by Roy Bright
Priests and Temple Scholars looked at him, curious to this commotion, curious as to the action this man was going to take.
“I return that which has damned my soul for eternity. I may carry his blood on my hands, but I will not carry this reward. Take back your cursed money for I will not use it to damn the souls of the ones I love.” With that, he cast the purse down to the ground in a fury.
Thirty silver coins washed out over the floor and men who, under normal circumstances would hold much dignity, now lost all they had and they scrambled to pick them up.
Shaking his head, he pulled up his hood and left.
He was now a distance away from the city, having stopped just once to acquire a length of rope and a small wooden stool that was sat at the foot of a masonry workstation outside the city wall. He had remarked to himself how fortune had smiled upon him, but then regarded it not as fortune, but of a sign that this was a path chosen for him. He knew where he would go having sat in that place, under that tree many times before; sat there and contemplated his life, his past and his future, wondering if his family far from here would be missing him. Would they also be in a place they knew to be full of contentment and cast their minds to thoughts of him? He hoped so. He hoped that they would be thinking of him and would remember him as he was and not how they would come to know who he became.
Finishing the moderate climb up the hill that led to his goal, he stopped and looked at the tree. The large Lebethron no longer looked majestic, but forlorn and wretched. It seemed to beckon him toward its branches, taunting and malevolent; seemed to recognize and understand his plan. It called out to him.
He placed the stool on the ground and sat for a moment and looked to the city in the near distance; his mind drifted. A smile crept over his face; a memory of a better a place, a better time. The smile waned, instead replaced by a frown.
No more thinking. Get this done.
He tied a large looping knot at one end of the rope and then threw it over the thickest bough of the tree that twisted out over a small area of dusty grass. Standing on the stool, he measured an accurate distance to enable his feet to remain off the ground then, taking great care not to disturb that measurement, took the other end and tied it around the trunk. He walked back to the stool and stared at it for a moment. Hesitant. He shook his head and stepped onto it. Placing the loop over his head and around his neck, he closed his eyes and held his hands behind his back. He whispered, forgive me Lord for what I did to your son. He pushed away the stool. He dropped.
His eyes opened. Alive. Not dead. The rope had bitten into his neck, preventing him from breathing but he was still alive. He brought both hands up to his neck and grabbed hold of the rope, legs kicking back and forth. Panic. How this could be? How hadn’t this hanging taken his life? What was this devilry? All at once, he’d become aware of a malevolent presence. Watching. Studying.
A voice laughed. The laugh turned into a cackle. Behind him, someone clapped their hands together, slow and steady.
He kicked his legs in an attempt to spin himself around, to observe whoever had come to watch him take his life, to mock him. A foul and rank odor stung his nostrils. His natural reaction to retch was denied by his position at the end of the rope.
Something grabbed one of his legs and steadied him. It ran a hand down and around the leg and calmed the swinging motion of his body.
His eyes opened wide in terror. Before him was the most horrific creature he had ever seen, standing as though it were a man but jackal-like in appearance, although of a far greater size. Its brown and scarred skin was grotesque, wet and slimy; its grinning mouth, rows of razor-sharp teeth. The eyes burned a fierce yellow, reaching into his very soul, exploring, molesting, wanting to draw out his every thought, his every secret.
It hissed, “He has abandoned you, sinner. He has cast you down without favor and issued the command for punishment.” It smiled. It laughed. It grinned even wider. It relished torturing the man. “You will not leave the world in this way,” it said, pointing at the rope.
He tried to speak but could not, the rope having his vocal chords choked. He gurgled.
It cackled and crept over to the trunk of the tree, all the while fixated on him as he struggled to spin to his left further, attempting to see what it was doing, where it was going. “But I can help you, Iscariot. I can provide you with a solution to your problem. I can use a man of your... talents.” It opened its right hand to reveal three huge and powerful-looking claws. It licked them one by one then slashed the rope, slicing it in two.
He fell to the ground with a thud and cried out, then regained his senses, loosened the rope from around his neck passing it over his head and threw it to the ground. He rubbed his throat, breathing hard.
The creature slinked over to and crouched beside him, its face almost touching his. “So, Iscariot,” it said, licking his left cheek with a long and sickening forked tongue. “Would you starve on earth or feast in hell?”
He recoiled in horror from its touch and stared at the creature, examining it. “What are you?” he asked, frowning.
“I, Iscariot, am a demon of the eleventh rank, and I will ask you once again, would you starve on earth or feast in hell?”
“What? I don’t understand. Why am I not dead? Why am I not hanged?”
“He has abandoned you, Iscariot, has cursed you for all time, punished you to walk the earth for evermore, to dwell on the thing you have done. That is why you will never die from man or his tools. But, you can choose not to be his lapdog. You can choose not to accept this life as a wanderer, never able to enjoy riches or the long lasting love of a woman or child. You are allowed nothing, Is-ca-riot. But I can help you, Traitor.”
He snapped his attention to the demon; his eyes bore into it.
