The Apostates

by Lars Teeney

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  Deep inside the cargo hold of S.S. Cape Nome stirred a hint of activity. The Cape Nome was a massive cargo ship and sailed toward the rear of the fleet. Today it carried some dangerous cargo. A shipping container occupied a dark corner of the cargo hold, the side having been cut open, a slight seam was visible where the metal had been burnt through, then replaced. Inside the container itself, dwelt Prelate Inoguchi: she had built herself a living space within the container with scavenged materials. She had found blankets for bedding and collected a stock of canned goods for food. It was by no means a comfortable living, but it had kept her alive while hiding out. She had spent her idle time within the shipping container plotting her next moves, fervently praying to her Lord, and meditating on memorized Scripture passages.

  Prelate Inoguchi had also been suffering from phantom limb pain, which added to her dismal demeanor. On the inside of the shipping container was crude pictures burnt into the metal wall. She had used the plasma knife to carve an image of the cross and various bible verse numbers that she regularly referenced. It was her own makeshift chapel, spending much of her time praying for success in her coming onslaught.

  It was now late afternoon, according to her retinal H.U.D. She had no way to tell because her shipping container prison restricted it. She had not eaten anything and her stomach was rumbling. She picked up a can of tuna from the corner of the container and placed it on the floor in front of her, then used her good hand to ignite her plasma knife and used the super-heated blade to sear through the lid of the can. Once open she scooped the tuna into her hand and shoved it into her mouth. It was a fairly messy affair. Where her left hand used to be was a metal plate that she had heat-welded over the stump. She had fashioned straps to keep the metal on what was left of her forearm. The two drones that had ferried her aboard the fleet sat dormant by her within the shipping container. She stared at the drones intently.

  Quite unexpectedly she was being pinged, by an encrypted Church of New Megiddo channel. She had kept [Virtue-net] silence the entire time she was aboard and now the Church threatened to give away her position. Her fury bubbled up. Inoguchi decided to answer the hail.

  “Prelate Inoguchi. It has been quite awhile since the Church has heard from you. I thought I might check on you, as well as give you an update on all the various developments that have occurred, recently.” Arch-Deacon von Manstein sounded unusually chipper to her.

  “Arch-Deacon. It is an honor, but I really must insist that the Church not contact me until the mission is complete. You are putting me at risk of being discovered, please—” she was interrupted.

  “No, you need to hear me out. This concerns your mission. As you know, you were ordained by Cardinal Zhukov specifically. What you didn’t know is that Cardinal Zhukov has been under investigation for some time. L.O.V.E. officials have recently received a confession out of the Cardinal that he has been an Apostate spy” Arch-Deacon von Manstein confessed to her. Her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

  “So? What does this have to do with my contract? I have been ordained by the Church,” she asked in a hostile manner.

  “I’m afraid it has everything to do with your contract, Prelate Inoguchi. You see, with Zhukov being a spy we are certain that he has tipped-off the Apostates. I fear that they are probably waiting for the most opportune moment to capture and interrogate you for any information that you have,” von Manstein stated coldly.

  “I assure you, Arch-Deacon, that the Apostates have no idea where I am. They stopped the fleet for two days and searched for me and yet I evaded them. I am planning my final strike at this very moment,” Prelate Inoguchi insisted.

  “Prelate, I am sorry to inform you that I must terminate your contract. For your safety and ours, it is the most prudent thing to do right now—” She interrupted his speech.

  “Arch-Deacon—you can’t—” She was cut short.

  “I can and will. This operation is terminated. You really should come back to—to me—to New Megiddo, attend the B.A.G. and take your rightful place at the Lord’s side. You’ve earned it!” Arch-Deacon returned to his chipper tone.

  “Arch-Deacon...” she managed to get out through the searing, red anger.

  “Yes? What is it, Prelate?” he said impatiently.

