Out of the Shadows

by Timothy Boyd

  Every last person.

  The doors of nearby apartments and businesses opened, and more citizens marched out, joining the conglomeration headed down the street. Mothers, fathers, children, babysitters, businessmen, baristas… A chill swept through the street, invading Trevor’s body, and the pit of his stomach gurgled with unease. He knew that Luke had taken control of them. All of them.

  The people were headed to their dark deaths, and he could think of only one place to where they might be marching.

  The Golden Gate Bridge.

  Time had run out. There was nothing more for Trevor to do but enter the church and try to survive. If he failed, one million people would die. His shaky hand grasped the handle, and he entered the cathedral.

  * * *

  The air inside the sanctuary felt thick, and a strange unidentifiable odor permeated his senses. No matter how quietly he treaded, he felt that his feet were leaden, crashing onto the tiled floor, alerting the world of his presence. His heart thumped deeply in his chest, and a feeling of nausea swept over him. He stepped around the ornate labyrinth through which he earlier had walked with the bishop. His throat clenched from dryness, and his palms grew clammy. He had felt like this only one other time in his life, and that was the previous night when he had been contemplating his own mortality while staring down into the black waters at the Golden Gate.

  He entered the center aisle, passing rows of pews, glancing at the stained glass eyes watching him. Judging him. Everyone must face judgment when the time comes, Micah had said at the pier. He felt those words hang in the air, an oppressive shroud of doom that smothered him. He struggled to breathe, and he felt his eyes begin to sting with the salt of tears. Just before panic overtook him, he felt the familiar strong hand clutch his shoulder, sending waves of comfort through his body.

  It was Micah. His guide. His guardian. Come to join him in this final leg of his journey. Micah said nothing, nor did Trevor need him to.

  He looked at the end of the aisle and noticed that the first few rows of pews had been shattered, nothing but crumbled splinters of wood remaining. In the center, a pyre rose ten feet into the air, built from the fragmented pieces from the prayer benches. Two large chunks of debris from the broken pews were tied together with rope, jutting up from the middle of the woodpile. A horrific crucifix.

  Bound to the demon cross at his wrists and ankles, arms outstretched in a morbid biblical tableau, was Bishop Andrews.

  He looked pale and weak, his bottom lip split open and covered in blood. Trevor moved more quickly now, not quite running, keeping his gaze vigilant. As he got closer to the reverend, he spoke softly but urgently.

  “Bishop!”

  The middle-aged man moaned and turned his head, his eyes fluttering open slowly. A small smile creased the corners of his feeble mouth, and he replied in a raspy voice, “Trevor, it’s so good to see you.”

  “I’m going to get you down from there,” he informed, making his way closer to the pile. As he neared it, the odd aroma grew stronger, singeing his nostrils. Suddenly, the scent became clear.

  Gasoline.

  He stood back and took in the sight of the bishop, splayed out on a makeshift crucifix, a twisted funeral pyre. Visions of his third grotesque painting floated to the forefront of his mind. The façade of Grace Cathedral bursting with flame.

  “We have to get him down, now!” Trevor tried to dash forward, but Micah’s hand grabbed his arm forcefully.

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Why?”

  “The gasoline. If I die, I can just take another body. If you die…”

  Trevor nodded and stepped back, making room for his guardian to climb the broken pews to get within reach of the bishop. As Micah scaled the construct, pieces broke loose and threatened to send him tumbling back to the ground. The scent of the fuel began to overwhelm him, making him feel dizzy, but he finally made it to the top and began unloosing one of the bishop’s wrists.

  “I wasn’t sure you would come,” came Luke’s deep voice. It echoed ominously throughout the cavernous sanctuary, bouncing eerily off of the stained glass windows and concrete pillars. Luke emerged from the passageway that led to the offices at the back, his blue polo shirt wrinkled from struggle, his thick brown hair disheveled.

  Trevor’s back straightened and his senses heightened, waiting to see what would happen next.

  Luke smiled devilishly. “Your good bishop put up quite the struggle when I came in here. If only you had arrived sooner…” He allowed the thought to dangle in the air long enough for Trevor’s guilt to trickle into his mind.

