by Jon Steele
“Sort of jumped the gun, didn’t you, brother? It was ‘one-two-three-go,’ not ‘one-go.’”
Harper coughed and spit blood. “No choice.”
“Yeah, yeah. Well, it’s a standoff for the moment.”
“The child . . .” Harper said.
“Stay put, brother,” the roadie said.
“. . . not breathing.”
“Komarovsky has him suspended between life and death,” the inspector said. “But the longer he’s under, the less chance you have of reviving him.”
“Hang on, brother, this is going to hurt,” the roadie said, breaking the spear at the tip.
“Oh, Christ,” Harper hissed through gritted teeth.
Krinkle checked the entrance wound. The steel head of the spear had broken through the fifth and sixth ribs on Harper’s left side. The lack of blood loss said Harper was bleeding internally; the blood on his lips said blood fluids were seeping into his lung. Harper saw the expressions on the faces looking down on him. He smiled.
“No worries, lads. Not dead yet.”
Inspector Gobet heard a signal in his comms rig. “Do what you can for him, Mr. Krinkle. I’m receiving flash traffic.”
“Roger that.” Krinkle pulled a vial of cauterizing potion from his overalls and poured it around the edge of the spear tip. The wound sizzled.
“Holy fuck.”
“Shit, brother. I can’t pull out the head of the spear, it’s plugging the hole in your lung.”
“Just cauterize it the best you can and wrap a bandage around me.”
Inspector Gobet signed off on comms. “HQ reports that tens of thousands of the enemy have descended on Jerusalem. They are sweeping through every street, secret passageway, and tunnel in the city and coming our way. We are surrounded, gentlemen.”
“Time to midnight?” Harper said.
Krinkle finished the wrap job, looked at his watch. “Ninety seconds.”
“Get me up,” Harper said.
“Easy, brother.”
“Sod it with easy.”
They picked Harper up, and Krinkle pulled Harper’s left arm around his own shoulder to steady him. Harper looked at Inspector Gobet.
“So what’s my plan now, Inspector?”
“As soon as Corporal Mai sees us in the passage, she will break to the edge of the firewall and establish a forward line. I will break right with my men and hit them with blue fog.”
“We won’t be able to target the enemy in the fog,” Krinkle said. “We’ll be shooting blind.”
“Affirmative. We will establish our lines of fire before detonation to keep from shooting ourselves. It’s all we can do to get Mr. Harper to the child. When the potion is administered, everyone falls back to the rotunda, except for Mr. Harper.” The inspector touched Harper’s shoulder. “I believe you have an all-clear to deliver.”
Harper smiled, blood dripping from the corners of his mouth. “Good plan, if I do say so myself.” He looked at the roadie. “Give me the cup, mate,” he said.
Krinkle took the brittle, gaffer-taped thing from the pouch of his overalls.
“Now take the vials from my pocket, and pour them in the cup.”
The roadie did it. The liquids were dark and thick. But in the cup they formed a clear potion that sparkled with beads of light.
“Do try not to spill it along the way, Mr. Harper,” the inspector said.
“Yes, sir.”
vi
“Now!”
Corporal Mai and the Swiss Guard jumped to the front of the Anointing Stone and laid down suppressing fire. Inspector Gobet and his muscle charged to the center of the hall, established a crossfire line. Gobet pulled a glass vial and smashed it on the floor stones.
“Et facta est lux!”
The hall filled with a burst of light and a thick cloud of blue fog.
“Let’s move,” Harper said.
The roadie hauled him through the firewall surrounding the Anointing Stone. They hit the ground next to Madame Taylor and her son.
“He’s not breathing,” Katherine said.
Krinkle checked Max’s eyes. “He’s going fast.”
“Bring him to me.” Harper said.
Katherine scooted to Harper, held Max to him.
Harper stared at him a moment. His jet-black hair, his round face. Like any child in the world, Harper thought. He tipped the cup; the potion touched the child’s lips.
“Drink, Max Taylor.”
