The Edge of Temptation: Gods of the Undead 2 A Post-Apocalyptic Epic

by Peter Meredith

  Through the gloom and the hanging dust, they saw an open stairwell that led down. He knew what was down there. He had seen the tombs. There were fifty popes interred beneath the basilica. Robert could have a company of undead soldiers to greet them, but that didn’t bother Jack. After all, his steps had been chosen for him.

  They went to the stairs and paused as they heard Robert screech: “You bitch!”

  Jack grinned, a smile that was entirely filled with hate. “So he’s having his issues with the Mother as well. That bodes well for us. Try the gun right off the bat. Don’t give him a second to think. Just shoot.” She was a fair shot, much better than Jack, who never trained with any weapon except the sword.

  “And if he’s still protected with that spell?” she asked.

  Then we die—that was obvious. “Then we figure it out.” It was a stupid answer and yet she gave him a nod as though he had just spouted Zen wisdom.

  The stairs were dark, but from below there came an intermittent flashing that guided them. The walls were cracked and the integrity of the basilica compromised. Water flowed like a river down the stairs, so that when they reached the bottom, they were knee-deep, leading Jack to think: What if I die by drowning?

  It was a funny thought, just not a realistic one. No, he’d be killed by a demon and his soul tortured for all eternity. Still, he smiled grimly as he slogged through the water, following the sound of voices. Jack was full of piss and vinegar and yet their destination unnerved him: St. Peter’s tomb.

  The hallway they found themselves in had a ceiling of gorgeous tile that hung in a low curve above their heads. With the water so high, it didn’t leave much room for fighting and Jack knew it would cut into his speed advantage. He went on, regardless, pausing only when the body of the little girl they had seen earlier floated by; she had been split up the middle. Cyn cursed under her breath and the hand holding the pistol shook in anger.

  “Save it for Robert,” Jack whispered. Despite that he had kept his tone low, the word ‘Robert’ echoed across the tile.

  Thirty feet away, standing in an alcove, Robert heard and stepped out into the hall. He was a shadowy figure full of malice and yet his voice was light and easy. “Wild Jack. Wow, you look like warmed over death. I should…”

  Without warning, Cyn started firing the pistol, cutting him off. Her aim was fantastic. They could see where each bullet struck Robert’s protective barrier. The first two would have been perfect head shots. The next two would have blasted out Robert’s heart, if he had one. And the final shot, one that showed her anger and frustration, was aimed straight into his crotch.

  He glanced down as the air shimmered an inch from his groin. A laugh, what he thought would be mocking escaped him; however, there wasn’t much energy to it. In fact, Jack thought his cousin looked utterly slagged. Robert leaned on the Lance of Longinus as though it were an old man’s walking stick.

  “The Mother drained you, didn’t she?” Jack asked. “You’re as weak as I am.”

  “She likes to play her games,” Robert admitted. “And we’re her pawns…but not for long. Very soon, I will be her equal.”

  Cyn snarled: “You are already her equal as an evil little git.”

  “What is evil and good to a god?” Robert asked. “They make the rules, Cyn, they aren’t bound by them. And yes, I will be a god. My power is already almost equal to one. Look at me.” He raised his hands, lifting the lance so that it almost scraped the ceiling. “The greatest powers in the world are arrayed against me and yet I am still standing. I am still thriving and my strength is still growing.”

  Jack laughed, a merciless sound. The dead girl was so close he could touch her, and he did, letting his warm fingers caress her cold ones. “You have no power of your own. You have to steal souls just to light a candle. You are a weak, little creature and the Mother did me a great favor by draining you.”

  He started forward, uncaring that Robert’s smile had grown wicked. “Let me show you how ‘weak’ I am. Come here, Peter.”

  There was movement from the alcove and a tall skeletal figure came to stand in the hall. It wore moldy robes of crimson embroidered with silver and across it’s thin bone-chest hung a heavy crucifix of gold. Both Jack and Cyn, overcome by awe, took a step back. This was no middling demon that had been summoned from the void, this was Saint Peter, the first Bishop of Rome, the first Pope, the first disciple of Jesus Christ. His power radiated off of him as if there was an invisible bonfire burning in his chest.