It grimaced.
“Hold your tongue, demon, or I will cut it out!”
It stood huge, pulsating and powerful, towering over him as he sat on the ground. “And how would you do that, pathetic fool?”
He stared at the beast, without a single drop of fear.
The demon forced itself forward into his face and laughed, deep and guttural. “Maybe I should offer some assistance, orphan of God.”
It pulled back and threw its right arm out to its side. A spear formed in its hand, arrowhead-shaped, sharp; smeared with blood at its summit.
“On its head, this spear carries the life force of His Begotten Son.” It pointed skywards. “The Son he abandoned to the weakness of men. He cared not for his own child, Iscariot, so believe me; he cares much less for you. But I care. I care enough to present this to you. A weapon that has the power to offer great damage to my kind.” It grinned, its horrific teeth glistened. “But the one who wields it must know how to do so.” It threw the spear at his feet.
He stared at it for a moment, and then turned his attention back to the demon. “Why are you giving me this? Why do you do this?”
It laughed, “Well, let’s just say… I love a good game.” It grinned once more, its face alive with horrifying excitement. “Well, Iscariot, what are you waiting for? Cut me as promised!”
He scrambled to his feet, scraping them against the gritty and dusty ground and grabbed the spear. He pointed it at the demon. There was no fear in his eyes, no fear on his face, but his hand trembled. A feeling raced through his body, invigorating him, empowering him. He became aware of its effect and steadied his breathing, which steadied his hands in the process.
The demon peered into his eyes and they locked in a moment of calm. A point in time where two foes stare each other down before the fires of violence would erupt, exploding with ferocity and passion.
Again, it grinned. Razor-sharp teeth sparkled in the dusk light.
He cried out and thrust forward with the spear attempting to pierce its chest.
The demon grabbed the spearhead and, in a heartbeat, transferred the energy of the movement back towards him.
The base of the shaft connected with the center of
his chest and he called out in great pain. His lungs scrambled to draw breath but their ability to do so was incapacitated. He was bent over. The searing pain imprinted by the spear shaft spiked in his head, screamed into his mind, disorientated him. He raised his eyes to see the demon almost upon him, its left arm raised in the air, a clawed hand spread wide open, forcing its way downwards, speeding to its target. He felt a hammer blow to the right side of his face. Skin gave way to blood and bone as a chasmic laceration opened upon his face. One of the claws hooked inside his mouth to the rear and center of his bottom set of teeth; the demon continued the powerful down stroke and in doing so, ripped his jaw out of his face. Blood and spit rained forth. His eyes burst wide open as pain slammed into his mind, burrowing deeper and deeper, taking over and controlling his senses.
The whole action had taken no more than two or three seconds, but for him it may as well have lasted a lifetime. He had known great pain before but had never experienced anything as horrifying as this. Panic then replaced it, as his mind came to terms with the damage his face had sustained. He tried to speak but could only manage a sickening gurgling as more saliva and blood emptied from the back of his throat.
The demon threw the man’s jaw to the ground and it withered and turned to dust.
He descended into a massive state of shock and released the spear.
The demon tightened its grip around the shaft and with no effort at all, broke it two spans from its head, throwing it to the floor.
Judas dropped the rest of the pole and pressed his hands into the dusty ground, emitting a moaning that rose and intensified in both pitch and volume.
The demon grabbed the top of his head and pulled him upward into its direct eye level. “Wait, Iscariot, and you will understand what gift you now possess.”
He sobbed. Tears streamed from his eyes, rolling down his cheek, dropping into the dust, forming miniscule dark grey puddles. Then it hit him. The strangest of sensations. His jaw reforming. He could feel it moving up and down, pulsating and tingling. The entire lower jaw, just a second ago removed, had now begun to reappear. Bone and tissue blended; muscle and tendons knitted their way over each other. He reached up to his mouth. It was there, his jaw was there, but how could this be? He had seen it fall to the ground not a moment ago, had felt the excruciating pain. He attempted to speak as reason tried its hand at displacing pain, panic, and shock.
“Do you see, Iscariot?” The demon was grinning once again. “Do you see how you are now and how you will be forever? Be with us, join us and enjoy all of the things you have ever wanted. Enjoy them with us. Rule in Hell, do not serve in Heaven.”
He rubbed at his jaw, at his neck and then licked his lips. The demon let him go and he fell to the ground. Breathless, he lifted his head. “If I come with you to the eternal fires, I will become like you?”
“Yes, yes! Become like us, be one of us, join us.” The demon was giddy and wide-eyed with excitement, so much so that at its own detriment, had dropped its guard for a split second.
Judas was not without skill, and had never been so. He took full advantage of this lapse in concentration. He grabbed the head of the spear and rammed it square into its chest.
It screamed. A scream that carried a thousand others inside of it as the blood of the Son of God burned and worked its way into them.
“You!” it bellowed. “What have you done?” It lashed out sending him sprawling backwards, slamming against the trunk of the tree.
