Judas (The Iscariot Warrior Series Book 1)

by Roy Bright

  Judas

  by Roy Bright

  © Roy Bright 2015

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Second edition 2016

  Cover Art by Barry Renshaw with thanks to

  Null Entity (Kyle Ross)

  Roy Bright has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.

  This book is a work of historical fiction. Historical names, characters, events, places and incidents are used fictitiously. Non-historical names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  For Reece, Tyler and Lily. My reason for everything.

  Thanks to:

  Mike Harris, Mark & Lynne Appleton, George Barrowclough, Nika Cobbett, Amy Louise Crossley, Catherine Goy, Steve Guard, Anna Di Laurenzio, Suzanne Price, Judge Meister, Carl Whiteley & Ben Wild.

  Very special thanks to Stephen F Clegg for being an absolute rock, on which to lean.

  More from this author

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  13

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  The End

  Forty-Six

  About the Author

  More from the author

  The adventure continues in Judas: The Relic

  Click the links to buy from:

  AMAZON.COM

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  No weapon that is fashioned against you shall succeed, and you shall refute every tongue that rises against you in judgment. This is the heritage of the servants of the LORD and their vindication from me, declares the LORD.

  Isaiah 54:17

  One

  Friday 9 November 2012

  Rain. Hard rain.

  A tall figure in a black trench coat stands on the sidewalk of a busy New York street amid a tumultuous fervor created by endless streams of vehicles growling and screeching at one another. Horns flare in a constant barrage, attempting to raise their voices above the throng to become the loudest in the concrete zoo.

  The noise is deafening!

  He steps out towards the stampede, interrupting the stride of a young woman hurrying her way through a multitude of people flitting to and fro performing their tasks as drones do, all the while desperate to get out of the rain.

  She is late… again. Her coffee lurches and circles in her wax paper cup as she connects with the man and she arches her body away from the impending overspill, aware that today of all days, she cannot afford to have her pristine suit ruined in such a vulgar manner.

  Wet from the rain is one thing, but a stain just would not do. She gets lucky. She would tell herself that she was just fast enough. Following the slow motion seconds, it takes for the incident to play out, she raises her head to scold the figure in a traditional New Yorker fashion, eager to impose her powerful twenty first century woman attitude onto the man who has interrupted her stride, her confidence, her thousand-dollar suit. She looks up and prepares to lambast him, but pauses; rain racing down her face in a chaotic slalom, bending and changing its route. She smiles.

  He returns one of his own. A smile from the oldest of young faces, the youngest of old.

  He looks in his twenties… no, wait… is it his thirties or maybe forties? She could not be sure, so weird. She would later struggle to give any indication of his age during her ritual coffee making gossip session with Liz from accounts, save only to explain he was tall, with dark hair and a rugged smile. She liked him.

  “My apologies, Miss.” He smiles.

  His accent confuses her. Irish, British? What was that? She smiles back, “It’s okay. I didn’t spill any soooo, it’s okay.”

  Her voice rises a little and she offers an embarrassed laugh, hopping from one leg to the other, smiling like a nervous teenage girl.

  He nods, turns, and steps out into the traffic.

  She regards him as he walks away and frowns, then shrugs and walks off; her role amongst the drones resuming.

  Vehicles swarm around him as though he did not exist, his movement through them like a soft breeze working its way between the branches of a tree, their drivers oblivious to his presence. None use their brakes; none sound their horns save for the traditional fanfare announcing their presence to the other members of the herd. He reaches the other side and with much the same elegance, sweeps through a stream of people all fighting to get to where they are going, to carry out their busy tasks, to live out their busy lives.

  He steps through the steam rising from ground vents and into an alleyway; into a grey world where the vibrant and violent chorus of the city subsides to almost background music. The rain continues to fall. Not quite as hard as out on the city streets as the buildings provide a slight refuge from its intensity but enough to be bothersome, to all but him at least.

  Shielding light from its natural source, the alleyway offers a perpetual air of gloom; and the dirty rotten smell complete with white crumbling brick walls, adorning either side stretching far up beyond the zenith of normal vision, solidify that appearance.

  He strides down the alleyway, unfazed by its depravity, passing a chain link fence with three Asian men on the other side.

  They are smoking, talking, taking a break from the heat of a busy restaurant where people would eat, drink and laugh, unaware of the misery not twenty feet away from them on the opposite side of the wall.

  Moving deeper in, he strides past the unfortunate, huddled in their cardboard castles; drinking, shaking and oblivious to the world around them, desperate for a life where the biting cold of night won’t leave them weeping themselves to sleep. Dreaming of a life that would allow them to be happy and safe from the evil of others.