  “But…but he’s good,” Cyn said. “You c-can’t make him hurt us.”

  Robert laughed and again it was little more than a chuckle. “He’s my slave, cousin. I told you my power is greater than you know. I can make him do anything I want. If I wanted him to skin a baby alive, he’d have to do it. Give them a taste, Pete.”

  The skeleton raised an arm that was clean of any tissue whatsoever and out of its hand a blast of light shot straight at Jack. He flung up his sword, catching the light on its shining blade and absorbing most of its energy. The piercing glare instantly blinded him and the shock wave that came with the blast knocked him into the water.

  St. Peter kept the light burning and in seconds, the sword glowed orange and the heat generated by it blistered his hand. With a cry, Jack dropped the sword and threw himself to the side, where he floundered in the water, helpless to another attack.

  “That’s good, Pete,” Robert said, tapping the creature’s arm. “We have made our point, I believe.”

  “And what point is that?” Cyn demanded. In one hand, she had the useless gun pointed at Robert and with the other she tried to pull Jack to his feet.

  Jack fought her for a moment, desperately searching in the water for the Holy sword. He came up sputtering, brandishing the blade which now felt as useless as the gun. They clutched each other and the only thing going through Jack’s mind was the realization that he had made a huge mistake trying to take Robert on as weak as he was.

  Robert grinned at the pathetic display. “The point is I can kill you anytime I want, and I will, mind you, just as soon as you call off your army. I want you to destroy it, Jack.”

  For a brief moment, Jack had a wild hope that they could get out of the fight alive. Robert’s request suggested he feared the army, though Jack didn’t know why. It was fifty miles away and he and Cyn would be long dead before any of the demons could get halfway back to the Vatican.

  “I don’t get it,” he asked. “Why do you care about a bunch of ghouls and demons?”

  “I don’t care, except that when you die, they’ll be free. They’ll go on a rampage, killing everything that moves. And as sad as that is, the real issue is that it’ll disrupt the timing of my plans. It’s as simple as that. Send them back to their graves, be a hero in your last moments by saving a million people, and as a reward I’ll make your death easy.”

  Cyn shook her head, stepping in front of Jack. “Don’t listen to him, Jack, he’s a liar. He’s afraid. I don’t know what of, but he’s afraid of something.”

  Robert only lifted an eyebrow and waited in a silence that was broken by an unlikely source. Behind St. Peter stood another bone-creature. This one was much smaller. It too was fleshless and the ancient black cassock it wore hung off its shoulders, so that it appeared almost like a floating skull.

  “The cabal. He fears the cabal of demons,” it said in a sighing voice.

  “Do you mind shutting up,” Robert barked.

  Jack pointed at the small bone creature. “That’s Saint Gregory. What does he know? What’s going to happen?”

  “Like I said, your army is going to get out of control and, according to Gregory, most of Italy will be destroyed.”

  “And this cabal he spoke of, what’s that?” Cyn demanded.

  Robert shrugged. “You have dealt with stray demons here and there, but you’ve never dealt with them when they’re banded together. They are far more powerful and…and some are strong enough to open their own portal into hell. Wh
at do you think will happen then?”

  “The Mother,” Jack breathed. “They’ll try to bring forth the Mother.”

  “Or one of the other Gods of the Undead,” Robert said. “Either way, the end result is mass death, tears, blood, blah, blah, blah. Generally, everyone has a bad day. My only option is to raise an even larger army and think about what will happen if I should die? The earth will be overrun. It’s in your best interest to keep that from happening.”

  Jack and Cyn shared a look, and only when she nodded with painful reluctance did Jack say: “Okay, I’ll send them back, but it’ll take a few minutes.”

  “Two minutes,” Robert said. “I know what it takes, Jack so don’t try to fool me.”

  “Sure, two minutes. I can do two minutes,” Jack said, slowly, trying to draw out the seconds in order to figure a way out of his predicament.

  No answer came to him. No answer could. Robert held the trump card with Saint Peter. He was too strong. Even if Jack was at full strength, he had no chance against the awesome power of Saint Peter. No one did, not even the current “fighting pope” Romanus. Robert would be unstoppable.