He fell face forwards into the dusty ground and then lifted his head to see the demon writhing in agony, a dark substance oozing from the wound inflicted upon it. He sneered. “I will never join you, demon, never! Now that I am aware of what I can do, I will release you from this existence. Let you never bother me again.”
It laughed through the pain, “Never bother you again, Iscariot? All you have achieved for yourself is time, Betrayer. Our paths will cross many times and I will make you suffer in ways you cannot imagine. Inflicting pain onto the body of a man who cannot die is without reason, but attack his mind, and you can destroy him bit by bit as he suffers in anguish each day for an eternity. We will meet many times, Iscariot. I suggest you prepare those skills to their fullest.” The demon’s body degraded into a black liquid and dropped to the ground with a splash.
He was shaking. He hadn’t been afraid before but he felt it now and he shook. A fear of the unknown and of what he had become, a fear of the knowledge that he was cursed by God, a fear of the punishment handed down to him. He stood holding the short spear in his right hand and looked towards the city, towards Jerusalem, looked deep into it, knowing his world had now changed forever. He turned around and walked away. He didn’t know where he was going but he now knew he would never get to where he wanted to be.
Nine
West Babylon, New Jersey, Saturday 10 November 2012, 02:15
West Babylon Police Department has been a buzzing hive of activity for over six hours. Officers and civilian staff alike, flit around the incident room, busying themselves collating data and information, sifting through statements and offering theories to one another; searching for and weeding out untruths in a time-challenged need to provide as many answers as possible for the lead investigators. There is no shortage of volunteers tonight. Many have pulled in extra shifts, eager to find the child and locate the man who attacked one of their own, leaving him fighting for his life. Most are still in a state of shock at the thought of a priest attacking Dan Starrens. The whole investigation up to this point didn’t make sense and a ripple of religious fervor was beginning to spread throughout the department, a fervor that was worrying the detectives.
Gary looks and feels like shit. He glances at the clock, and groans. The last eight hours had taken its toll. He had an infinite set of questions and very few answers to tag to them. The whole case just kept taking one bizarre twist after another and it was threatening to spill over into a religious crime that would have the Feds screaming over here, wading into and through the substantial amount of work he and his team had already put together. With Dan Starrens’ condition deteriorating, not a single officer in this entire department would accept this being handed over to the Feds so Gary and his team knew all too well, that the need to move fast and resolve this, was paramount. They need to find the car and its owner, they need to find the child and they need to get a hold of the priest. He rubs his eyes, trying to push the tiredness out of his face as Pete taps him on the shoulder.
“Coffee, buddy?”
“Ahh, Pete, you are an absolute life saver.” He takes the cup and sips, relishing the flavor and the caffeine, knowing he will need much more of it to get through this night. “I gotta tell ya, Pete, this case is a goddamn nightmare. We have, what can only be described as two fucking grizzly bears with intelligence running around Long Island somewhere, a goddamn homicidal maniac of a Priest—,”
“Allegedly!” he interrupts.
“Okay, allegedly!” he retorts, “And to top it all it’s a ‘crime in progress’, as we still cannot get a fix on this car, or its driver and our missing child. Seriously dude, what in the name of all that is holy is going on here?”
“I dunno, man, I really don’t. But we can’t dismiss the theory that someone else attacked Dan and then took the priest with him.”
Gary nods and sips his coffee.
Pete sips his.
They stare into the distance, trying to piece together the information at hand in the hope that they will have a revelation right there and then allowing them to solve the case.
The telephone at Gary’s desk interrupts their thought process, snapping them back into the moment.
He picks up. “Homicide, Detective Cross.”
“Good morning, Detective Cross, this is Officer Keith Daniels in Forensics. I’m assigned to the tire marks found at the scene and I have some compelling information for you.”
“Great, gimme a sec, Keith, let me get this down.”
He reaches for a pen and puts
a writing pad in front of him. “Okay, shoot.”
“Well, we’ve run the information through Treadmate and have come up with a list of possible makes and models. The tire marks left at the scene belong to Goodyear Polygas tires. These were standard steel belted radials issued to models such as the Pontiac GTO, Dodge Charger RT, Ford Mustang Mach One and many others. We have analyzed a sample and found its construction to be most likely around 1969 to 1970. We have determined this from a number of factors includi—”
He rolls his eyes and cuts him short. “Officer Daniels, let’s pretend for a second that I know everything there is to know about radial tire construction in the sixties and seventies and just skip to what kind of car they are on, yeah?”
Pete grins.
Officer Daniels Sighs. “I’m sorry, Detective, it’s just an unusual case for us. It’s not that often we get to investigate old vehicles with their original tires mounted.”
“What? Are you saying this car still has its original tires on it?”
“That’s correct, Detective and what’s interesting about this is the way in which the marks were made. You see, the differential had to be such that—”
“Keith! You’re doing it again.”
This time Pete lets out a short, sharp laugh and chews his bottom lip.