  Trevor remained speechless, not wanting to engage the demon but knowing that he must.

  Luke pointed up at Micah, who worked feverishly to free the bishop’s other wrist from the bonds. “I see you’re letting the angel do your dirty work.”

  The bishop’s wrist fell free, and his body slumped forward over Micah’s shoulder. He then quickly went to work on freeing the bishop’s bound ankles.

  “I must say, Micah,” the vile entity began, pointing in Trevor’s direction. “This one has been especially weak.”

  Micah didn’t turn to face him, but he spat back, “He’s stronger than you think, Demon!”

  “Really? Then why did he make this so easy for me?”

  The horrid meaning behind Luke’s words suddenly became clear, and Micah peered over his shoulder, panicked, as he saw the zippo lighter twirl through the air and land at the base of the pyre, instantly igniting the bottom in searing flame.

  “Micah!” Trevor hollered, wanting to run forward to help but unable to get passed the circle of fire.

  The guardian quickly went back to work on the bonds around the bishop’s ankles, fighting desperately to loosen the knots.

  Luke’s laugh echoed through the church as the crackle of flaming wood popped through the air, the flames ever-rising up the wooden pile, licking the air at Micah’s feet, begging to taste his flesh. “Within the hour, all of the city’s inhabitants will be in the bottom of the bay, and their souls will belong to me!”

  Trevor scampered quickly over the damaged rows of pews and swiftly snatched up the golden candelabra that held the prayer candles. He swung it viciously through the air, forcing Luke to duck back out of the way. The candles that had been lit within the holder flew through the air, and one of them landed at Luke’s feet, nipping the edge of his pants.

  As the flame caught, he began stamping his foot, extinguishing it, but while he had been distracted, Trevor sped in and swung the candleholder, making contact with his head. He fell backward, stumbling to regain his balance. He wiped a spot of blood from the side of his face before spinning back toward his assailant, the pyre’s flames reflecting ferociously within his eyes.

  With a sssshink, Luke revealed his hidden knife from the back of his pants. The cool metal of the foot-long blade shimmered from the nearby fire, which gained height at a frightening pace. The vaulted ceiling of the church began to fill with black smoke, and the stench of blazing gasoline invaded the air.

  Luke charged after Trevor, his eyes flickering with an absolute fury. The knife was raised, his teeth clenched. He growled in anger as he brought it down.

  Trevor swung the candelabra in front of him, clashing against the dangerous blade. The two men pressed into one another, the knife putting immense pressure on the savior’s makeshift weapon. Their faces were inches apart, and Trevor saw the damnation of worlds come alive in Luke’s eyes. His arm muscles grew tired, and the heat from the fire drew sweat from his brow.

  “Trevor!” Micah called out from the top of the pyre, coughing from smoke inhalation.

  He glanced up and saw his guardian angel, clutching the freed bishop in his arms. Trevor decided to make his move; he feinted to the side, releasing his intense grip, and as Luke fell forward, he tripped over Trevor’s outstretched foot, collapsing to the ground. Trevor flung his weapon to the ground and held his arms out to accept the body of the bishop. Without wasting a
beat, Micah carefully tossed the old man over the flames, landing painfully into Trevor’s arms.

  As he carefully placed the coughing man on the ground against the pulpit, Micah closed his eyes, readied his legs, and leapt as far as he could over the fire. He collided with the tile floor with a harsh smack, and he rolled, unable to stop his momentum. Fire swept its way up the legs of his jeans, and Trevor ran over, removing his hoodie to dampen the flames.

  Micah nodded his thanks, and then his eyes went wide. “Trevor, behind you!”

  He spun around just in time to see the lumbering hulk of Luke, the knife high in the air, held in both of his hands. He bellowed a scream from the pits of hell as he brought the blade down. Trevor grasped Luke’s wrists, holding the lethal weapon at bay, inches from his face. Luke forced him farther toward the ground with surprising strength, his blood rage consuming his twisted features.

  Micah grabbed a chunk of broken pew that would have been far too heavy for a mortal man, and he swung it viciously into Luke’s side, sending him rolling off of Trevor, the knife sliding across the floor.

