End of Days

by Frank Lauria

  She looked up and saw the man’s mocking leer. And she knew …

  Christine screamed.

  She bolted upright in her bed, heart pounding furiously as she continued to scream, arms flailing in primal terror as if being consumed by a predator.

  “What’s wrong, baby? What’s wrong?”

  The familiar voice dispersed her panic. Christine looked up and saw Mabel standing at the doorway, with Carson the butler peering over her shoulder.

  “It was the dream.”

  Mabel came closer, her face lined with worry.

  “He came for me tonight,” Christine whispered.

  Mabel sat on the edge of the bed and took her hand. “It was a dream, my angel.” She pulled Christine close and rocked her gently. “Just a dream.”

  “It felt … closer,” Christine said with a shiver of revulsion.

  Mabel looked up at the shadowy figure by the doorway. Carson nodded slightly. They knew.

  He had come.

  * * *

  Jericho studied the photograph he’d taken from Thomas’s foul refrigerator. It wasn’t enough. He needed more.

  He put on his shirt and leather jacket and went outside. After stopping for breakfast, Jericho went to a small photography studio on the Lower East Side.

  Dan Farris, the proprietor, was an old friend. He studied the photograph for a few moments, then shrugged. “No problem. We can blow it up, retouch here and there…”

  “How long?”

  “Two hours, if you need it right away.”

  “I need it sooner,” Jericho said ruefully. He was only half joking. A sense of urgency crawled beneath his skin like a double line of ants.

  He ate a second breakfast, took a walk, then went back to Dan’s shop. The girl’s photo had been enlarged, enhanced, and reconstructed by computer. The faded image was now crisp and clear. Jericho saw something on the girl’s wrist. “What’s that?”

  Dan shrugged. “Maybe a tattoo. Or a birthmark.”

  Jericho stared at the red question mark on the girl’s wrist. Right now, only one person could tell him who she was. And he couldn’t speak.

  * * *

  The man strode briskly down the street, enjoying the morning.

  His piercing green eyes took in everything along the way: smells, sounds, passersby, shop windows …

  When the man reached Our Lady of Mercy Hospital, he strode into the emergency entrance and continued down a long corridor, past the emergency room. A nun shepherding a couple of fifteen-year-old schoolgirls stood near the elevator.

  The man paused to admire the lovely young Catholic girls, virginal in their blue blazers and plaid skirts. One of them, a pale-skinned beauty with Celtic blue eyes, flushed when she saw him looking at her. Their eyes locked, and the girl swayed slightly, as if mesmerized.

  Glowering at him indignantly, the nun put her hand on the girl’s shoulder and pulled her back.

  The man smiled. “Almost ripe.”

  Still smiling, the man continued to the stairway and went up to the third floor. The uniformed policeman on the second floor didn’t stop him, but the cop on the third floor blocked his path.

  “Sorry, nobody allowed on this floor,” the cop snapped. His hulking, bushy-browed glare held a trace of menace.

  The man looked up, green eyes weighing him like a slab of tainted meat.

  “The young boys you seduce have left their scent on you.”

  The cop’s glare twisted from menace to awe, as he recognized his master.

  “Remember who it is you serve,” the man said.

  The cop nodded fearfully and stepped back to let him pass.

  The man easily found the room he wanted. They had the shooter, Thomas Aquinas, inside an oxygen tent, with tubes snaking from his arms. He seemed catatonic, laid out in a crucifixion position with his wrists strapped to the bed.

  The man neared the oxygen tent. “Open your eyes, Thomas,” he crooned. “Take a look at the face that has haunted your dreams for so long…”

  Thomas’s eyes popped open like a puppet on strings. He gaped up through the plastic cover, limbs writhing against their restraints.

  The man lit a cigarette, and inhaled with relish. Smiling, he pressed the tip of his cigarette against the plastic and burned a hole in the cover. Then he pressed his mouth against the opening and exhaled, filling the oxygen tent with smoke.

  “They say you can see the future,” the man taunted. “Then you must know what I’m about to do to you.”

