossed the tarmac, Batty felt an energy nearby. A darkness deeper than the darkness around them, as if someone were waiting in the shadows, watching them.

  He remembered Ajda in that tunnel and wondered if this feeling was just the lingering residue of her attack. That seemed to happen to him sometimes. He had a hard time shaking this stuff off. But as they climbed the steps to the door of the plane, he stopped a moment and glanced around.

  “What is it?” Callahan said, mimicking him, concern in her eyes.

  He shook his head. “Nothing to worry about.”

  He just hoped he was right.

  Batty didn’t like small planes. Every one he’d ever flown in seemed to have a love affair with turbulence, and this one was no exception. But at least the seats were comfortable. If you had to spend hours bouncing around the sky in a tiny metal tube, it didn’t hurt to do it in a chair the size of a Barcalounger.

  As usual, Callahan-who sat across the aisle from him-kept her nose buried in her cell phone. She seemed subdued, but he knew her mind was probably racing, just as his had been when he’d first been forced to come to grips with the realities of the world. It was a credit to her tenacity that she was able to hold it together so well.