The Dark Age: A Marlowe Gentry Thriller (Marlowe Gentry Thriller Series Book 2)

by Dallas Mullican

  Caesar kept close tabs on Jose after his departure, and as he had predicted, the boy’s pursuits amounted to only disappointment. He and the girl ended up in a ghetto, pushing cheap product and fighting for meager territory. Any day, Jose would have caved and come running home with his tail between his legs.

  If not for Detective Gentry.

  Caesar clenched his jaws, teeth grinding. The man had robbed him of his son and heir. Shot him down like a dog in the streets. All that would have been, ended in a hail of bullets. Now, too late. Too late for anything…but vengeance.

  Angel, Caesar’s chief lieutenant, entered the room. A huge man, with muscles supplemented by years of steroids and weight lifting, he lumbered across the room to stand before his boss.

  “Have the two who fired on the detective been dealt with?” asked Caesar.

  “Yes sir. They won’t make the mistake again,” Angel’s gravely bass tone rumbled out of his throat.

  “I don’t want him killed. I want to see pain contort his face and hear his screams. This man will not find relief in a quick death. Do you understand?” Caesar glared at the man, his fists clenched tight.

  “Yes sir.”

  “What progress?”

  Angel averted his gaze. “We haven’t found an opening. But we will.”

  Caesar took a step forward. Angel flinched. “My son will be laid to rest in three days. He will enter the grave at peace. Am I making myself clear, Angel?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Then why are you still standing here?”

  The big man reddened and hurried from the room. Caesar watched him go, a quiet fire smoldering inside him.

  CHAPTER

  23

  Eight-year-old Evan sat with Grandma on his right, a man he didn’t know close against him on his left. Every pew was filled as more than a hundred gathered in the small sanctuary at Lee Fellowship Baptist Church for Sunday morning service. Up until today, Evan had attended Kids’ Church with the other children, but in the year since coming to live with Grandma, his maturity and knowledge grew beyond that of his classmates and created a desire for more substantial sustenance. Reluctant at first, Grandma finally relented and allowed him to attend Big Church with the adults.

  The ambiance of the setting washed over him and soon diminished the unease produced by so many unfamiliar people. Oh, some had said hello or what a handsome young man when his grandma introduced him, but the brief interaction wasn’t enough to breed comfort in their presence. Even so, he felt a calm sense of belonging. Multi-colored angels gazed down from the windows as an elderly deacon led the congregation in prayer. The man’s deep baritone, rich and calming, covered the auditorium in reverence and peace.

  A short, thin man, with large ears and a crooked nose, who Grandma whispered was the choir director, stepped up to stand at the lectern. “Welcome, I hope everyone had a blessed week. Let’s turn to Hymn 150 in your hymnals and sing the first three verses of When the Roll is Called up Yonder.”

  A commotion broke the quiet as the congregation retrieved their hymnals, thumbed to the designated page, and settled. As the piano and organ began to play, the audience lifted their voices in song. Evan didn’t know the words, but listening to all the voices singing in unison sent a tingle up his spine. His grandma sang louder than anyone, in a pleasant alto, and smiled down at him. A soothing lullaby, the notes seemed to float toward heaven to an attentive God. The songs, the shouted hallelujahs and amens, all produced a convergence where spirits hung overhead listening, pleased, felt but unseen. A sense of realness took hold of him. Every story became history, every miracle a manifestation of God’s will. An unquestioning faith bloomed inside him, birthed from need, lingering fear, and pain—a Power greater than all his troubles, which could wipe away the torment of the past and ensure safety, joy, and salvation. A smile spread across his face.

  After another hymn, the pastor rose to take his place at the podium. Brother Cecil wore a grey suit below thick, slicked-back brown hair. His penetrating green eyes seemed to see right through the flesh to whatever might attempt to hide underneath. He spoke with unnatural affectation, accentuating the last syllable of every other word. His booming voice filled the sanctuary, and Evan thought it must sound much like the voice of God Himself.