  Thomas squeezed his eyes shut as the man cut through the plastic and reached through. He tried to pray but the first thrashing spasm of pain was so intense, he snapped the restraints …

  CHAPTER SIX

  By mid-morning Jericho managed to convince Detective Marge Francis to let him try to communicate with Thomas Aquinas. Chicago drove them to Our Lady of Mercy Hospital, but he was skeptical.

  “Well, I don’t understand how he’s gonna tell us anything,” Chicago muttered, pulling up in front of a hydrant. “The guy’s got no tongue.”

  “He can write,” Jericho reminded, stepping out. He headed for the emergency entrance, closely followed by Detective Francis. Chicago caught up at the elevator.

  When the three of them emerged on the third floor they were blocked by a uniformed cop with bushy brows and a surly frown. Detective Francis flashed her badge.

  “How’s he doing?”

  The cop didn’t budge. “Sorry, detective. No one’s allowed in there. I have orders.”

  Detective Francis snapped like a switchblade, her tone sharp and expression dangerous. “Hey, genius! Who the fuck gave you those orders in the first place?”

  Reluctantly the cop moved an inch. He continued to glare at Jericho and Chicago as they shouldered past. When they entered, the bed was hidden behind a privacy curtain. Jericho pulled the curtain aside.

  The entire bed was sodden with blood. The sheets and pillows were soaked crimson, and there was an actual pool of blood in the center of the mattress.

  But no Thomas Aquinas.

  A heavy drop of liquid hit the pool with an audible plop.

  Slowly, Jericho lifted his eyes to the ceiling. At first he couldn’t believe what he saw.

  It was bad. What made it worse was that it hadn’t been caused by some horrific circumstance like a land mine or cluster grenade or plane crash. This was deliberate. Not sadistic, but cruel. Not crazed; methodical—with prejudice.

  Thomas lay splayed open against the ceiling like a laboratory rat. His ravaged flesh was pinned—no … crucified—by scalpels and scissors that pierced his hands and feet. His organs hung down in greasy clumps and his eyes had been gouged out.

  The TV played bright counterpoint to the dark horror of his fate.

  “… Witnesses say the explosion caught them completely by surprise…”

  “Fuck me…,” Chicago whispered. It sounded like a prayer for help.

  * * *

  “… And while the death toll has risen to thirty-five, officials still don’t have any idea what caused it.”

  Watching through the window of an electronics store, the man followed the newscast intently. He stepped back and felt a hard bump. He turned and saw a teenaged skateboarder lying on the asphalt.

  “Hey asshole—watch where you’re going.”

  The man gave him a paternal smile. “I like your shirt.”

  The skateboarder looked down. His T-shirt read, SATAN RULES. “Screw you!” he spat, getting up.

  The man shook his head regretfully. He thought he had a live one. He watched the kid mount his board and roll off. When he reached the intersection, the man whispered, “Hey kid…”

  Despite the traffic noise, despite the heavy construction in the background, despite the jackhammers … the skateboarder heard the man’s whisper. Right there, in the middle of the intersection.

  The skateboarder turned, just as a bus entered his lane. He never saw the bus and probably never heard the sickly thud as his body was hurled h
igh in the air.

  The man smiled. “Nice shirt,” he said under his breath.

  * * *

  Jericho was on the verge of homicide. The huge, obsequious cop guarding Thomas Aquinas insulted their intelligence with his lame story.

  “I’m telling you,” the cop insisted, as the doctors and orderlies removed the body from the ceiling. “Nobody entered the room. Maybe he did it himself.”

  That did it. Jericho grabbed the cop’s tie and jerked his head up. “Yeah? Then how did he get that last scalpel in?”

  * * *

  As the orderlies lowered Thomas’s mutilated body to the stretcher, Detective Francis noticed something. Under the tattered hospital gown were strange, triballike patterns of old scars. She pulled the torn gown aside. It was writing of some sort that Thomas Aquinas had carved into his own skin.

  She looked at Jericho. “Just keeps getting better.”