  The demon stumbled to rise, clutching his wounded side with his shaking hand. He spoke, his voice much deeper and more threatening now, as if something inhuman rose to the surface. “You are trying my patience, Angel! I’m done playing games!” He thrust his arms into the air, and a ball of fire leapt from within the blazing pyre, soaring quickly to the vaulted planks high above, assaulting the wooden surface with the flames of destruction.

  The entirety of the ceiling ignited into a hellish inferno as the stained glass windows shattered, hundreds of colorful shards raining down into the sanctuary. Trevor knew that his third painting had just come true. Pillars of fire spat from the concrete spires outside the church, and a horrendous crack rang out, followed seconds later by the cacophonous echoes of the bells from the tower crashing to the ground.

  As flaming chunks of the rafters fell from the heavens, Luke charged ferociously toward Micah, who was distracted by the cathedral’s destruction. As he reached out to tackle the angel, Trevor kicked a chunk of debris across the floor into his path. He tripped and soared past, crashing into the blazing pyre.

  Atrocious howls of agony echoed through the air as Luke caught fire, his clothing disintegrating and the mortal skin melting from the bones of his stolen host. Less than a minute later, the body went quiet and lay on the wooden debris, unmoving.

  Trevor felt his limbs begin to tremble, the adrenaline rush subsiding. He struggled to breathe steadily, and he felt overwhelmed with emotion. “We did it,” he panted incredulously. “It’s over.”

  Micah came up behind him and grasped his shoulder for stability. Trevor reached back, clasping his friend’s hand in his own. When the angel grunted and his hand clenched tightly on Trevor’s shoulder, he spun around to see what was the matter.

  Micah’s eyes were wide, and a thin trail of blood escaped his mouth. The tip of the blade protruded from his chest, and thick rivers of blood poured to the ground as the knife receded once more. The guardian slumped to the ground, revealing the assailant.

  Bishop Andrews stood, gory knife in hand, grinning evilly at the bewildered Trevor.

  He dropped to his knees, mumbling incoherently in the face of this trauma. He clutched Micah’s body tightly in his arms, trying foolishly to put pressure on the knife wound. “No, no, no, no, no! Micah, please no!”

  He knew that the bishop was gone now, and only Luke remained within that familiar shell of piety.

  “Micah!” Trevor spoke urgently, watching the essence of life spilling from his friend’s horrible wound. “Micah, what should I do?! Tell me what to do for you!”

  Through his torturous pain, Micah attempted to smile proudly at his pupil. “There is nothing you can do for me,” he answered slowly. “You must do it… for them.”

  Trevor’s vision clouded with the stinging tears of inevitable loss, and he felt his bottom lip begin to tremble. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “I’ve told you everything you need to know.”

  “But I still don’t know!” Trevor cried now, not wanting to say goodbye to this newfound friend.

  Micah coughed, and blood fell from the side of his mouth. “Think.” With each passing second, the color drained from his once lively skin. “Remember my words.”

  Trevor shook his head, his fists clutching Micah’s t-shirt tightly. “Please don’t go.”

  “You just have to believe, Trevor,” he smiled weakly.

  “I do believe! I never stopped believing!” he finally admitted, more to himself than to Micah.

  “I don’t mean in Him,” he muttered weakly. “In yourself.” Micah took hold of Trevor’s hand and, struggling, raised it to his chest.

  Trevor remained still, and he felt the precious beats of his heart, just as he had the night before on the bridge when Micah had asked what drove his passions. It wasn’t until this moment that the true answer to that question became clear to him. He closed his eyes and allowed his heart to fill him with strength. When he opened them, he stared down at a lifeless body with dull eyes and pale skin.

  As he solemnly stood, he felt Micah’s essence drift farther away from him. He heard the words from the pier echo through his mind. He cannot directly kill you as long as your guardian lives, he had said. Now, the “mark” was gone. He would fight with Luke, and one of them would die.

  “That was quite touching,” Luke said, eerily inhabiting the body of the bishop.

  A smoldering fury began to bubble in Trevor’s gut, and through clenched teeth, he seethed, “You broke the rules.”

  Luke’s eyes narrowed. “He was a weak guardian,” he goaded, attempting to force an irrational rise out of Trevor. “And with everyone headed to the bridge, there’s no one nearby for him to possess,” Luke grinned. “Which means he’s gone. For good.”

