End of Days

by Frank Lauria

  She felt the tingling blanket of her master’s embrace. Then he kissed her and a moist, steamy warmth rushed inside her belly. The heat intensified, oozing like primal lava from the core of the earth. Christine’s thighs parted and she thrust her hips, grinding with abandoned lust against her demon lover.

  The droning chant rose urgently in the torchlit chamber as the followers crowded closer to the altar. Still chanting, they watched their master suckle his bride’s pink breast, eagerly awaiting the consummation of their profane ritual.

  “Satanus beati … satanus beati…”

  * * *

  The faint rise and fall of voices drew Jericho off the tracks into a labyrinth of service tunnels. A distant light flickered in and out of sight as Jericho tried to follow the sound.

  It seemed as if the damp walls were whispering to him as he slowly made his way from one blind alley to another. The smothering darkness mocked his rising anxiety as the chanting echoes kept leading him astray.

  He stepped through a passage and glimpsed the flickering light, nearer now. Eyes fixed on the glow, he carefully moved closer. As he did, the droning chant rose louder in the narrow space.

  The passage curved slightly and opened onto a large service chamber that was part boiler room, part temple. Jericho hesitated when he saw the crowd of people dressed in black, robelike coats. Then he realized they were totally engrossed in the satanic ritual on the altar.

  Hand on the MP–5 at his side, Jericho entered the chamber and peered at the illuminated figures on the surreal black altar. The candlelight heightened the ecstatic glaze on Christine’s face as the man kissed her.

  Jericho’s face became an angry mask and he edged forward, hard blue eyes fixed on the altar. All around him the chanting voices grew louder as if urging their master to his unspeakable climax.

  The man paused and rolled his eyes upward. “You cast me out,” he taunted. “Banished me. And now I banish you from this world! How does it feel?”

  The crowd of followers moaned as their master slowly stroked Christine’s naked breasts. Jericho saw her shiver like a butterfly on a pin, completely swept up by sexual ecstasy.

  Silently, Jericho moved to the altar and lifted his MP–5.

  “My greatest achievement was convincing the world I didn’t exist,” the man crowed, savoring the moment. As he bent Christine over the altar, his triumphant gaze swept the crowd.

  “You once asked me to bow to them. But now they will bow to me.”

  “But not today!”

  Startled, the man turned.

  The instant their eyes met, Jericho fired.

  Bullets blasted the man’s skull, spewing brains and blood across Christine’s skin. The man staggered back … and smiled. But the momentary disconnection snapped Christine’s trance.

  Screaming, she bolted from the altar. The followers grabbed her, dragging her back until Jericho fired into the ceiling. Everyone froze. Jericho reached out and pulled Christine to his side.

  Christine blinked, teetering between confusion and relief.

  “Jericho!”

  He pressed his gun against her head.

  “What are you doing?” she squealed indignantly.

  His mouth brushed her ear. “Trust me.” Then he looked at the crowd. “Nobody move … or I kill the girl,” he warned. “She had last rites twice. I doubt even you could bring her back.”

  “You wouldn’t hurt her,” the man said calmly.

  Jericho shrugged. “You said it yourself. I have a dark heart.”

  “Then stand with me.”

  The man’s voice was gentle, reasonable, and rang with promise.

  Jericho wasn’t swayed. “I’ll tell you what. You let us walk out of here, and I’ll stand wherever you want.”

  The man moved closer, but Jericho pulled Christine away.

  “Step back,” Jericho ordered, “or I pull this trigger.”

  “I didn’t want to kill you, but you’ve left me no choice.” With a regretful sigh the man motioned to someone in the crowd. A familiar figure stepped into view, his gun leveled at Jericho.

  “Let her go,” Chicago said wearily.

  Jericho shifted his aim to Chicago, eyes blazing with anger and betrayal.

  Chicago knew what he was thinking. “You’d be amazed at what you agree to when you’re on fire.”

  “Don’t do this, Bobby. You’re better than this—better than him!”

