The Incubus, Succubus and Son of Perdition Box Set: The Len du Randt Bundle

by Len du Randt

  It was only a matter of time before the plague would infest the entire West Bank area. Slowly, like a cancer, it would spread out even further.

  Benny violently waved his fly swatter around. He gnashed his teeth, cursing furiously as he flailed his arms about. He couldn’t afford to be distracted from his mission, especially by something as small as a gnat. The mission in itself was supposed to be simple: Get in. Take out the false prophets responsible. Get out.

  He could see the two men through his binoculars. They were standing at the Damascus gate, obviously unaffected by the blood, stench, or the millions of insects flying about. Benny needed no more confirmation that it was indeed they who had been causing this disturbance. He would now execute the first phase of his plan. He scanned the surrounding area, looking for possible escape routes, places where he could hide, and general obstacles. He heard the news about what these two had done, and had no intention of being zapped by whatever had incinerated the others. He had a plan; a distraction. He wanted to see what they were capable of from a distance; to see if he could detect a weakness. If he spotted one, he would then make his move to strike them down.

  - - -* * *- - -

  ‘We could end this, you know,’ Rabbi Morris suggested to Malcolm. ‘We could get rid of them if he fails.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘With the Ark.’

  Malcolm stroked his beard while he contemplated the Rabbi’s suggestion. He seriously wanted to get rid of the prophets, but didn’t want to risk exposing the Ark too soon. The Order saw it fit to reveal the Ark only after the Temple had been rebuilt.

  ‘I agree with you,’ he answered finally. ‘But that option is unfortunately not available to us at this moment. Not yet, anyway. We will have to wait and see if our mutual ‘friend’ can accomplish his mission.’

  ‘Then we wait,’ the Rabbi confirmed. ‘But keep the suggestion at the back of your mind.’

  Malcolm nodded. ‘Absolutely.’

  - - -* * *- - -

  Andrew was close to breaking point. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t understand what the book was trying to tell him. ‘No wonder Norman wanted to give it away,’ he sneered sarcastically. It was time for Arch Bishop Pascale’s ‘Daily Bread,’ and he decided that he would rest his brain for a moment and watch the program. The book hit the table with an intentionally loud thud. He glared at the cover for a moment, and then redirected his attention toward the television.

  ‘Join me now,’ Antonio beckoned, ‘as we examine the one true religion.’

  Andrew had seen Antonio before, but only in photographs and magazines. This was the first time that he clearly saw the person behind the name. His voice was different than he had initially imagined it would be, but it was pleasant to the ear. He was visibly older than Victor, but wielded the same level of charisma.

  After a thirty minute message which consisted mainly of random quotes from the Bible and the Koran, he requested the viewers to meditate and become ‘one’ with Victor’s request for disarmament and peace. He then stared directly into the camera, and it felt to Andrew as if he could see into his very soul. ‘I ask anyone with any sort of physical wound or disfigurement to touch their television screens. Any problem. It could be AIDS, cancer, a broken arm, an ulcer; anything. Just touch the screen, and focus on the wound or disease that you would want me to heal.’

  All across the world, millions of hands touched television screens, in some places; four or more people touched the same screen.

  Andrew looked at his hand. A few years earlier, he had almost lost his index finger due to an ice-skating accident. The doctors couldn’t cast the broken finger, due to slashed tendons, so they inserted a metal spike in his finger instead to keep the finger as straight as possible while still allowing the tendons to grow back. The result was that his finger could never again be straightened fully. The segment at the end permanently pointed downwards.

  ‘As you touch the screen,’ Antonio motivated, ‘imagine the strength returning to your body. Imagine the cancer dissolving, the bones mending, and the wounds healing. Reclaim your right to a healthy life.’

  Andrew made a fist, and then relaxed his hand again, still looking at the odd little tip of his index finger. What do I have to lose? He thought to himself and placed his hand on the screen. A surge of static electricity shot through his body and he jerked his hand away. He frowned and then took a step back from the television. ‘Well, that was just stupi—’

  He looked at his hand.