  One of the orderlies, a lanky Jamaican with dreadlocks, began backing toward the door. “There’s evil here, mon,” he declared. “Evil.”

  The doctor in charge examined the gnarled scars. “This is written in Latin … been a while since med school, but I think I can read it.”

  Everyone waited as he traced the bizarre cuts in Thomas’s chest and belly. “And now the thousand years … are expired … Satan shall be … loosed out of his prison.”

  The doctor paused and looked around. “The next part isn’t quite clear. It might even be in English.” He turned back to the ravaged body. “Christ … in … no … York. I think … Christ in New York?”

  Suddenly Thomas Aquinas bolted upright. For one horrifying minute, his flayed body jerked and flailed like a marionette. As Jericho watched in disbelief, Thomas got to his feet.

  Bestial growls foamed from Thomas’s mouth as he grabbed Jericho’s jacket. Behind them the orderlies were screaming. One of them had a hypo.

  Thomas snatched the hypo with one hand and lifted it over Jericho’s throat.

  Detective Francis fired. The bullet made a neat blue hole in Thomas’s forehead. It was still smoking as he collapsed.

  * * *

  Jericho was grateful, but still jumpy. He needed a drink, maybe even a cigarette. Numbly he watched them wheel Thomas’s bloody sheet-covered body from the room.

  “I’m never gonna sleep again—ever,” Chicago muttered. He looked at Jericho. “You okay?”

  Jericho snorted. “Guy carves words in his chest. Someone else nails him to the ceiling. What’s not okay?” He strode purposefully toward the stairway.

  Chicago hurried to catch up. “Where are we going?”

  “The girl,” he said flatly. “I want to talk to her. See what she knows.”

  Chicago slowed a step. “Uh … we don’t know her name,” he reminded. “That might come in handy.”

  Jericho started down the stairs. “Maybe we do. I don’t think it was ‘Christ in New York.’ I think it’s Christine York. Let’s run a DMV check. She might have a driver’s license.”

  They went directly to Striker Security headquarters, where Jericho fed the name into a computer and started punching the keyboard. Images began flashing across the screen with blurred speed.

  Within minutes Christine York’s driver’s license filled the screen.

  “Well, hello there,” Chicago said admiringly. He glanced at Jericho. “Sometimes you border on competent.”

  * * *

  Christine liked to work out with her boom box turned up. It was one of her best antidotes for her hovering sense of dread.

  She had a treadmill and a Universal gym set up in her bedroom, and after forty minutes of stretching and jogging her body felt loose and warm.

  Carson popped his head in the door. “Mabel called,” he said over the music. “She’d like you to get dressed and join her for lunch.”

  Christine nodded. She turned off the boom box and grabbed a towel.

  She moved to her closet and took off her workout tights. She slipped into her bathrobe and moved down the hall to the bathroom. She shut the door behind her and stepped into the glass-enclosed shower. She started to turn the faucet, then noticed that her bare feet were standing in water. She looked down and saw that it was tinted reddish pink.

  For a long moment she gaped at the water. She turned and saw the water was overflowing from the Jacuzzi nearby. Something was floating in the tub.

  Christine moved closer and saw it was Carson. A dark red stream of blood trailed lazily from the gash in his throat.

  Shock and fear bolted through her limbs. She started sprinting for her bedroom even before the far door burst open. Christine glimpsed two or three dark figures spilling into the bathroom as she ran down the hall. When she reached her bedroom she locked the door and threw the bolt.

  Frantically Christine looked for an escape route. She went to the window and looked down at the three-story drop.

  Something smacked into the bedroom door. It splintered, but didn’t give way.

  Christine grabbed a small table and hurled it through the window. Another blow split the door. Christine ran to the closet.

  The third blow smashed the door open. Three men dressed in black stumbled inside the empty bedroom. They went to the broken window and looked out. No sign of the girl.

  One of them noticed the closet and motioned with his hand.

  They positioned themselves around the closet. Then the nearest man yanked open the door.

  Empty. The intruder sorted through the blouses and skirts—no Christine York. But as he was about to go the intruder had a thought. He grabbed the closet shelf and pulled himself up.