  Chicago’s weapon didn’t waver.

  “Besides,” Jericho challenged. “You’ll never get the first shot off.”

  Chicago knew it was true. Jericho was lightning fast. He also knew his partner had found something even stronger.

  Faith. Chicago missed it profoundly. He looked over his shoulder and saw the man glaring. Cowed, Chicago squinted down the barrel of his gun. His eyes met Jericho’s and suddenly he realized something. Why doesn’t he kill Jericho himself?

  Fighting back the fear, Chicago lowered his gun.

  “Bobbeee…,” the man called. “We had a deal.”

  Defiantly, Chicago shook his head.

  At that precise moment, a breeze of fresh power blew through Jericho’s pain-stiffened limbs.

  “Very well, the deal’s off,” the man snapped, visibly annoyed. He reached out and brushed Chicago’s arm with a finger, as if striking a match.

  Chicago shrieked in agony as his arm burst into flame. Within seconds his entire body was on fire, skin bubbling and sizzling as he spun madly, yowling for death. The hot stench of his burning flesh sent a surge of nausea into Jericho’s throat.

  “No!” Jericho bellowed in helpless rage. He jammed a red grenade into the launcher and fired.

  The grenade imbedded itself in the man’s chest. For a nanosecond the man gaped at the finned object protruding from his heart like a small red shark.

  Then it exploded. The hot, jolting blast ripped his head, shoulder, and one arm from the rest of his torso. In the roaring chaos, Jericho grabbed Christine’s wrist and pulled her through the smoke and confusion.

  The followers scattered as Jericho hustled Christine to the door. Reflexively, Jericho turned to cover their retreat. He locked another grenade, his launcher aimed directly at the burning altar … and icy shock clubbed his brain.

  Frozen with awed terror, Jericho watched the man’s head and arm scuttle across the floor like a one-clawed crab—and reattach to the mutilated torso at the base of the altar. As the ragged chunks of flesh merged and healed, the man cocked his head at Jericho.

  “You’re just delaying the inevitable,” he mocked, getting to his feet.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Jericho glanced up at the thick red gas pipe traveling through the metallic web above the chamber. And fired.

  The grenade blast shattered the pipe, unleashing a huge fiery cloud that incinerated the chamber and flooded into the tunnel.

  “Move!” Jericho shouted as the firestorm rushed closer, swirling flames licking at their heels. The howling fireball sucked the air from the cramped space as they raced desperately down the tunnel, their scorched lungs heaving.

  Jericho pulled Christine around a corner to escape the rolling flames, but the searing heat stressed the metal pipes to their breaking point. Rivets popped, strafing the walls like bullets, as superheated fumes boiled into the already steaming tunnel.

  Staggering under the oppressive weight of airless heat, Jericho dragged Christine through the catacombs.

  A moment later, the green-eyed man emerged from the raging holocaust behind them.

  Both Jericho and Christine felt him coming.

  The man’s presence pulsed in their skulls like an abscessed tooth, draining their energy as they scrambled to escape. Jericho skidded to a stop when he saw the figures in long coats emerge from the shadows ahead. They were trapped.

  Jericho leveled his Glock at the people blocking the tunnel and fired, opening a path. But the man was still behind them.

  “What do we do now?” Christine asked breathles
sly.

  Jericho shrugged. “I’m thinking.”

  Without warning Christine grabbed his hand and pulled the Glock to her head. “I won’t be responsible for the end of the world.”

  As Christine’s finger squeezed the trigger he yanked the gun aside. “I may not be the most religious man, but I know that killing yourself is a sin,” Jericho said hoarsely. “Dying like that—he could bring you back. You’d be delivering yourself to him.”

  “Then for Chrissakes—you do it!” she sobbed. “What’s there for me to live for anyway?”

  Jericho smiled. “It’s New Year’s Eve.”

  She turned and started running. No sense of humor, Jericho lamented chasing after her. She darted into a corridor. Jericho followed, aware of the rumbling approach of a subway train. Behind them, the man stalked closer.

