Rise of the Nephilim

by Adam Rushing

  That command sent a wave of relief through Jude. It meant that Hephaestus and the others were still down there, untouched and possibly working on getting the gun back in working condition. There was still hope a remaining few could get out of here alive.

  Azazel waited for his people to leave, then turned and challenged Prometheus. “Why don’t we settle this without weapons like honorable beings?”

  “Fine,” Prometheus agreed.

  “But he might kill you!” Jude protested.

  “He might not,” Prometheus countered.

  Both men made gestures with their hands and telekinetically pushed all of the equipment to the edges of the room. They met in the middle and began circling each other. Prometheus feinted a left hand jab to Azazel’s injured face, which cause the Nephilim to flinch slightly. He was rewarded with a right hook to the jaw for his miscalculation. Azazel cursed and withdrew for a second to gather himself. He threw a few test punches before launching a flurry of attacks. Prometheus blocked them handily and landed with a few of his own.

  Jude could tell that Azazel’s body had experienced a beating on his path of destruction through the facility, but he was still in amazingly good fighting condition. Prometheus’s new body, however slight, had the advantage of both youth and lack of abuse. The advantage was slight, but as the fight continued, the gap began to grow wider. Azazel was slowing down considerably and was being blocked more often now. Prometheus slipped a gut punch past his block, and he fell to his knees.

  “You can still walk out of this,” Prometheus offered. “Call off your army and go live peacefully.”

  Azazel laughed, “You act like I care what happens to this body. I’ll just leave it behind and find a new one.”

  Prometheus looked down at him, “Do you think I’m afraid to annihilate the both of us, if that’s what it will take to stop you? Do you think the Grigori will watch their work be defiled any longer?”

  Azazel saw the resolve in his eyes and faltered. “No, I supposed not. I submit.”

  “Thank you for seeing reason,” Prometheus said, as he held out a hand to help Azazel to his feet.

  “You always were the honorable one,” Azazel commented, as he stood. Suddenly, he pulled Prometheus in close and wrapped his hands around the Aspides leader’s head. Light burst forth from his hands. Prometheus let out a surprised yelp and was ejected from his host. “Sadly, I never saw the use in that trait,” Azazel said to the angry floating amoeboid, as he let his opponent’s uninhabited body slide to the steel floor. “Stick around and watch, while I destroy everything you were protecting.”

  Jude raised his gun and pulled the trigger. The bullet hit Azazel in the shoulder. The Nephilim grunted and put his hand to the wound. He glared at Jude. “That’s the second time you’ve done that, human. It’ll be your last.”

  Jude turned and ran into the silo, squeezing off another few rounds behind him. He hobbled as fast as his bandaged leg could take him. Azazel’s howls of anger chased him down the hallway. He exploded out of the tunnel onto a steel gantry walkway that hugged the entire circumference of the silo. He looked up and down the empty expanse, gauging that he was halfway up what seemed to be a two hundred foot hole in the ground. Similar gantries were positioned approximately every ten to twelve feet and connected by flights of stairs fixed on the opposite side of the structure’s thirty foot diameter.

  He didn’t tarry long at the railing, however. The thought of Azazel close on his heels was enough to spur him along, despite the pain. He made it around the edge of the silo and managed to climb two flights, before a bolt of lightning splashed against the railing above his head. He ducked and looked back at the entrance. Azazel was there in front of the doorway, standing with his hands behind his back, a huge smile on his face.

  “Don’t leave the party just yet, Jude,” he called out. “I still owe you for that little stunt you pulled. I’m having trouble deciding whether I want to kill you now or make you watch while I kill all of your little friends first. What do you think?”

  Jude leaned over the rail and looked down. “I think Hephaestus will have that gun fixed soon, and then you’ll lose more of your minions. Do you think Eric and the others will just let you break in and take it?”

  Azazel’s smile grew even wider. “I don’t believe they would do that at all. I imagine they would put up a grand fight, even at a great disadvantage. By the way, I have a present for you. Catch!” He brought his hands out from behind his back, revealing a sack of some kind, and tossed it up to the landing where Jude was standing.