  “Yeeeow!” Screeching like a wildcat, Christine leaped at the intruder, stabbing at his face with a stiletto-heeled shoe. She managed to stun him, but another intruder grabbed her from behind and wrestled her to the floor.

  “Get the fuck off me—help!” Christine yelled, kicking and flailing. Another man came to help. He grabbed her arms while the other intruder took her legs.

  “Help! Goddammit—help!” Christine shouted desperately as the two men dragged her to the bed.

  “Watch the door!” one intruder ordered gruffly. One of the intruders hurried from the room.

  “What are you doing?” Christine yelled when she saw the silver knife in one man’s hand. “Help!”

  “There is no sanctuary except heaven,” the man declared, raising the silver dagger above his head. “You must go now!”

  To Christine’s surprise the man hastily drew the sign of the cross over her forehead and mumbled a strange prayer. “I commend you to almighty God, and entrust you to your creator. May you return to Him who formed you from the dust of the earth…”

  Numbly Christine realized it wasn’t a prayer. It was a death sentence.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Chicago was a bit intimidated by the affluent row of Upper East Side town houses when they reached the address on the driver’s license. Every house comes with three lawyers, he noted darkly.

  “Doesn’t this qualify as interfering with a police investigation?” Chicago inquired.

  Jericho climbed the brick stairs. “We’re private citizens having a private conversation with another private citizen. They haven’t found a way to outlaw that … yet.” He pushed the doorbell.

  “Sounds like something you end up explaining to the judge,” Chicago warned.

  No one answered the doorbell.

  Jericho looked around and noticed broken glass on the stoop. There were also pieces of a broken table strewn about. Alarmed, he pounded the door hard.

  They heard a faint scream from somewhere above.

  “Going in!” Jericho yelled.

  Chicago didn’t hesitate. They hit the door together, kicking it in. With practiced efficiency they covered each other as they sprang inside. They moved swiftly across a marble hallway, weapons cocked.

  A muffled scream drew them to the stairs. A man stood on the upper landing with his back to them. Without warning he whirled and fired, spattering them wi
th debris as they dove behind a wall.

  “You wearing your vest?” Chicago asked tersely.

  “No. You?”

  “No.”

  Jericho peered around the wall. “Remember, it’s your turn to get shot.”

  Another scream jerked him into action. “Stairs!” Jericho yelled. The moment he sprinted for the stairs, Chicago stepped into the open, gun blazing.

  The man on the landing ducked for cover, and Jericho headed upstairs. A sudden cluster of bullets spattered the wall above Chicago’s head. He turned and fired blindly at a second intruder coming across the hall.

  * * *

  At the sound of gunfire, the man pinning Christine to the bed paused.

  The dagger poised above her throat wavered and he glanced at the door. Someone entered. Christine tried to wrench free, but the man put his weight on her limbs. He turned and jerked his head toward the hall.

  “I need time to finish the rites,” he said with a trace of urgency.

  The other man nodded and left the room. Christine continued to buck wildly, but the man pinning her down was too strong—and too fierce. His dark eyes blazed with manic fervor as he lifted the dagger.

  “May Christ, the true shepherd, acknowledge you as one of his flock,” the man intoned. “May he forgive all of your sins and set you among those he has chosen. May you see your redeemer face to face and enjoy the vision of God forever—amen!”

  On amen he swung the dagger down.

  Desperate, Christine twisted, and the dagger punctured the mattress. With savage intensity she bit her attacker’s knife hand, and heaved him aside. Wrenching free, she rolled to the floor.

  The man jumped after her, knife slashing. Christine snatched a painting from the wall and held it as a shield. The man jabbed through the painting. Christine threw it at him and ran to the fireplace. She grabbed an iron poker and swung it hard, driving the attacker back.

  A clatter of gunfire erupted just outside the door.

  * * *

  Jericho charged up the stairs, gun ready. But just as he hit the landing, somebody huge slammed him against the wall. The gun fell from his hand.