  “Good morning brothers and sisters,” said Brother Cecil. “I thought this week about how often God speaks to us in His still small voice and we are too busy to listen. God offers us solutions, but we stumble along thinking we know what is best.

  “It reminded me of a story of a man in the middle of a flood,” he continued. “He sat on his front porch as the floodwaters rose to the top step. A couple of men in a motor boat came by and said to the man, ‘The water’s rising, come on in the boat.’

  “‘God will save me,’ said the man.

  “Later, the water rose to the top floor window where the man leaned out. Another boat came by. The man in the boat said, ‘The water’s rising, come on into the boat.’

  “‘No need,’ said the man, ‘God will save me.’

  “At last, the water rose to the roof of the house. A helicopter came flying low overhead. The pilot yelled out, ‘The water’s almost over your house, might be your last chance, let us lift you up.’

  “‘Nah,’ said the man. ‘God will save me.’

  “So, the water covered the house and the man drowned. He found himself in Heaven before God. Confused, he said to God, ‘I thought you would save me.’

  “God replied, ‘I sent you two boats and a helicopter.’”

  The crowd erupted with laughter. Evan glanced around, puzzled, but wearing a smile nonetheless. Grandma assured him she would explain later.

  Once the congregation settled, Brother Cecil continued. “Sometimes the answers stare us right in the face, but we refuse to see. They’re whispered into our hearts, but we won’t hear. This was the case for the people of Sodom and Gomorrah.”

  Brother Cecil went on to tell the story of two cities God found wicked. He planned to destroy them, but a man named Lot begged God to spare the cities. God instructed Lot to find one good person in all of Sodom and Gomorrah; if Lot could do so, He would not destroy the them. Wickedness pervaded the cities and Lot could not find a single righteous person. God rained down fire, killing everyone and destroying the cities. He even turned Lot’s wife to a pillar of salt simply for looking back at the destruction when commanded not to do so.

  At the conclusion of the service, before the invitation, Brother Cecil conducted the Lord’s Supper. The congregation received small wafers of bread followed by a small cup of dark red juice. The pastor read from the Bible the passage describing Jesus’s last meeting with his disciples. He recited how Jesus offered his body and his blood to his followers, and explained that once the bread and drink entered the believer’s mouth, it became the body and blood of Christ.

  Evan, though mature for his age, remained a child and assimilated the story as a child. His eyes darted from person to person. Each sat in serene silence, taking the cup and bread into their bodies with rapturous expressions. No one seemed to question the ritual as he did; practiced over many times, they accepted it. Evan placed the wafer onto his tongue and ate the flesh. He drank the blood, not recoiling from the idea, but embracing it.

  “With His body and blood, Christ died upon the cross for our sins. But let your heart be glad for neither the tomb nor death could hold Him. Our Savior lives. He conquered death so we might live eternally through His sacrifice.” Brother Cecil spread his arms, an elated smile spanning ear to ear.

  All afternoon after returning home, Evan continued to think about what he had seen and heard. His imagination absorbed the power of God’s wrath and righteousness, committing it to absolute law written on his soul. An all-powerful, all-knowing God, watching and listening. A God who could destroy whole cities and viewed sin within the hearts of every individual. Jesus, God’s own son, rose from the dead so all believers would never die, but know perfect joy forever. Flam
es engulfed thousands and corpses climbed from their graves, haunting Evan. He didn’t want to displease God. The experiences of the church service, so real and vivid in his mind, followed him into sleep that night.

  His mother lay naked beneath a large oak tree. Its limbs reached up, grasping at lazy, floating clouds. A massive snake, like those Evan had seen in South American swamps on Animal Planet, hung loosely from one low dangling limb. The serpent seemed to smile at some secret it alone knew. Evan’s father came into the garden, naked as well. They gathered fruit from the tree and poured out a bright red liquid into glass goblets. In drunken revelry, they engaged in acts both degrading and arousing with the great serpent.

  They fell asleep beneath the canopy, spent and oblivious to their sin. A bright light dawned on the far horizon. The sound of thunder shook the garden, awaking the naked pair to apprehension. The snake’s sly grin widened as it slithered from paradise.