  It was one of the drab olive green army-issue pillow cases from the bunks. It looked like it had something roundish in it, but it was hard to discern just what it was in the dark lighting of the silo. Jude was apprehensive, at first, but curiosity got the better of him. He picked up the slack end of the case and tested the weight. It felt more or less like a bowling ball, but the shape of it wasn’t right.

  “Go on,” Azazel urged. “Open it and see what you’ve won. I promise it won’t kill you.”

  Jude debated for a few seconds before turning it over and allowing the object to roll out onto the floor. He stood there in the dim light, trying to make it out. There was something covering the half of it facing him. Some type of fur maybe? The realization slowly dawned on him that it was blonde human hair, and that blonde human hair had come attached to a human head.

  Nausea began building up inside him. He had to know who it was. He didn’t dare touch it with his hand, but he toed it and rolled it over. Eric’s blue eyes stared blindly into his, frozen in fearful defiance. Jude’s knees turned to jelly, and he fell to the floor in agony.

  Azazel taunted, “If it makes you feel better, he refused to beg for his life, before I killed him.”

  Jude finally reached his limit. He screamed, feeling his mind shatter under the weight of another loss. A murky vapor welled up from below to engulf him.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  “How much longer do you think it will take, Hephaestus?” Mike shifted nervously from one leg to the other. He couldn’t see the exit hatch from the lab, but he could hear the banging of the Nephilim attempting to break the door. Hephaestus had been toiling fervently to adapt his device to encompass as large a volume as possible. Mike was doing his best to help when it was requested, but it seemed as if their time was running out.

  “Don’t rush me,” the master craftsman snapped. “If I get the power output wrong, then I risk killing everything in the blast radius. I imagine you would like see another sunrise?”

  Mike’s face grew ashen at the realization of just how precarious their current situation was. “I… You’re doing a great job,” he encouraged. He stood at the workbench watching the engineer work for a few minutes, but the noise at their threshold keep begging for his attention. “Maybe I should go stand guard near the door.”

  “You do that,” Hephaestus agreed, not even looking up.

  Mike shuffled slowly out of the lab and into the med bay. Eric and the others had stockpiled a small number of weapons, making one corner of the room a limited armory. He picked up a sturdy-looking sub-machine gun, and checked it for ammunition. Weapon in hand, he trudged back past the lab toward the entryway. Hephaestus stuck his head out the lab door, as he passed. “Don’t get yourself killed,” was the best encouragement he could muster. Mike’s short time with the Architect told him that simple gesture spoke volumes about how much he cared for his new companion. He nodded silently and sat down against the wall in view of the hatch.

  The special thickness of the door and its intricate locking mechanism was making it difficult to weaken the structural integrity, but the intruders had been making steady progress. Another ten minutes, and they would probably be through. It was now a race to see if their brute strength would outpace the Architect’s technical prowess.

  * * *

  Jude sat up in bed, rivulets of sweat streaming down his chest and back. He forced himself to practice a few breathing exercises to
calm his racing heart.

  “Did you have another nightmare?” Emily whispered beside him, as she wrapped her arms lovingly around his stomach. “I told you that you’ve been working too hard lately.”

  “I… I guess so,” he answered. He shook his head and tried to clear his mind. “It was so real, though. I dreamed I was cornered in a bunker in upstate New York. I was on the run after being blamed for bombing the Many Faiths conference.”

  Emily laughed and kissed him on the shoulder, “Silly man. That went off without a hitch. Don’t you remember meeting the Pope?”

  “Yeah… that’s right…” Memories of a peaceful conference flooded his mind, although he still couldn’t shake the images of carnage and sorrow that lingered from his slumber. “What about Inanna, though?”

  “Who is that?” Emily asked quizzically. “Is she one of Gallo’s friends?”

  “Yeah, that must be it,” Jude agreed. “I guess you didn’t meet her.”