Just then the midnight bells began to toll over Jerusalem and a cry of ecstasy rose from the goons.
“Lord, we salute the highest!”
Then Komarovsky’s voice: “Bring me the head of the bastard child!”
The sound of shields hitting the floor stones and swords being drawn echoed off the stone walls. The goons marched slowly forward, slashing their swords through the fog. SIGs and Micro UZIs exploded, goons shrieked. Their hideous sounds were answered with another volley of fire. Harper’s hands began to shake, and the cup slipped. Katherine grabbed his hand and steadied his grip on the cup. He stared at her hand wrapped around his, felt an energy emanating from her flesh. He looked at her. There were tears in her eyes.
“Harper, please.”
He tipped the cup and poured the potion into the boy’s mouth.
“Drink, Max Taylor. Drink that you will escape forever death.”
When the last drop had been taken, Harper slumped and dropped the cup; it fell on the floor stones. He rolled onto his side and stared into the fog. Patches of clarity appeared. The place was littered with dead goons, but at least a hundred were still standing. They formed into four lines of five, raised their swords, and charged the Anointing Stone. Komarovsky was watching with pleasure from behind his bodyguards. He didn’t give a shit about losing goons; he knew thousands more were on the way. Corporal Mai and the Swiss Guard ripped the front line apart with automatic fire, emptying weapons, swapping mags, firing again; spark rounds lit up the entrance like intersecting lines of causality on speed. Goons fell like bowling pins, two of them skidding over the floor stones and hitting the candles of the firewall to break it open. Then the third line went down, then the fourth . . . The goons kept charging.
“Fall back!” Inspector Gobet shouted.
Krinkle grabbed Max, threw him over his shoulder, pulled Katherine from the floor with his right hand, and grabbed the lantern with his left. Katherine reached for Harper.
“Come on,” she said.
Harper struggled to his feet, holding his bleeding side.
“Find a shadow and hide in it, Madame Taylor. Wait until he’s wounded.”
“Harper, please, you can barely stand. C’mon, we’ll find another way.”
“This is the only way. It’s your world now, it’s down to you.”
“Harper!”
He turned from her and stumbled toward the fog. The space within the church was still expanding, and he began to wander in a circle. When he became lost in the fog and could walk no farther, he fell to his knees. He pulled the calfskin from his belt, unwrapped the four carpenter nails. He tossed the calfskin away, reached behind his back and tucked two nails in his belt. The remaining two he held in his hands.
“You are not forsaken,” he whispered silently to himself, crossing his arms across his chest.
SIGs and UZIs quieted, and when the fog cleared, Harper was on his knees in the middle of the hall and facing the open doors of the church. His arms were wrapped tight around his chest, blood seeping from his wounds. He was surrounded by hundreds and hundreds of fallen goons, spears, and swords; the floor stones were soaked with dead black dripping from empty eye sockets. But Harper did not notice them; he only stared out the doors of the church. He saw stars and tracer fire above the rooftops. It was heavier now, racing through the night from every direction . . . or maybe it was just the world racing through the universe at two million miles per second, he thought. He heard the sound of guns, sirens, and screams, then heard words in his head. Bellaque ma
tribus detesta. Wars, the horror of mothers.
“Hold on, boyo, not long now,” he whispered to himself.
The bodyguards opened their shields and the One True God emerged to claim his kingdom. Four of the guards moved in a blur to set walls of shields blocking off the rotunda and ambulatory. They remained at those posts with swords drawn. The remaining two guards escorted Komarovsky to the suffering man kneeling once again on Golgotha, waiting to die.
“What a wondrous entertainment this has been,” the One True God said, walking around the bodies and instruments of war. “Godly, was it not? Playing with the souls of men, giving them a taste of hope then stealing it away? And we still have more to come before the end of this midnight hour.”
Komarovsky stopped, signaled his guard to pick up some things from the floor and give them to him.