  “Arch-Deacon. I am going to destroy these Apostates as planned. I don’t give a fuck about your directives. Once I am done wading through their blood...I will come for you. I will punish you for what you did to me. It will be slow and you will suffer.” She terminated the communication. Inoguchi was probably no longer a Prelate of the Church and was most definitely a free agent. She felt a weight lifted off her shoulders. She thought that the man who had gotten away with so much throughout his life should have no place among the Lord’s Rapture at the end of times. He would answer for his crimes before that time. All those years in the H.O.V.E.L. had to be answered for by his blood.

  Inoguchi devoted the short time she had left to plotting, making alterations to her drones, and most of all: praying intensely, almost to the point of self-mortification. She wondered what else the Church had up its sleeve. She knew that the Church would not just let her go without having a backup plan to stop the Apostates. She knew that von Manstein was acting unilaterally. There was no way that Zhukov could be an Apostate mole. Maybe it was von Manstein himself who was the mole, and Zhukov had known about it? Thinking about the possibilities had made her head hurt, so she turned her mind back to praying and trying to contain her fury for the true enemies of the Lord, the Apostates.

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  The world had turned to a spider-web fabric of palpitating sinew and striated, fleshy tissue. It was all encased in the distance by twitching and pulsating walls of brain-like, gray matter. A massive chamber was left open in the center of the space, where the lattice-work of organic horror was not present. This is where he found himself floating, aimlessly, brushing up against the sinew, when he floated by, causing it to jerk and retract to touch. On the far side of the open space was a patchwork of skins. They looked to be of human origin but had been crudely cut, cured, and stitched together by rope that seemed weaved from hair fibers. The grisly fabric was hung and folded like a pair of curtains, concealing the actors of some macabre, Vaudeville production. He reached out and grabbed hold of one of the sinew fibers that spanned across the expanse. It wiggled and protested in his grasp. He was able to maintain his grip and he watched the curtains intently. Some force acted on the curtains, causing them to stretch, and bend like skin still bound to a body. A sinister tune of pipe organ, violin and drum played out from some cosmic orchestra. It was everywhere and nowhere all at once. The flesh curtains began to slide open on a suspension rod made of knobby, bloody bone. The spurs of bone caught the curtain and tore flesh as it was dragged across. The flesh curtains bled.

  Finally, the curtains were drawn completely open and a blinding, white light flashed from the void contained within. He recoiled from the brightness and blocked his eyes with his free arm. The entire space was basked in the light and he could see nothing. After a moment, the light died down and he could see. He peered back at the fleshy stage. There was a white, billowing membrane that spanned the area behind the curtains. It was white like a sheet, but still possessed organic irregularities, like moles and pores. A pigment of some type spontaneously appeared on the sheet, which was like black blood. As more of the pigment soaked in, a shape began to emerge on the white membrane, almost like a tattoo being drawn with an invisible needle. An insignia took shape: it was that of a crude encircled pentagram. The black ink dripped from the sloppily drawn tattoo.