  ‘What the...?’

  He rolled it into a fist.

  ‘Impossible...’

  He opened his hand up all the way and then held his left hand next to his right and compared the two index fingers. His heart banged around violently in his chest.

  His finger had been healed.

  - - -* * *- - -

  The money easily swayed the boy. He grabbed the crispy notes from Benny’s bloodstained hands, and promised to execute the task. And now it was just a matter of waiting. Eventually Benny spotted the boy through his binoculars. He approached them casually, looking like a beggar.

  Benny could vaguely see the men’s expressions as they eyed the boy walking toward them. Right on cue, and so unexpectedly that it surprised even Benny; the boy pulled out a hand gun and fired at the men from point-blank range. Benny specifically instructed the boy to aim at their faces, which he did.

  To Benny’s amazement, the men still stood, and one of them quickly extended his hand toward the boy. He must have done something, for the boy flew through the air and smashed into a nearby wall. Benny could see one of the men’s lips moving. The man then opened his arms, and looked toward the skies. The boy tried running away, but instantly combusted into flames. Benny dropped his binoculars and fell over backwards. He let out a little cry, and struggled to control his breathing. After some time, he forced his trembling hands to pick up the binoculars again. The flames had died down, and in its wake lay a charred corpse. The men looked up and directly toward Benny. He dropped down and clenched his teeth, expecting the sky to fall down on him at any moment. Do they know I’m here? How? His mind raced. What are these things?

  He had made up his mind. Whatever they were; they definitely were not human.

  - - -* * *- - -

  ‘Trev,’ Andrew shouted through the telephone. ‘It’s healed!’

  ‘Whoa there. What are you talking about?’

  ‘My finger,’ Andrew said, trying hard to control the excitement in his voice. ‘You know; the one that was hurt in the ice skating incident.’

  ‘Yeah? How?’ Trevor asked, but then realised the answer it as he asked the question. ‘Antonio?’

  ‘I didn’t think it would work. Honestly. I didn’t! I just tried it to see. I never thought that it would actually work.’

  Oh brother. ‘Andy, are you sure you’re not just forcing yourself to believe that your finger is healed?’

  ‘I wish it was that simple. But it’s not. I’ve been living with this finger for years now and would instantly be able to tell if it’s the same or not.’

  ‘And it’s not?’

  ‘Correct.’

  Trevor hesitated. ‘There has to be some logical explanation behind it. Can you come over tomorrow evening and show me?’

  ‘I can’t see why not. Will confirm during the day, okay?’

  ‘Deal.’

  ‘Oh yeah, did you have anything healed?’

  Trevor let out a chuckle. ‘No. Not today.’

  ‘Bummer,’ Andrew said. ‘It’s quite a rush. You should try it.’

  ‘Okay,’ Trevor said. ‘I’ll break my arm next time and then have him heal it.’ Trevor hung up and sighed. He felt pity for Andrew more than excitement. There had to be something else behind it, and he knew that it would only be a matter of time before it would be exposed.

  - - -* * *- - -

  ‘Father,’ Timothy asked. ‘Could I ask you something?’

  ‘Sure,’ Malcolm said. His thoughts were w
ith Angie, and he had cried himself to sleep again the previous evening. No time in the world would be able to heal the wounds inflicted upon his heart. ‘What’s on your mind?’

  ‘I was wondering about those two men, you know, the prophets.’

  Malcolm froze. He didn’t want his facial expression or tone of voice to scare Timothy out of asking his question. ‘Yes? What about them?’

  ‘I was wondering whether they are good guys or bad guys.’

  Malcolm didn’t wait before answering. ‘They’re bad, Tim, very bad.’

  Timothy frowned. ‘Why do you say so?’