“Your fellows are trapped with the whore and her child near the Shrine of the Resurrection now. A wondrous image, I think: the last hope of humanity cowering in the shadow of such a thing. In the gospels of the new religion that shall be carried to the ends of the universe, this holy night will be long remembered as the final victory over the souls of men in paradise.”
Harper continued to stare out into the courtyard, refocusing his eyes and seeing hundreds of shadows descending and taking form. He heard thousands more clawing at the walls of the church, breaking through glass windows and wooden doors. They knew the child was inside; they could smell his flesh and blood, and they craved to devour him. Not long now, not long now.
Komarovsky stood before Harper, dropped the wooden plaque on the floor stones. It broke apart in two pieces. Harper’s eyes pieced together the Latin script: Jesus of Nazareth King of the Jews. Komarovsky spoke again . . .
“The sons of light are vanquished this Night of Nights. You will not win by deceit this night as you did with Zoroaster and the Jew. It is why I selected this ground to slaughter the child of the whore. I thought you would appreciate the irony of your defeat.”
Harper squeezed the hidden nails in his hands while staring at the two pieces of ancient wood on the floor stones; like splintered shards they were . . . Know that the instruments of my crucifixion will be used to wound evil unto death. Then shall it be, with my final words, that the light of the Pure God is revealed in paradise. Then he stared at the One True God’s shoes. Expensive, Italian maybe. Komarovsky reached out his hands to lift Harper’s chin. Harper leaned away from him and stared at the smooth flesh of the One True God’s palms; the long fingers, the perfectly manicured nails.
“Raise your dying eyes to me,” Komarovsky said.
Still, Harper did not move.
One of the bodyguards grabbed Harper’s hair and forced back his head. The second guard laid the blade of the golden dagger at Harper’s throat to keep him in place. Harper saw himself in the dark glasses of the One True God: broken and beaten, bleeding from his nose and mouth. Komarovsky studied the face.
“I loved you the most, you were my favorite. Why did you not submit to me? Why did you force me to chase after you through the ages? To trap you finally in a form from which you could not escape?”
Harper tried to speak but coughed up blood instead. He settled, and when he did speak, he could barely recognize the raspy whisper that was his voice now.
“Is that what happened?”
“Through our time in paradise you have fought me, from the very beginning when I first created the soul of man.”
“Can’t think why at the moment. Probably because I knew what you planned to do with the souls you created. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.”
“And how should it have been?”
“No idea, but it sure as hell isn’t this.”
Komarovsky laughed. “You are so like the creatures of this place in your innocence. Such faith and belief that there is a god beyond the stars more powerful and beautiful than me, and that somehow, I would allow such a god to be found.”
Harper felt fluid filling his lung. Not long now, not long now. He coughed and shivered from pain and cold. He leaned over, watched blood drip from his lips and onto the floor stones. He scanned the hall from the corner of his eye. He saw something moving through the shadows by the Anointing Stone, then in the high arches above the mosaic of the dead Christ. Here we go, boyo. He coughed up blood again and spit.
“Bollocks. What’s out there waiting for these creatures is the point of knowing, becoming one with the whole of the universe. What waits for them is something bigger than any god imaginable in the minds of men or me even, or you, you worthless piece of shit.”
The guards kicked Harper in the back, hauled him to his knees. Komarovsky grabbed Harper’s throat and squeezed.
“Confess your sins and I will be merciful.”
“What fucking sins?”
“Confess your treachery to your God.”
Harper spit in Komarovsky’s face. Komarovsky removed his dark glasses, smashed them to the floor, and wiped his sleeve across his face. He leaned close to Harper, his silver eyes flaring with rage.
“You dare to mock the one who has ruled this world for two and a half million years?”
“You’re not a god, you’re nothing but a false prophet. And in case you haven’t heard, Jerusalem is where false prophets come to die.”
Crack, crack; crack, crack.