  The silver light grew and rushed on at horrifying speed. In the next instant, a winged man hovered above the pair, a sword gushing white-blue flames held in his hands. Evan’s parents stood with hands before their faces, shielding their eyes from the glare. Without warning or prelude, the sword began a vicious arc, trailing fiery streamers as it descended in a blur, cutting through flesh and bone, bisecting Mommy and Daddy. Sparks flared out, scorching away their eyes, filling their mouths to burn away their tongues. His parents did not die. Entrails dragging behind them, they crawled forward, seeking escape.

  In the middle of the garden rested a previously unnoticed mound. The mound shuddered, and a desiccated hand thrust up through the loose dirt. A head emerged. Long clotted hair and a matted beard surrounded a gaping mouth filled with razor-sharp teeth. The dead thing that was Jesus arisen from the grave stumbled toward the two helpless forms. He fell on them with a ravenous hunger, tearing their bodies asunder.

  Evan had woken screaming. Grandma came to him and held him, cooing everything was okay, only a bad dream. As the terror receded, an epiphany struck to replace it. Evil warranted punishment, and the sinner must surely know damnation. In that moment, Evan called upon the Lord to keep him and guide him, not to let him become like his parents, and never to know the torments of Hell. A peace filled him and all fear fled. What before he did for attention now became a way of life…the only way of life.

  The next Sunday, during the invitation, Evan walked the aisle and met Brother Cecil beneath the pulpit. He prayed with the pastor, asking Jesus into his heart and pledging his life. Following the service, Brother Cecil announced Evan to the congregation as a new child of God. They met him with pats on the back and hugs, all saying how proud they were of him. Euphoria filled him, not pride, but a sense of renewal.

  In the afternoon, more than fifty members of the congregation met at the river to witness Evan’s baptism. The water flowed over him, and with it, the spirit of God. He stepped from the cool liquid a new creature, all the fear and pain of the past melted away. His grandma hugged him with tears in her eyes, and Evan breathed his first breath of new life.

  * * *

  Evan knelt by the lake, tossing rocks into the water and watching the concentric swirls radiate outward. They touched the grass at his feet and rolled toward the far banks. He took an odd sense of comfort from knowing his simple gesture began an action that would spread across the entire lake…in time.

  “I was thinking about the first sermon I ever heard you preach.” He stood and turned to Brother Cecil, who hung by his hands, a coil of rope tied to his wrists and the branch above his head. “I thought yours the voice of God Himself. You taught us about Sodom and Gomorrah.” Evan chuckled. “And a silly joke about a man who drowned after refusing help.” His eyes went cold and he glared at the pastor.

  Brother Cecil twisted against the bindings, the tips of his toes raking the ground. A strip of duct tape over his mouth kept him from speaking. Evan wasn’t interested in what he might say. Lies, only more lies.

  “I took it all to heart, you know? Every sermon, every lesson, I wrote it on my soul and tried each day to live it. No lip service, but really live it.” He stepped close and tested the tautness of the instrument wedged between the old pastor’s chest and chin. A Heretic Fork, six inches long with two razor-sharp prongs on each end pressed against the side of the man’s throat and the top of his breastbone. If the head fell a fraction, the prongs would slice through artery and vein. “I shunned evil and taught my family how to walk in His light. I looked for every sign and obeyed…always obeyed. I wouldn’t make the mistakes the people in those cities did. I wouldn’t ignore His hand or word and drown like that foolish man. How did he repay me? He killed them. Took them from me for no reason other than His selfish, merciless cruelty. He let me drown and burned me to ash.”

  The preacher mumbled something from behind the tape and kicked his feet. Terror held his eyes wide as they rolled and darted, seeking salvation from somewhere, anywhere. Evan took the long metal bar he held and stoked the coals heating in the grill. He set the rod amidst the glowing blocks and sighed.

  “I should pity you, and I do…all of you. I understand now, you never intended to mislead me. You bought the lie just as I did. But we have to believe, don’t we? He has no power over us unless we have faith.” Evan drew the bar from the coals, two inches of the end bright red. “You’re the last. Completion. The source. My faith dies with you. I hope you can find some solace in that.”