  ‘Because they kill people, Tim, and they’re responsible for the frogs, blood, flies, gnats, and this horrible smell. Do you think that’s something good people would do?’

  Timothy shrugged. ‘Aren’t they just punishing us?’

  ‘Punishing us? For what?’ Malcolm locked his eyes with Timothy’s. ‘Why are you asking this? What’s with the sudden interest in these men?’

  Timothy kept his father’s stare for a while. ‘Because that’s what they say.’

  ‘Who?’ Malcolm asked. ‘Who are...?’ He suddenly realized what Timothy was saying, and anger shot through him like a surge of electricity. ‘Have you spoken to them?’

  Timothy realized that he had crossed a line. But the damage had been done. It would be cowardice to back down now. ‘Yes,’ he said, and lowered his head as a sign of submission, but it didn’t help; Malcolm slapped him across the face, grabbed him by the collar, and pulled him closer.

  ‘Why did you do that?’

  Timothy realized that the best action now would be to keep quiet.

  ‘Why did you do that?’ Malcolm repeated as he shook the boy. He raised his hand to slap Timothy again, and for a brief moment, their eyes met, and Malcolm stopped himself barely before his hand made contact. Tears welled in his eyes.

  ‘Why did you...?’ He choked, and the last two words were lost. ‘Tim, I’m...’ He dropped to the floor and clutched Timothy’s leg while he sobbed uncontrollably. Timothy knelt beside his father and Malcolm embraced his son tightly. ‘I don’t want to lose you too,’ he cried as he cradled his son. ‘I don’t want to lose you too...’

  - - -* * *- - -

  ‘A sudden surge of violence had caused the world to go into a global state of panic,’ the GMN reporter said with a grim face, ‘causing an unsettling uproar from millions around the globe. No group has claimed responsibility for the chaos yet, but European Empire President, Victor Yoshe, has met with various world leaders to discuss this matter.

  ‘In the meeting, they have also discussed the urgency of launching N-Force, the new global response unit that will actually strike down on violence, crime, corruption, and terrorism. Further meetings will take place next week, in which President Yoshe will expose those responsible, and hopefully bring this matter to a swift and effective conclusion. This is Connie Jacobs for GMN live.’

  - - -* * *- - -

  Andrew tried reading the book again. Anywhere a scripture was quoted; he looked up the scripture in his Bible and read the whole surrounding chapter. He still couldn’t get it, and frustration showed, but he kept on reading:

  “Ezekiel 38 and 39 record a future invasion of the land of Israel by and enemy from the far north. The enemy is from the land of Magog, and their ruler is called Gog.”

  Andrew shrivelled his nose, contorting his face like someone who just swallowed a large amount of vinegar. No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t grasp the idea behind the book. Maybe that Alistair guy was talking about another book, he thought.

  He read Ezekiel 38, and then 39 again, but doing so only confused and frustrated him even more. He picked up the Bible and pulled back his arm so that he could throw it across the room.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ an unexpected voice said from somewhere behind him.

  Andrew spun around, he was the only one in his flat, but there, at the full-length window overlooking the city skyline, was the silhouette of a man staring out into the night sky. He held his hands behind his back, his stance resembling that of a piano teacher listening to his student play.

  ‘Alistair?’ Andrew asked softly.

  Alistair turned around and smiled. ‘I promised you that we would talk again’

  ‘How did you get in here?’ How did you know where I lived?’ He paused; then a thought occurred to him. ‘Are…are you an alien?’

  ‘Andrew,’ Alistair said patiently, ‘there are no aliens. They don’t exist.’

  ‘They do exist,’ Andrew protested. ‘They killed millions of people!’

  Alistair sighed. His facial expression turned to sadness, almost as if he pitied Andrew. ‘At least you tried to understand,’ he said. ‘At least you tried to see the light.’

  ‘I’m not sure that I...’

  ‘It is for that reason that the Lord has chosen to reveal the truth to you.’