  He stops.

  He draws in a deep breath and closes his eyes; raising his face to the sky. Raindrops pat against his skin, the water running off his face onto his long black trench coat.

  “It really is a wondrous world, isn’t it?” he says, smiling. “You can see why He loves it so.”

  “Is it?” A gruff male voice echoes out from an alco
ve to his left followed by the sound of shuffling feet being dragged back to their owner.

  “Yes! It is a marvelous world. There is so much life, so much anxiety, so much pain, sorrow, joy, happiness and love. There is so, so much love”.

  “Wonderful choice of words, Angel. I wouldn’t expect anything less from His mouthpiece. I, on the other hand, would’ve used words like shit, shit and oh, wait for it, fuckin’ shit!” Although the male voice from the alcove drips with sarcasm, there is also a deep revelation of honesty in its statement, an understanding of the worst of times, the worst of man - the worst of his actions.

  He smiles once again. “Ah, but you’re not seeing the big picture.” He turns his attention upon the alcove, his voice eager as he speaks into the blackness, still smiling, almost laughing. “These wondrous creatures run around obeying their in-built commands, the desire to follow a genetic course of action, whilst at the same time striving to unlock the code and free themselves from the tyranny of unknowing. Incredible! They truly are his greatest work.”

  The voice within the alcove grunts. “What the fuck do you want, Angel? Surely, it’s not to piss away a Friday afternoon with a bum like me or is that how heaven’s finest are getting their kicks these days? You gonna throw a few bucks around, get some prick to videotape me kicking the shit out of one of these fucking losers?”

  A hand breaks through the darkness of the alcove, gesturing further down the alleyway.

  “Gonna make yerself a fuckin’ internet sensation, are ya?”

  The Angel laughs then pauses, staring into the blackness. His face grows serious. “There is a task for you, Iscariot.”

  It seems as if the entire world has stopped. The alleyway deathly silent.

  “What kind of task, oh voice of God?” A figure moves out of the shadow, his rough and bearded face washing into the grey light of day. He points to the sky. “What would the Almighty have me do?”

  “We wish for you to take very good care of an incredibly special package for the next three days, Iscariot.”

  “The fucking name’s Judas, Angel.”

  The Angel chuckles to himself. “Really now, Judas. You must learn to speak proper, or no one will take you seriously.”

  He scoffs, “And this package, it’s a person, I gather?”

  “That’s correct Iscari… I mean, Judas.”

  His sarcastic smile lingers for a moment. “Why? Why me? You have other dogs out there eager to do your bidding. What’s so special about this package? You’ve had me out on wild goose chases before, old man. Had me runnin’ around and shit, shooting up the world, saving souls and for what?” His temper rises, his agitation increasing. “Isn’t it enough that I’m to walk this fuckin’ planet for the rest of goddamn eternity without being able to live, love or use any wealth I amass? And you fuckers keep sending me on suicide missions that I can’t die on.” The volume of his voice is now beyond care for who may hear the conversation.

  “You need to calm down, Iscariot!”

  Judas stands, his body streaming from the darkness, arms straight by his side. His fingers clench and unclench. “Don’t you fuckin’ dare talk to me like th—”

  “Calm down, boy!” bellows the Angel, losing control for a moment.

  The three Asian men look towards the shouting pair then throw away their cigarettes and move back into the kitchen.

  The two men stare at each other in silence for a while then Judas takes a step back. He leans against the wall, reaches into the left pocket of his combat jacket and draws out a cigarette. Flakes of white paint crumble to the floor disturbed by his intervention.

  The Angel pities him as he observes his appearance: punished, tortured and disheveled with thick black unkempt hair, almost afro-like, and a beard to match. A combat jacket forms his upper body clothing complemented by dirty blue jeans and on his feet, what at one time may have been brown suede boots are now just a black mess. He looks tired, not in the sense of exhaustion, more in the sense of existence; the tiredness of a man who has had enough of life itself.

  Judas pulls out a Zippo lighter from the pocket opposite to the one containing his cigarettes. It makes the signatory clunking sound as he flicks it open and raises it to the cigarette that is sporting an impressive bend. He draws in on the flame, filling his mouth with smoke, breathing deep, holding his breath and allowing it to sink into his lungs. He exhales into the face of his taskmaster.

  The Angel smiles and raises a clenched fist to his mouth, letting out a sarcastic cough.

  “So, who is the target and where can I find them?” he asks, tapping at his cigarette, finally interrupting the silence.

  “It is a child, a six-year-old girl, to be precise.”