  “Well, mister,” she said seductively, as she pushed him back down and straddled him, “I can’t have you thinking about another woman in my bed. I’ll just have to do something about that.” He could see her silhouette in the moonlight, as she pulled off her shirt and bent over to kiss him. Any extraneous thoughts he had were swept away, as her hair brushed against his chest.

  * * *

  The next morning, he fixed his specialty ham and cheese omelet breakfast for Emily, before she ran off to her job at the university. She gave him a funny look, when he exclaimed surprise they were in London. She laughed at him when he found out they had been living together for almost a year. “I think you need to see a psychiatrist, sweetie,” she had urged before leaving. “You’ve been incredibly overworked lately.”

  He wandered into the living room and picked up a National Geographic magazine from the coffee table, as he sat down. He was astounded to find the feature article was about him. It was an interview highlighting his fame as the person who found Cleopatra’s grave on live television. He furrowed his brow in deep concentration. He seemed to be able to recall the details of his accomplishment, but the memory almost seemed too manufactured, somehow, like he had watched it on television himself. He felt a nagging restlessness, as if he was supposed to be doing something, and he was being held back.

  Suddenly, Emily was beside him on the couch and they were watching television. He shook his head and stared at her. “When did you get back?” he asked. “I thought you were supposed to be going to work.”

  She gave him another odd look, as she nestled in. “Silly man, I got back an hour ago. Honestly, what is going on in that head of yours? Don’t you remember?”

  “Oh, that’s right,” he murmured and stared at the television.

  “Actually,” he said, as he pushed her away and stood up. “I don’t remember. One second I’m on the couch and you’re at work and the next you’re here and it’s evening. I know I’m a little nuts, but I’m not that crazy!” He felt a surge of anger, and a sliver of memory returned to him. He pointed at her. “You’re dead! I saw you die! I saw them all die!”

  She began creeping toward him on the sofa. Her voice was beginning to lose its playfulness. “No, it’s just me right here sweetie. It’s all going to be fine. Come sit back on the couch.” She leaned out and grabbed his wrist. He felt a shudder of revulsion and horror, as her hand closed over his arm. Involuntarily, he slapped her across the face with the palm of his free hand.

  She spun around away from him, crying, but he knew deep down, that the last thing he should do is try to comfort her. He remained motionless, and her sobs slowly transformed into a sinister laughter. “You could have just been content, Jude. Why did you have to fight it?”

  Her appearance changed. Smooth, vibrant skin turned pale and began to wither. Her silken black hair became matted and dirty. A deeper voice emerged from her throat, an ethereal timbre resonated underneath it. “I’ll just have to control you with fear instead.” She turned around and looked at him. Her visage had become that of a living corpse. Maggots poured from her empty eye sockets and viscera spewed out from underneath her clothing, as she stood up.

  Jude’s heart sank into his stomach, and he ran. Blood started pouring from the walls. The house became a living nightmare. Voices of the dead rose up from every crevice, calling out to him and cursing his name for bringing such misfortune upon them. He fled into the foyer and tried to push down the handle to the front door, but it wouldn’t budge. He turned to run up the stairs and heard something rolling loudly down the stairs. Eric’s disembodied head popped out of the shadows, screaming in silent agony as it bounced on each step. Jude dodged sideways and looked back toward the living room. The corpse of Emily came shambling through the doorway, wailing in fury with a reverberating bass and jerking unnaturally as it reached for him.

  He slipped out of the demon’s grasp and rushed into the library. He saw a picture sitting on the mantle of him and Emily happily entwined and stopped. Anger ignited inside his chest. He finally realized what had happened. Azazel had taken advantage of his moment of weakness and made him a prisoner in his own mind. He had been hunted down like a dog for so long, and now Azazel was toying with him. He was tired of running… tired of being afraid. He looked to the fireplace and grabbed the iron poker stored there. It was time he took control.