  Suddenly, the membrane at the center of the pentagram opened ever so slightly and a vortex formed when the hole began sucking inward. The force of the suction became irresistible. The sinew lattice-work was ripped from its moorings on the walls of gray matter, leaving gaping open wounds, which spew forth blood and bile. The sinew that supported him snapped in two and he lost his grip, p
lunging head first toward the white, sucking pentagram membrane. He threw his arms up to protect his head from impact. He hit the membrane, tearing through the soft, white, billowing membrane. He flew at unimaginable speeds through a tunnel in space, wrapped in the memories of history, where scenes played out on a two-dimensional surface around the walls of the tunnel that he was flew through. He made out for a moment tribes migrating out of the Savannah. He caught a glimpse of the Great Pyramid being constructed. He saw the Hanging Gardens of Babylon and the Colossus of Rhodes. On the other side, he spied the Glory of Rome and China’s first Emperor. He traveled farther and faster. He witnessed the birth of Christianity and the Crucifixion. Clips of the Huns and migrating Germanic tribes pouring over Europe played out. He saw Arab tribesman being whipped up into a frenzy, then watched scenes of their armies spreading out across Central Asia, the Middle East, Africa, and into Spain. He watched as nations fell one after another to a warlike and cunning tribe from Mongolia. China, Russia, and the Middle East were enveloped. He saw the Ottoman Turks sacking Constantinople, and the Age of Sail come into being. He saw countless wooden hulks set sail for distant lands; a New World. He saw ships unload and Europeans setting foot in Africa, buying slaves from tribes that had subjugated their enemies. He saw the same enslaved people on the other side of the ocean being worked in cane fields and tobacco plantations. Further still he traveled and drifted. Later, came scenes from the world under European hegemony: entire nations colonized and exploited for resources. He witnessed massive populations of natives soundly defeated and converted to Abrahamic faiths. He saw the Stars and Stripes coming into being and the rise of Capitalism. In front of him was the spread of a nation across a vast continent; Manifest Destiny took shape. Further into the abyss he traveled. Clashing ideologies formed, and adherents mobilized for war: a black swastika on a red flag, a sun rising in the east and casting its rays into the sky, a hammer and a sickle, and the Union Jack. Snippets of the conflict played out before him, culminating in a massive, towering nuclear explosion. He felt that he was free-falling now. Scenes from a brief era of prosperity was projected on the walls. Plastic toys, tablet computers, automobiles, bottled water, computer watches, and neural implants were advertized in a flurry of clips. Then came another war, two flags came into frame: one red with five yellow stars, the other with red and white stripes and a white cross on a blue field. China and New Megiddo. He fell faster still. The Holy War played out in front of him: New Megiddo’s early victories in the war, the fracture of the coalition, the invasion of Hawaii and Alaska by Chinese forces, and then the final act of the war. The dome-shaped hydrogen-bomb explosion that vaporized Chicago and the surrounding suburbs and towns rose into the heavens. His velocity increased. The closing of the borders of New Megiddo, and the construction of the border fortifications took shape. The B.A.G. and the proceeding Pilgrimage took place in front of him. He looked down and saw a ground-plane take form. He could see that he was falling toward what looked like Earth. He tried to reach out for anything; there was nothing to break his fall. He watched as the Earth drew closer each minute, until finally: impact.

  He came to and found himself in a crater filled with sun-bleached bones. The impact of his body had shattered a pile of skeletons. He dragged himself out of the crater and was confronted with the surrounding scenery. It was that of an old, dilapidated, pioneer church. A constant stream of blood poured down from the cross atop its steeple, down the slope of the roof, trickling off the walls and seeping into the soil of the cemetery that surrounded the structure. There was a dead tree by the church, and its fruit was hanged corpses. He felt compelled to enter the church; drawn to its front door. He walked toward it, unwillingly. He clasped the door handle, wet with ethereal blood. He yanked the door open and passed through the threshold of cascading bodily fluids.

  He entered the main hall of the church and found a strange sight in front of him. There were rows of desks, and he estimated around thirty-three in mumber. He stepped deeper into the room and among the rows of desks. He gazed upon the children that sat at the school desks. There were boys and girls, all around the age of thirteen. Atop the children’s heads were rusted, iron braces that appeared to have been crudely bolted into the sides of their heads. The brace was connected to the seat back of the chairs they sat in. Two arms extended out from each side of the brace to the front of each child. The arms supported an ancient flat-screen monitor; it was abuzz with snow and interference. But, he could spy a depiction of an image he was familiar with: the Reverend Wilhelm Wainwright, who was in the middle of a sermon. He tried to grab a child’s attention, to no avail. He looked deep into the child’s eyes, but there was nothing there except pupils that watched the Reverend’s every move. He shook the child, then another, but they all featured the same blank expression.

  He gazed to the front of the hall, which previously was shrouded in darkness, but now became illuminated from non-existent lights. At the pulpit was the Reverend Wilhelm, mirroring what the children watched on their monitors. Ravine looked down at his hand. He felt himself suddenly holding something; he opened his hand. It was a rusted, ancient syringe, made of brass and glass. The glass was stained with use, and the chamber contained a fluid that was a mystery to him. The fluid had a brownish tint to it. He brandished the syringe and felt compelled to approach the pulpit, walking slowly down the central aisle between the desks. The Reverend did not take notice of Ravine’s approach. Closer, he drew until he reached the steps to the raised pulpit.