  “A child?” He frowns.

  “Yes, a child. We need you to keep her from the Dark Ones.”

  “What the hell could they want with a child who’s barely had time to piss them off and appear on their radar?”

  “This is no ordinary child, Judas. We refer to her as The Light. She is the one destined to restore the balance, to free man from his latest accumulated sins and show him the way and let’s face it, man has been very busy since he was last cleansed and it doesn’t look like betrayal will work this time, in this age. You should know exactly what I mean by that,” he says, taunting him.

  Judas is not amused. He flicks the cigarette away and stares at the Angel. He brings up both of his hands, palms facing upwards, observing them. Once again, he clenches and unclenches his fists. Lifting his head, he warns, “It’s been so long since I used these properly, Angel, today would be as good a day as any to put them to use once again.”

  The Angel lets out a sharp laugh. “Excellent! Just excellent! It seems you are the right choice after all. You still have a lot of fire in your belly, Judas.” He says, leaning in towards him, his eyes darkening, “And you are going to need a lot of that fire to see this particular task through.”

  Another long silence plays out between them as they stare at each other. The heavy rain bombardment has ceased leaving in its place, a gentle and hypnotic trickling as the water makes its way towards the sewer drains, the next part of its journey underway.

  The Angel leans back, returning to his original stance. “Head to the Sisters of Hope Orphanage in West Babylon, Long Island. There you will make contact with Sister Marie Anesta. She is a chosen soul and is aware of who the child is and of her purpose. She has prepared the full adoption protocol for you and—”

  “Adoption?” he snaps, aggression returning. “I ain’t adopting no fucking child! Look at me for fuck’s sake; I can barely look after myself not least given the goddamn embargos you creatures have imposed upon me. What the fuck happens after three days? I have to keep her? Plus, that’s against the rules, isn’t it? I ain’t adopting no child, you can fuck right off!”

  “Judas, please!” His voice is sturdy yet soothing, almost pleading. He leans his head forward once again, his eyes transfixed on the raging man. “It is just a formality so that you can take the child without arousing suspicion.” He sighs, “Look, I know you have a penchant for over dramatization, sarcasm and quite frankly, bitching, but I need your full attention on this one. I also need the full attention of your skills. You will need them to be at their highest, like they were for Matsuda.”

  The name sparks recognition. He straightens up, purpose creeping into his eyes. “What happens in three days?” he asks, softer this time, the posture of defiance diminishing, his composure returning to that of a man with dignity, the dishevelment waning.

  “In three days, Judas, the child will turn seven. She will have a revelation, an understanding of what she must become. She will receive a command, an imprint of the journey ahead and of her importance to humankind. It will be an important understanding; however, further guidance will be needed until she reaches the age of twelve, but this Awakening is fundamentally crucial to the events that will spell man’s salvation. If she weren’t to make that Awakening…” He pauses, staring a
t him, “Well, let’s just say that would be a very bad thing indeed.”

  “Define exactly, ‘very bad indeed’.” He shrugs.

  “It will be very bad, what more can I say,” he says, offering a shrug of his own.

  “You can start by properly defining the ‘very bad indeed’ as I’m gonna need a little more to go on than ‘very bad’ if I am to go charging around sorting out your fuckin’ mess once again.”

  “He will rule!” the Angel erupts, then immediately calms down. “He gets to walk the earth unhindered and He will rule. It’s a very bad thing, Judas, a very bad thing indeed.”

  They stand in silence, the air acrid from the Angel’s revelation. The Angel looks down at his watch and then raises his eyes. “It is now midday. At exactly 8:34 this morning, in this time zone, your three days in which to protect her started. Three days exactly, remember this, it is very important. Go to the orphanage, find Sister Marie and take the child. Keep her safe and never let her out of your sight. They are coming for her, Judas and they are coming in grave numbers and of high rank.”

  He stares at him; then shakes his head. “Three days this morning? Why didn’t you come to me this morning, or last week, for God’s sake?”

  “Because, Judas, we have only learned today that her identity has been compromised and I needed to take care of a couple of things first.” He pauses, “If you do this… you can go!”

  His eyes narrow, his head snaps up into place. He stares at The Angel, open-mouthed. The words bore deep into him, their meaning revealed in a stark reality. “Are you fuckin’ serious? I do this, then I’m done?”

  The Angel once again moves his head close towards him, his voice soft, almost whispering. “You do this, and all is forgiven!” He moves his head back. “But that child must see her seventh birthday because trust me, if she doesn’t then there will be no home for any of us to go to!”

  The rain has stopped.