  He flourished his new weapon and turned to face down the revenant. “I’ve had enough, Azazel!” he screamed and swung the poker at the specter. The rod connected with Emily’s head, crushing it and sending the body flying sideways. He kicked it back into the foyer with Herculean strength and stabbed it though the chest, pinning it to the floor.

  The phantasm shrieked in mixed pain and rage, “No! How can you still resist me?” The image he had chosen was beginning to lose definition and revert back to a shapeless mass. Slivers of light bled through the cracks forming along the walls. “You were broken!” Azazel yelled in disbelief.

  Jude stood there breathing heavily, keeping his weight on the poker, to keep Azazel down. “You’re weak, and I know what you are, you bastard. No matter how much I’ve lost, I won’t let you take control. Get out of my head!”

  Azazel cursed and melted into a midnight pool of vapor. The shadow eddied around the pole embedded in the floor and was seemingly sucked toward the locked front door. The portal swung open of its own volition, as bright white light burst forth from outside. Azazel escaped through the gateway and disappeared. Jude sprinted after the apparition and blindly crossed the threshold in pursuit.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Jude fell to his knees. He caught himself with both hands and stared down through one hundred feet of catwalks and empty space that faded into darkness, as he vomited out what little he had in his stomach. He rocked back and forth, shaking uncontrollably and laughing at the realization that he was free. His entire body felt raw and violated, but it was amazing to be back in control of it.

  He looked up at his surroundings and realized his body had moved. Azazel had forced him to walk back down the stairs during his fugue. He had almost made it back to the entrance of the silo. Gallo’s collapsed form lay a mere twenty feet away, and he was just beginning to stir again. Apprehension rose in Jude, as Gallo turned his head and looked his way.

  “Hello old friend,” Gallo spoke weakly. For the first time in almost two months, Jude heard the soft, accented Italian cadence that belonged to the priest.

  Tears welled up in his eyes. A thousand questions and replies rose up only to stop at the wall of his teeth. All he could manage was a simple, “Hello, Antonio.”

  “Jude,” the priest pushed forward with desperation in his eyes. “Please, hear me out. I don’t have much time. Azazel is trying to regain control again, but I’m too weak to hold him off forever.”

  “Okay,” Jude urged, “Go on.”

  “I didn’t know, Jude,” he said, choking on his emotions. “He came to me like an angel and said so many beautiful things. I stumbled at the time my faith should have
been greatest, and so many people have since suffered at my hands. He… he made me watch everything.”

  Jude could only imagine what that must have been like, especially for a gentle soul like Gallo.

  “I’m dying now. I can feel it,” Gallo continued. “Please… kill me before he takes over again.”

  “I’m so sorry for everything that’s happened,” Jude said. He gingerly pulled himself up to his feet – his leg was a pillar of fire – and shuffled over to Gallo’s side. “I wish there was another way.” He unstrapped his pistol from its holster and pointed it at the priest’s head.

  “I’ll give my regards to Emily, when I see her,” the priest promised, as tears of pain and sadness rolled down the corners of his eyes.

  “Thank you, she would like that,” Jude answered warmly at the hollow offering. He tried to pull the trigger, but his resolve failed. This man wasn’t some nameless soldier trying to kill him. This man was someone with whom he shared so many years’ worth of memories, whose only true sin was to trust a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Even if he was killing in the name of mercy, he couldn’t kill Gallo so coldly. He dropped the gun and looked away ashamed. “I can’t do it.”

  Gallo slowly pulled himself to his feet and used the railing to steady himself. He reached over and gave Jude a firm hug. “It’s okay, amico mio.” The priests hands moved from Jude’s arms to his throat, turning into a vise grip. Gallo’s face no longer showed any sign of the man he once knew. Azazel had won.

  “No more games,” Azazel uttered. Jude couldn’t breathe. He clutched wildly at Gallo’s arms, but couldn’t find the strength to fight against Azazel’s remaining brute force. Darkness crept into the corners of his vision, and his hands dropped to his sides. Now he was the one dying.