by Frank Lauria
Suddenly Jericho realized he was on the wrong car.
Christine’s car slowed and his own car surged ahead. In less than a second the gap yawned from two to six feet.
Without thinking, Jericho tried a running jump across the widening gap. The rear car slowed and Jericho didn’t quite make it.
His hands clutched the side rails, and his feet kicked vainly in midair. Christine swooped down and grabbed his shirt. With her help, he pulled himself onto the rear car and looked back.
The lead car was rapidly moving further away, as their car drifted to a stop. But they could see the man, his long black coattails trailing in the wind as he trotted to the rear of his car, his glaring green eyes fixed on Jericho.
“Jericho!” he called, voice booming. “I shall cast you into hell like my father did to me at the dawn of time.”
“Times change!” Jericho yelled defiantly, locking a red warhead in his launcher. “Welcome to the twenty-first century!”
Enraged the man broke into a run. When his foot hit the rear platform, he leaped, hands clawing the roaring air.
In that instant Jericho fired, blasting the man back into his subway car, a hot grenade buried in his belly. Then it exploded.
Flaring like a fiery balloon, the subway car blew to smithereens. Jericho pulled Christine to the floor, covering her against the rolling fireball that rushed over them like hell’s hot breath.
Long moments later they drifted to a stop. Jericho pushed himself up and peered down the track. Fifty yards ahead yellow flames consumed the wrecked car like a funeral pyre.
Blood surging through his body, Jericho pumped another grenade into the flaming wreckage, and another—bright white thunderbolts pounding the tunnel walls.
Then it was quiet except for the faint sizzle of twisted rubble burning in the darkness ahead. Christine slowly got to her feet, face glowing with relief.
Jericho helped her off the car and they hurried back along the tracks. But as they fled, a familiar voice bellowed after them.
“For thirty thousand years I’ve walked through the hearts and minds of men,” the voice blared, echoing from every wall and crevice around them. “I have built the gas ovens at Auschwitz, I have haunted the killing fields of Cambodia, and I’ve spurred good Christians in Serbia to rape and loot in the name of their Lord.”
The man’s arrogant laughter mocked Jericho’s frantic scrambling to find a way out. “I lit the fire that made Troy burn,” he boasted. “I stood by and watched mankind nail the son of God to a wooden cross, and I was there in the beginning … on the Tree of Life. So how can you expect to defeat me when I am forever—and you are just a man?”
The question rattled through Jericho’s exhausted awareness as he glimpsed the faint red lights of an emergency exit. Dragging Christine along, he crossed the tracks and pushed through the metal door.
* * *
Cool fresh air washed over them as they emerged from the subway access onto the street. A few blocks away they could see the police lights and barricades of the New Year celebration.
But as Jericho and Christine headed for the lights, menacing figures clad in long black coats came out of darkened storefronts. Jericho started across the street, then saw a manhole cover lifting. With mounting alarm Jericho watched more of the shadowy figures spill onto the street from manholes, sewer gratings, doorways—until all escape routes were cut off.
As the black-clad followers closed in, Jericho frantically looked for sanctuary. He saw a church nearby and bolted for it, pulling Christine with him. They raced up the stone stairs and went inside, slamming the doors behind them.
The church was deserted. The only light came from a crystal chandelier high above the massive, ornately carved altar. A few tall candles flickered on either side of the altar. Jericho found a cast-iron candle holder and wedged it between the door latches. “The other doors,” he grunted. “Block them.”
Christine ran to the door on one side of the altar. She pulled a candle from its holder and jammed the metal rod in the latches. Jericho did the same on the other side. They reunited in front of the altar.
Dazed with fear and exhaustion, Christine shrank against Jericho’s heaving chest as the church doors began to crash and shudder. Shoulders jarred against the doors, fists banged; the clamor became louder, rising to a hammering cacophony that shattered Christine’s nerves.
Abruptly, thick silence blanketed the gloomy chapel. A sensual calm stole over Christine’s terror, oozing through her belly like warm honey.
“I can feel him…,” she whispered. “He’s coming.”
Jericho hefted his grenade launcher. “Hide.”
“But…”
“Hide!” Jericho snapped. He pushed Christine to the rear of the chapel. She hurried to find cover, crouching behind a silver crucifix on the high altar.
Jericho took a warhead from his ammo belt. Jaw clenched, he slid the grenade on the launcher. As he glanced around for cover he noticed a life-sized statue of Michael the Archangel nearby. Michael’s Sword of Faith thrust up to God, his foot planted victoriously on the slain Beast.
And this is my Sword of Faith, Jericho reflected grimly, locking the warhead.