  Christine stumbled through an opening and found herself in a subway tunnel. Her churning senses were focused on one desperate need: to escape the man’s compelling power.

  But when she emerged onto the tracks, a screeching spotlight pinned her like a deer. Transfixed, she watched the screaming subway train descend on her.

  Suddenly, Jericho’s weight forced her down between the tracks. A deafening boom roared over them like a tornado in a junkyard. Christine tried to lift her head but Jericho pushed her face into the wet cinders as the subway cars thundered over them.

  The train roared over them like a sudden squall. Jericho felt a rush of cool air and looked up. The subway had passed and was skidding to a stop. Lifting his head he saw the train had only two cars. His eyes met Christine’s. She was crying, not in fear, but in anger.

  “You should have ended it,” Christine sobbed. “You should have just let it end.”

  Jericho grabbed her shoulders and put his face close to hers. “Look at me!” he rasped, each breath painful. “Look at me! Whatever it takes … we’re gonna get … through this.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Jericho slowly stood up and pulled Christine to her feet.

  “Show a little faith,” he growled.

  A slash of light fell across the tracks. Jericho looked up and saw the rear door of the subway open. At the same time a shuffling sound came from the darkness behind them. Immediately Jericho began running to the subway train, dragging Christine along.

  The motorman’s expression tilted from relief to amazement as Jericho and Christine hobbled out of the shadows and mounted the rear platform.

  “I thought I hit you,” the motorman said gratefully. Then he got a good look at Jericho. The sweaty, muscular figure climbing aboard bristled with lethal weaponry. His bruised, wounded body moved like an aroused predator, nostrils flaring and eyes crazed.

  “Get us out of here—now!”

  The motorman cringed as Jericho lifted his machine gun and began firing. Then the motorman glimpsed the figures in black running in and out of the light … coming closer.

  Jericho pushed Christine through the door, grabbed the terrified motorman, and raced to the front of the train. He pushed the motorman into his compartment and took a position at the front window. He checked his weapons, inserted fresh clips, and locked a grenade in the launcher.

  Finally Jericho stepped into the motorman’s compartment. “Why aren’t we moving?”

  The motorman’s puffy white face gleamed with sweat. “After an emergency stop I have to restart the system.”

  “How long?”

  “Just give me a minute,” the motorman pleaded, fumbling with the switches on the console.

  “Jer!”

  Jericho pivoted, alerted by the fear in Christine’s voice. A handful of followers had boarded the train and were making their way into the front car. With a quick burst he cut down the first three intruders, and the rest retreated. As if sweeping rats in a barn, Jericho fired another burst down the corridor, driving the survivors off the train.

  He ran to the rear car, closely trailed by Christine. He fired a few more rounds into the tunnel, keeping the black-coated zealots back.

  Christine folded her arms as if chilled. “I’d feel better if you could show me how to use one of those things.”

  So you can blow your brains out? No thanks, Jericho brooded, eyes scanning the tunnel.

  “I just want to help,” she said calmly. “I want to do something.”

  Something in her voice swayed him. He glanced down and searched her tear-streaked face. “And you won’t…?”

  Christine gave him a wry smile. “Have a little faith.”

  Jericho heard that. Carefully he handed her one of his Glocks. She took it gingerly as if expecting it to go off.

  It’s her first time. Good sign, Jericho noted. He stood behind her and helped her grip the gun properly. “Just line them up in the crosshairs and squeeze,” he said crisply. “But be ready for the recoil.”

  She squeezed. Click … click … click … click.

  “Just like that,” he congratulated. He took a fresh clip and showed her how to snap it in and cock the hammer. “Here’s the safety,” he added. “Leave it on until you…”

  Christine pointed the gun at his head—and fired.

  Jericho ducked, jerking his MP–5 at Christine. “What are you…?” Then he saw the angle of her weapon and looked up. An attacker hung upside down from the roof like a long black flag.

  “Like that?” Christine asked innocently.