  The Reverend finally took notice of Ravine. He looked down from the pulpit with warmth and gladness in his eyes and extended a hand.

  “Welcome home, Child of God! Welcome home.” The Reverend teared up as he spoke. He embraced Ravine like a long, lost relative. Ravine recoiled at the touch; it was not that of a human’s touch. It was cold, distant, otherworldly, and charged with static. Ravine wrenched his arm holding the syringe free from the overwhelming grasp that began to push the air from his lungs. He felt his spine crack, then, he felt a sharp pain in his side. Ravine felt certain that a rib had fractured. He drew the syringe up overhand and drove it deep into the Reverend’s neck. He depressed the plunger, injecting the sludgy fluid into the Reverend’s body.

  “Thank you, Lord!” the Reverend exclaimed to him. He looked Ravine in the eye, and they turned black and trickled with a tar-like substance. The sludge poured out of every orifice, and down his brow. His body began to discorporate in Ravine’s arms. Ravine let go and what was left of the Reverend spasmed and bubbled into a black mass on the floor of the pulpit. The children started to stir, then they screamed in unison and tore at the bolted braces on their heads. They cried and wailed, pulling and scratching. Each child wrenched the rusty braces from their heads, leaving open holes where the bolts had been. They jumped up from the desks and ran for the door of the bloody church. The doors were cast open and the thirty-three children ran away, out into the void of the realm. Ravine felt a peaceful feeling settle over the building, like an evil had been vanquished. Then he experienced a blinding flash of white light.

  “Ravine, Ravine! Wake up, damnit!” He heard a voice calling him. He opened his eyes to fuzzy, unfocused vision. He could vaguely make out the head of red hair, but no detail came to him. Where was he? For a moment, he did not know who he was, or where he was. Then he remembered one name: Blaze-Scorch.

  “Ravine, I’m glad you’re coming around. Can you hear me; see me? It’s Blaze!” She shined a light into his eyes, and he winced from sensitivity.

  “Blaze? I remember it all,” he told her.

  “Remember what? You were tossing around violently, so I restrained you for your safety. You were also mumbling incoherently. You said something about “a pentagram”,” she reported to him, unbuckling the straps that restrained him. He grabbed his wrist; the skin had been rubbed raw.

  “Yes, a pentagram! I don’t know, it was an obstacle of some sort, barring us from the Reverend. I have no clue what it means,” Ravine was al
most hysterical.

  “Just take it easy, and don’t strain yourself too much right now. You won’t be thinking correctly right now. You know, Angel had mentioned something about people she knew in Nicaragua: she said they wear a pentagram sigil. Think it’s related?” she asked, while handing him some water. He took a few sips from a metal canteen.

  “Not sure. I just need to know what this means. I’m fairly certain I understand the last part of the vision, though,” Ravine said confidently.

  “So, what does it mean then?” Blaze asked in a state of confusion. She removed an I.V. solution from his arm that kept him hydrated during his ‘Database’ use.

  “Well, Graham sent me a package ages ago. When I opened the package it contained four strains of ‘Database’. At the time, I didn’t know if it was a sick joke on his part. But now it makes sense.” Ravine smiled with the realization.

  “You’re telling me that Graham wanted you to do ‘Database’ four times and you’d have some sort of revelation? What is that?” Blaze was still puzzled.

  “No, three for me and one for the Reverend.” It made sense to him.

  “What the hell? He wants you to do ‘Base with the Reverend Wilhelm, of the Church of New Megiddo? What kind stupid plan is that?” Blaze was now extremely perplexed. She was about to give up hope on Ravine. She folded her arms and shot him a look of disappointment.

  “No, no. I think it’s some sort of [Virtue-net] virus. It disrupts something, but not sure what yet. I’m still trying to put the pieces together,” Ravine told her.

  “You got all of that just from a ‘Base trip, but not the whole story? Why didn’t he just send you a goddamn note? He’s putting your life at risk.” Blaze’s voice cracked with concern.