The four bodyguards at the shields fell dead. Harper pulled his arms from his sides and held them high; Komarovsky caught a fleeting glimpse of the two carpenter nails in Harper’s hands. Horror raced through his eyes as Harper summoned the last of his strength and pounded down with his hands to nail Komarovsky’s feet to the floor stones.
“Ahhhhh!” Komarovsky fell to his knees.
Crack, crack.
The guard closest to Komarovsky went down dead; the other fell on Harper, drove the dagger into Harper’s back.
“Fuck!”
The guard pulled out the dagger, raised it for a death cut.
Crack.
The guard’s head exploded and his body flew off Harper. Harper rolled to his side, forced himself onto his knees . . . fading, slipping . . . Not long now. He was face-to-face with Komarovsky and staring into the eyes of a creature that had never known pain. The One True God appeared confused, not knowing what to do or think; his perfectly manicured hands were shaking, hovering over the nails in his feet.
“Hurts, doesn’t it?” Harper said.
Komarovsky tried to speak, but before a sound was uttered, Harper rammed two more nails down onto the tops of Komarovsky’s hands and pinned them to the floor stones.
“Ahhhh!”
Harper looked deep into Komarovsky’s silver eyes.
“Still not feeling it? Let me help.”
Harper picked up the two shards of ancient wood and stabbed them into Komarovsky’s sides. Komarovsky gasped and shuddered.
“You . . . would kill . . . me?”
Harper smiled. “Not my job, pal.”
Just then Komarovsky felt familiar fingers moving slowly through his long beautiful hair, twisting it into clumps. Then his head was yanked back and he saw Katherine Taylor looking down on him.
“My goddess?”
“That’s right.”
Katherine lifted her right hand to reveal the golden dagger. She eased it into Komarovsky’s mouth.
“And a little advice from an ex-hooker whose son you tried to kill: Fuck off and die.”
She rammed the dagger down his throat. She let go of him. He wavered a moment as gurgling sounds rumbled from his mouth. Katherine moved in a blur, picking up a sword from the ground, spinning in a wide circle, and slicing the blade across Komarovsky’s shoulders before his body hit the ground. The head of the One True God hit the floor stones and rolled out the door.
The shadows in the outer courtyard disappeared; the clawing at the walls and doors ended; Komarovsky’s form dissolved into quicksilver and spread over the floor stones; it bubbled and burned, then vanished from the face of the earth.
&
nbsp; For a moment nothing moved, as if the world had come to a stop.
Then explosions and gunfire from the real world rushed into the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Harper heard the sound of military jets flying low over Jerusalem, heading east.
“Must give all-clear . . . Stop the war.”
He fell. Katherine dropped her sword and jumped to him.
“Harper.”
“Must give . . . all-clear.”
Crashing sounds echoed through the church as Inspector Gobet and his gang broke the shields and ran toward Harper. The cop held the lantern; the roadie had his duffel bag. The inspector knelt next to Katherine and passed the palm of his right hand before her eyes: ”Madame Taylor, your mission is over. Go to to your son now, we’ll take care of this.”
Katherine looked back, saw the cop’s muscle holding firing positions at the passage to the rotunda. Then she saw beyond them to the Place of Mourning. Corporal Mai and the Swiss Guard were fitting an IV into her son’s arm. “Jesus.” She got up and ran. “Max! Max!”
vii
Krinkle and the inspector knelt next to Harper.
The roadie pressed his hand over the dagger wound on Harper’s back. Watery blood oozed through his fingers.
“Oh shit, brother.”
The roadie cauterized the wound and stuffed a bandage into the hole. The watery blood slowed but did not stop flowing. They eased him over onto his back. Krinkle pulled his penlight and scanned Harper’s eyes with the lapis-colored beam. Harper’s face was pale now, his eyes losing focus, and he was only half conscious.
“Brother, you with me? Come on, talk to me. What do we do now?”
“Time.”
Krinkle looked at his watch. “Two minutes till the end of the midnight hour.”
“Get me to the stone. Bring the lantern . . . Must stand there for all-clear.”
“You know what to do, what to say?”