  ‘The truth? At this rate, I might never—’ Andrew stopped himself in midsentence. He narrowed his eyes and studied the man standing in front of him. ‘Are you an angel?’

  Alistair smiled warmly again, but evaded the question. ‘There is a price for knowing. That price is death.’

  ‘Knowing what?’

  ‘The truth.’

  Andrew’s mind was racing. He didn’t want to be frustrated anymore. He knew something was wrong, but he didn’t know what. And here was this man, from nowhere, offering the answer in exchange for his life. He looked up. ‘Show me.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Alistair confirmed.

  Andrew had made up his mind. He was sure. More sure than he had ever been about anything in his life before. Something inside him wanted to know; needed to know. ‘Yes.’

  Alistair closed his eyes, lowered his head, and extended his hand toward Andrew. ‘Lord Jesus,’ he prayed in a humble voice, ‘I ask that You now hold true to Your Word, and ask that you open his eyes, and his mind to Your Truth. Amen.’

  Andrew expected a lightshow with brilliant colours and impressive sound effects. What he received was a moment of silence. Alistair stood in front of him, smiling expectantly.

  ‘I didn’t feel anything,’ Andrew said; not sure if he should have.

  ‘Think about the book and about what you have read.’

  ‘But I didn’t understand what I had read,’ Andrew protested. ‘I don’t think it wor—’

  He didn’t finish his sentence. A thought entered his mind, and he ran to the table where the book was laying. He picked it up and sure enough, it was there. It had been there all along, but he couldn’t see it; yet now he understood it perfectly: The One World Empire and the Rise of the Antichrist.

  ‘I understand this!’ Andrew said excitedly, reading the paragraph underneath the heading as fast as he could. His blood froze as he realized what the book was about, and how the content was going to affect him. ‘Alistair, I—’

  He turned. Alistair was gone.

  ‘Oh Lord,’ he said and fell to his knees. ‘Oh Jesus, it’s true.’

  For the first time he realized that he, and the rest of the population, had been blinded by an evil force of incomprehensible power. ‘Oh God,’ he cried. ‘Please forgive me. I’m so sorry...’ Tears streamed down his face, and he clutched the book to his chest as he lay on the floor. ‘Please forgive me, Lord!’ His lips quivered, and he struggled to speak through the sobs. ‘I’m so terribly sorry...’

  .IX.

  Messiah

  Many now expect the return of their awaited Teacher, whether they call him the Christ, Messiah, the fifth Buddha, Krishna, or the Imam Mahdi.

  Millions now know that the Teacher who fulfils all these expectations is already living among us.

  - Share International, www.shareintl.org

  Trevor stood on a ruined street; a street devastated by warfare. Bodies piled up high on top of one another, and blood flowed from men, women, and children alike. All around him were dead people, their mouths agape, and their eyes locked onto
him accusingly. The wind carried the echoes of gunshots and the cries of people, and for an instant, Trevor actually thought that he was still in the midst of the blazing bullets.

  But there were no bullets, no shooters, and no people running and screaming. There was only Trevor, alone in a body-riddled street.

  Run Trevor. The wind carried an echo. Run!

  Trevor couldn’t see anyone. He started to panic. ‘I can’t!’ he shouted back at the wind. It didn’t sound as if his voice went much further than an arm’s length from him.

  ‘I...I’m afraid!’

  Afraid, the wind echoed.

  The ground in front of Trevor grumbled slightly and a hand pushed through the soil from underneath. Two creatures, zombie-like in appearance, crawled out of the ground and approached him; their arms outstretched and their flesh rotten. They groaned as they limped toward him.

  You were afraid, one of the zombies accused, and because of that we are dead!

  ‘No,’ Trevor shouted. ‘It wasn’t my fault! It was...it was God’s fault! He killed you, not me!’

  You made us come back for you, the zombies hissed their accusations. We came back for you and now we are dead!