  “I’ve lost,” Jack whispered to Cyn. “You need to run away.”

  She shook her head. “I’ve fought with you, I’ve loved you, I’ll die with you.”

  Jack nodded, knowing that there was almost no chance that she would make it out of there no matter what he did.

  He was about to open his mouth to insist when St. Gregory spoke: “One of the heirs of Lord Blackburn will die tonight. And only one.”

  Robert spun, his face livid as he demanded: “Which one?”

  Gregory lifted a bony hand and swept it across the low-ceilinged hallway. The bony finger pointed at each of the heirs. It was the hand of death. When it passed over Robert, he shuddered. When it passed over Cyn, she grit her teeth and stepped forward in hard anger. When that bony claw passed over Jack, he smiled. He knew who would die.

  Robert was too strong. Cyn was too tough. And Jack was ready. He had seen enough misery and he had been the cause of too much misery.

  “One,” was all Gregory answered.

  Chapter 35

  Rome, Italy

  Jack Dreyden

  Robert’s first move was to lift the Lance of Longinus and sidle to his left so that the magnificent figure of St. Peter shielded him. Jack chortled at this display of cowardice. He was all set to die, in fact, he was kind of looking forward to it now that he knew Cyn would live. His burden had been too great for too long and, sure he was going to hell—murderers didn’t get to go to heaven—but at least he would go out in a blaze of glory.

  “One out of three are pretty good odds, if you ask me,” he said, wagging the Holy sword, Almacia back and forth.

  Cyn, who wouldn’t stop trying to get in his way, laughed: “That’s better odds that we’ve ever faced.” She had her pistol and the steel in her spine and nothing else to fight Robert, his spear and St. Peter with, and yet she wasn’t the least bit afraid.

  “Call off your army, Jack,” Robert demanded, the spear thrust out.

  Jack hesitated as the cold wind rushed over him once again. Next to him, Cyn brazenly spat into the water, glared and said: “Don’t do it. If he’s that nervous about it, he’ll let us go.”

  For once, Robert seemed unsure of himself and he kept glancing at the skeletal figure of St. Gregory; however, the little being remained quiet and still. Finally, he said: “Okay. This isn’t a problem. There are more cemeteries and more souls. I was trying to be nice. The millions of deaths that will happen tonight will be on your head, Jack.”

  “There will only be one death on my conscience tonight and because he’s a murderer, I doubt that I will lose too much sleep.”

  “I don’t know whose life that will be since I’m not sticking around. Greg, come with me. St. Pete, kill them both.”

  Robert plunged further down the hall as St. Peter turned with aching slowness toward Jack and Cyn. There was unmistakable sadness in the depths of his eye sockets. Cyn stepped forward and she was spitting mad. “Coward!” she screamed at their cousin. “You are a damned coward.”

  Just before he took a turn that would take him into the crumbled labyrinth of the Vatican Grotto where there was a possible way out if the ceiling held, Robert stopped and waved a hand. “Yes, but I will be a live coward,” he said. He then disappeared around the corner.

  Cyn looked as though she wanted to scream a few choice curse words, but just then St. Peter turned his head to the cracked ceiling and said in a low, ghostly tone: “Lord, please forgive me for what I must do.”

  “You don’t have to do this,” Cyn begged. “Let us go. You have to fight this.”

  “I am fighting, dear child,” St. Peter said, raising his hand once more. “I am compelled by a force greater than my own and I will be able to hold back for a few more seconds. You may try to run away if you wish.”

  Jack knew that a few seconds wouldn’t even get them back to the stairwell. He grabbed Cyn and thrust her behind him. “Run! Don’t look back. Only one of us has to die tonight.”

  Knowing that she would try to argue and knowing that they didn’t have time, Jack forged ahead, hoping that Peter would hold off a little longer, allowing Jack a chance to get close enough to get in a few swings with his sword. A few swings were all he would have time for before he died.

  There would be no beating the saint. His aura was as bright as the sun. St. Peter had the power of ten sorcerers, and just then, Jack had the power of none. Still, he had his sword. He made it all of ten feet and then Peter moaned as if in pain and suddenly a fury of white light shot forth from his hand.