  Jericho scanned the tunnel. “Yes—like that.” As if punctuating his praise, Jericho fired three quick shots.

  Christine moved to his shoulder and saw the black-coated figures. They darted in and out of the darkness, like a writhing black snake with white spots. She aimed at the nearest white spot and squeezed. The recoil staggered her. She planted her feet, gripped tight with both hands, and fired. This time she absorbed the kick. She also hit her target. One of the attackers fell across the tracks.

  Jericho nodded approvingly, and put a few more shots into the shadows. The white spots shrank back, then reappeared, coiling between the nearby pillars.

  Jericho fired and heard the twang of bullets bouncing off steel.

  A white face came out of the shadows, charging for the platform. The attacker stopped short, brains and blood spewing from his skull like dirty toothpaste. Nice shot, Jericho noted with professional pride as he ran to the front car.

  “Get us moving!” Jericho ordered. He blasted a hole in the roof to make his point.

  “Got it!” the motorman cried hoarsely. He threw the lever and the train lurched forward.

  The crack of Christine’s gun drew Jericho back to the rear platform. He sprayed the tracks with bullets as the train slowly gathered speed. Ignoring the gunfire, a horde of black-coated zealots spilled out of the shadows and ran after the departing train, their pale faces twisted with demonic frenzy.

  “This city has really gone to hell,” Jericho said grimly, watching them fade as the train picked up speed.

  * * *

  With only two cars to pull, the light train flew down the tunnel, its headlights drilling through the darkness. Jericho and Christine stood at the front window, staring at the rushing tracks as the subway rattled toward salvation.

  They both saw it at the same time. The train rounded a corner and the lights revealed a figure standing on the tracks, arms crossed.

  “Oh God!” Christine moaned. “He’s here!”

  Jericho was already inside the motorman’s compartment. He pulled the motorman’s hand away from the brake lever, and pushed the throttle up. The train swayed as it accelerated, careening directly at the man standing dead ahead.

  Arms crossed with casual arrogance, the man remained where he was.

  The train kept accelerating and Jericho kept his hand on the throttle. When they were a few feet away, Jericho saw the man smile.

  “Hang on!” Jericho yelled. An instant later the train slammed into the man like a moth on a windshield. Jericho felt a slight jump as the heavy steel wheels ran over the body.

  CHAP
TER FIFTEEN

  Jericho raced down the length of the first car and through the second car. Wind whistling around him, he stood on the rear platform and peered along the tracks.

  They were empty.

  Christine came up behind him. Jericho shrugged helplessly.

  “He’s gone.”

  They looked at each other, knowing the truth, but unwilling to admit it.

  The floor burst open and an arm crashed through, clawing at Christine’s ankle. Jericho’s MP–5 shattered Christine’s scream as his bullets chewed the floor.

  The arm retreated. A moment later it was back, smashing down through the roof and snatching at Christine’s hair.

  Jericho and Christine began firing at the roof as they backed into the lead car. They hurried up front to the motorman.

  “We have to disconnect the car!” Jericho declared breathlessly.

  The motorman blinked. “What are you talking about?”

  Jericho waved his gun toward the rear car. “He’s back there!”

  “Who?” the motorman quavered, totally unstrung.

  Before Jericho could answer, the motorman arched sharply, like a bow being bent. Glass and metal splintered as a fist speared the front of the train, impaling the motorman’s heart. A fountain of blood spattered the control panel.

  The motorman screeched in agony as the fist yanked him through the broken window. Unable to save him, Jericho and Christine fired madly, adrenaline pumping with terror.

  Jericho pushed Christine back as the train continued to hurtle through the darkness. As they passed between cars, Jericho glanced down and saw the coupling mechanism that hitched them together.

  Shoving Christine through the door, Jericho balanced between the rocking subways cars, and spotted a lever near the coupling hitch. Jericho reached down and pulled the lever with both arms, biceps straining against the rigid steel.

  Jericho heaved and the lever gave. An abrupt shower of sparks lit up the darkness as metal ground on metal and the cars separated.