  He pressed the rod to Brother Cecil’s stomach. The old man writhed in pain, a muffled wail pushing at his gag. Again and again, over and over, Evan touched him. Flesh sizzled and the scent of seared meat filled the air. Stripped to his underwear, deep gouges, red and bleeding within, charred black at the edges, rose across the preacher’s chest, abdomen, and legs. Brother Cecil fought to keep his head erect. Evan tugged on the rope and lifted him higher. With little strength remaining in a body well past eighty, his struggle grew weaker. His chin fell slightly, pricking streams of blood to dribble down his neck and chest. Once more, the bar met loose skin and Brother Cecil lost consciousness. His head dropped. The fork sliced deep; crimson gushed in a fountain of geysers, spurting outward and raining down. The pastor’s body shuddered and went still.

  Evan closed his eyes, craned his head back, and inhaled the humid air. When again he gazed on the pastoral setting, heard the birds sing and rippling water, his blood ran cold. Nothing had changed.

  Evan still believed. Brother Cecil was not the source.

  His faith remained. He let out a great bellow of anguish and fell to his knees. He stared up at the dangling body, searching for an answer. Everyone who taught him, who instilled and fed the belief inside him, was gone now. Evan fought to gain composure, to think clearly. Panic shook his hands as he held them tight against his face.

  He’d missed something. Some important facet eluded him. But what? Ms. Crimshaw said he must destroy the source. If not these people, then who? What?

  “You should be the last. The source. Why do I still believe?” His voice, a graveled whisper, drifted up toward the dead preacher.

  Evan stared for a long time at the gentle sway of the man’s body. An image of Christ on the cross superimposed itself over the pastor’s limp form in his mind. No power existed in the man. All his authority came from God.

  From God.

  Evan stood and smiled. “I understand now. I know the source. And I know how to make Him face me. He took my wife and daughter from me. I will take His bride and His children from him. Will He come to defend them?”

  I will destroy the source.

  CHAPTER

  24

  Two hours before Marlowe arrived in Jackson City, Spence stood an arm’s length from his brother’s corpse. Beyond the horrific knowledge of what lay beneath the sheet, thinly veiled sections separated by a gruesome gap…Charlie’s eyes. They seemed to hold the last instant of terror fixed in eternal pain, staring out into nothingness with no glimpse of the tunnel’s light or Heaven’s gates. Spence fell into
them, drowning in the minutiae of agony and helplessness.

  “Show me,” he said in a whisper.

  “I really don’t think that’s a good idea.” The coroner’s hand darted out to stop Spence from uncovering the body.

  Spence glowered at the man until he released the covering, then drew back the sheet. He had thought himself steeled against what he would find…he was wrong. Spence stumbled and sank to a knee, one hand braced on the table. The room spun and faded…faded.

  He crawled on the ground, his head ringing and throbbing from a blow he never saw coming. Fingers dug into the dirt in an attempt to drag himself away from the looming shadow that stalked close behind. His hand went to the medallion at his neck and tugged it free. Clutched in his palm, the cool metal seemed to absorb the life force seeping from his body. He extended the medallion toward the tree, their tree—the totem that defended their sanctuary—and rolled onto his back to face his killer. The flat of the shovel drew larger, closer, filling his vision, until the world went black.

  Charlie’s spirit flew from his prone form, but Spence remained as trapped as the body rotting within the grave. After a time, warmth radiated on his face and a weight lifted to leave a lightness above him. Complete darkness covered the world and took with it all sense of movement and sight, but sound drifted and drilled into his psyche. Tendons popped as they snapped in two. Muscles and sinew shredded in elongated, torturous shrieks. Flesh ripped and tore, followed by wet meaty plops. No pain accompanied the degradation, only the angst of symbiosis, a melding with the body of his brother and the experience of defilement.

  “Oh, shit. Fucking Christ.” His world whorled in violent waves like a spinning kaleidoscope, liquid vibrant colors and pulpy shapes tumbled out of control.