  Jack threw up his sword, catching the light. He was driven back, his feet sliding on the slick tile below the water. As before, the heat built up on the pommel of the sword, searing his hands, only now, he took the pain. It was agony. The white fire raced up the blade, up his arms and then went deep inside of his soul where it attacked his sins, torching them and in the process, torching him as well.

  St. Peter’s power was in the destruction of evil and there was just too much evil in Jack.

  A scream tore out of his throat that reverberated along the tile and up the stairs and could be heard in the square above. The scream went on and on until a shadow moved in his periphery and suddenly Cyn stood before him taking the fire into herself.

  Jack fell into the water, barely conscious, barely able to think. “No,” he whispered. This was a wasted death. Cyn would die and then Jack would be fried where he knelt. He didn’t have the strength to run. It was a struggle even to stand and when he got to his feet he stared in amazement.

  Cyn was not being burned. She wasn’t being driven back. She strode forward while all around her the water steamed and hissed. But she was untouched.

  Hollow laughter filled the air. It was St. Peter. He shot light from his hand and laughed with joy. “You are without sin,” he intoned. “You have repented and your soul is clean and untouchable. Narrow is the path you have chosen, Cynthia. The Lord loves you.” In spite of his words, he tried all the harder to burn her down to nothing and yet the heat passed right through her and into the water. Steam filled the air and Jack had to back up to keep from being scalded.

  The intensity of the light reached solar levels and then, slowly, became dimmer and dimmer until it was only a glow, and then the skeleton dropped his hand, letting loose with a long sigh.

  “I must try to kill you with my hands and I am strong still,” St. Peter said and then lurched forward, his bone feet uncertain on the slippery tile. Cyn made no move to protect herself. Her eyes were large and unblinking. She was too dazed to move. Jack splashed forward and caught St. Peter with his gleaming sword just as he swung a bony claw.

  The saint was no warrior and in six seconds, Jack dismembered the skeleton, leaving only its head sitting on its shoulders. Using the tip of the sword, Jack parted the crimson robes. He had expected to have to search for the soul of the saint; how
ever, Peter’s soul was a white light filling his chest.

  Jack raised his sword to pierce it, but Cyn stopped him. “What will happen to you?” she asked Peter. “Your soul, I mean.”

  “I do not know,” he answered. “But do not concern yourself with that. Strike before I regain my strength.”

  “What about Robert?” Jack asked. “Why did he bring you back?”

  Peter’s bones started to slide back toward him. He was reforming faster than any demon Jack had ever come up against and the power of his soul was blooming once again, glaring in its purity to such an extent that Jack found himself squinting.

  “He thought I knew secrets,” Peter said. “He is searching for Eden. The original garden that the Lord laid out for his child. Robert searches for this land for the secrets it holds.”

  “The Tree of Knowledge,” Cyn said in a whisper.

  The skeleton nodded. “I do not know where the land was hidden, and this has infuriated, Robert. He will keep searching but he can not be allowed to find it. He would be unstoppable if he were to find it.”

  “It’s guarded, isn’t it?” Jack asked.

  “By cherubs,” Peter said. “Many of them, but Robert has the Lance. Its power is great, though he does not know yet how to wield it. Defeat him before he does. Now you must strike me down, Jack Dreyden. I have regained my strength, and my will to fight the command within me grows less with every second.”

  Despite the saint’s warning, Jack paused. Here he was being asked to kill yet another innocent person…and this was no ordinary person. He was the first disciple. His feet had been washed by none other than Jesus Christ, and now Jack had to kill him just to save his own pathetic life. In misery, he raised the sword.

  Cyn turned away and did not watch as Jack stabbed the beautiful soul. He felt a sting in his palm and then a glorious wind blasted up out of the skeleton, as the bones fell in on themselves. Cyn crossed herself and started mumbling a prayer, but Jack feeling empty, save for his self-hatred stopped her. “We don’t have time. We have to find Robert. Remember what Gregory said: only one of us will die and I’m going to make sure that it’s him.” He pulled her along; she felt feather light, in spite of that she tripped over every shard of stone in their way. “Are you okay?” he asked.