  Trevor stood, his back to Luke, his fists clenched, furious blood coursing through his veins. The air around him rumbled, like some unseen force were angered by the callous events in the sanctuary. “I’m sorry, Luke. But you’re wrong.”

  “About what?” he spat, unconvinced.

  “There is someone nearby.”

  Luke laughed. “And who would that be?”

  Trevor spun to face the demon, fire-filled eyes piercing into him. “Me.”

  In that instant, the heavens were flung open upon Trevor’s newfound vigor, and he felt an angelic force surge through his body, uplifting his sorrows and feeding his strength, not overtaking him but working with him. Micah’s presence had returned, and Trevor knew they were now one.

  Luke had broken the rules by killing Micah. Now, all bets were off.

  Trevor felt larger, stronger, and more aware, like he was hovering lightly off the ground even though his feet were firmly planted. He watched the intense rage radiate from Luke as he snarled, his skin splitting open and his shoulders elongating. Bones cracked and cartilage reshaped itself as he transformed from his mortal shell into his immortal demonic form, black and hideous, beady glowing eyes, talons for fingers.

  They charged toward one another, and when their bodies collided, a blast of energy burst through the church, sending debris soaring through the air. Trevor punched and ducked as Luke clawed and hissed. They leapt around the sanctuary as more chunks of the roof began to collapse upon them. Luke managed to grasp Trevor and fling him across the room, colliding into one of the concrete pillars, breaking it in half.

  Trevor rebounded and soared through the air, his fist landing solidly in the side of Luke’s face. He felt the skull give way to a horrible squash, but as he removed his hand, Luke’s crushed face quickly reformed. Their fists of fury pummeled one another, but Trevor quickly realized that physical damage could not hurt this demon.

  He ducked from a long row of wooden pews that Luke had uprooted and thrown across the sanctuary. Trevor climbed over the destroyed benches, scrambling to get back to the front of the church. As he passed the flame-weakened pyre, he heard it g
roan as it leaned to the side, snapping and falling over. He needed time to think!

  Think, Micah had said. Remember my words.

  The Demon Luke scrambled up a nearby pillar like a vicious scorpion, leaping through the air to close the distance between them. Trevor snatched a long chunk of sharp, broken, wood from the ground and raised it in front of him just in time for Luke to land on it, impaling himself through the chest and knocking them both to the ground. Trevor rose and backed away, observing the damage that had been done, but Luke only struggled briefly when standing, and he proceeded to pull the spike from his torso, unharmed.

  “You cannot kill me!” Luke growled, his twisted voice completely inhuman.

  His fist collided with Trevor’s face, knocking him to the side. Another punch, and another, and another. Trevor’s pain was intense, and he collapsed to his knees, tired and broken. Luke swiftly kicked his prone body and then picked him up, tossing him through the air. Trevor flew across the sanctuary, crashing painfully into a row of pews. Hymnal and Bible pages scattered into the air from the collision, slowly fluttering back to the ground.

  Trevor lay motionless in the center aisle, feeling the debris rain down from above. He was weary and weak, and he was making no progress. Even if he had the endurance to sustain the fight, the cathedral would likely collapse around them soon. He heard the demon’s loud stomps crashing toward him to finish the job, but Trevor had no fight left. It was over.

  A page from the Bible fluttered through the surrounding mess and came to rest inches from his face. He ignored it, feeling his eyes grow heavy, wanting to shut them for good. Sunlight from the shattered windows scattered eerie beams through the smoky sanctuary, and one streaked across the Bible page in front of him.

  Just as he had resigned and had begun shutting his eyes, a word at the top of the page caught his eye.

  Luke.

  He strained to focus on the discarded page. The sunbeam seemed to be highlighting a particular verse: When the unclean spirit has gone out of a person, it passes through waterless places seeking rest, and finding none it says, “I will return to my house from which I came.” Trevor struggled to raise his head, trying to see what might be special about the passage. It was verse twenty-four. He looked at the top of the sheet of paper and saw that it was from chapter eleven. The Book of Luke, chapter eleven, verse twenty-four.