But his fingers performed the practiced task slowly, almost … reluctantly. Jericho looked around the chapel, noticing for the first time its magnificent stained-glass windows. The windows seemed illuminated by some strange light, enhancing the brilliantly colored images of the holy saints. Their benign faces seemed alive, beaming down their blessings on Jericho on the cusp of his great battle.
Jericho’s eyes traveled down to the altar and the statue of the Madonna, her radiant smile beaming encouragement in his moment of truth.
And the truth is I’m totally alone, Jericho thought, finger scratching at the trigger. He looked up and saw the lone figure on the cross above the altar; crucified for the sins of man.
A distant rumble shook the marble floor. At that moment Jericho realized that all his weapons were useless against the approaching horror. Twice he had slammed a grenade directly into the man’s body. Twice the blast incinerated the man’s shredded flesh. And yet he was back.
It’ll take something much more powerful, Jericho reflected wearily. A strength I don’t have.
The rumbling grew louder.
He bowed his head and tossed his weapon aside. As the MP-5 clattered against the marble floor, he lifted his eyes to heaven.
“Please, dear God,” Jericho said softly. “Help me.”
A profound silence fell over the chapel like snow. Jericho teetered at the edge of his life and felt a gust of fresh wind blow across his fevered skin. He took a long, healing breath.
The floor suddenly jolted as if swatted by a giant fist. The rumbling intensified, shaking stones from buttresses overhead. The falling stones crashed against the heaving marble floor. Statues broke free of their masonry and fell around him like slain soldiers.
Without warning the stained-glass windows imploded.
The thundering blast showered the church with broken glass. Instinctively Jericho covered his head and ducked. As he turned, he saw the rear pews swell up and ripple towards him. Row after row of pews rose up, roaring closer like an invisible wave.
Jericho lowered his arms and stood where he was.
The floor buckled and cracked. Pew benches flew up one after another, rushing straight at Jericho.
Suddenly it went dark as the chandelier wrenched loose in a swirl of sparks and exploded against the ground. But the impact was swallowed by a sky-shattering boom when the evil presence emerged.
Jericho staggered back, belly frozen with awe as a noxious black ooze erupted from the floor like an oily cloud twisting into forms that dissolved into the darkness. The stench of rotted flesh fouled the chapel and Jericho saw an eye gleaming through the ooze.
The flat, venomous gaze of a reptile gleamed at him through the fetid blackness. The reptilian eye loomed over Jericho, weaving hypnotically as it grew larger, its slithering presence uncoi
ling. Like the shuddering hiss of a hurricane wind, its steamy breath flooded over him, warm and slimy.
Jericho’s awe melted to animal terror. He crouched back, hands reaching for his discarded weapon. Then he stopped and slowly stood up.
It wants me to be afraid, Jericho realized, fear draining away. It wants me to kill. It feeds on it, feeds on everyone’s fear. That’s its true power.
Jericho spread his arms wide in a welcoming embrace.
“You need a body,” Jericho said calmly. “Take mine.”
With stunning force it pounced. Jericho’s head snapped back as he was hurled against a pillar. Brutally it took possession of his flesh, scratching beneath his skin, burrowing into his veins, poisoning his bloodstream. Jericho’s eyes rolled up in convulsive agony as it squeezed into his skull, the pressure twisting every nerve in his brain until the pain tumbled into an endless void.
And he ceased to exist.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Christine saw it all from her hiding place behind the altar.
Already terrified, she numbly watched Jericho prepare himself for battle. She saw him lift his head, deep-set eyes scanning the chapel, his expression radiant with some strange energy. Then he did something that speared her with raw horror.
Jericho threw his weapon to the ground.
A peaceful silence settled over the chapel.
At that instant all hell erupted. The stained-glass windows exploded, pew benches flew up like toothpicks, the chandelier crashed to the floor, and boiling darkness closed in.
Christine covered her head as stone and glass pelted the trembling altar. A foul odor fumed through the chaos, flooding her throat with nausea.
Suddenly it was quiet.
Dazed, Christine slowly emerged from behind the altar. Her nausea dissolved and she felt a faint sense of exhilaration. As her eyes adjusted to the dim, dusty light, she saw Jericho’s lifeless body splayed against a pillar.
Christine glanced around the ominous darkness, then hurried to Jericho’s side. She knelt beside him, fingers hovering uncertainly above his bruised face.
“Jericho!” she moaned urgently. “Jer!”
His eyes blinked open.
“You okay?” Christine asked, breathless with relief. “What happened?”
A slow, sweet smile spread across his stony features. “It’s over,” he told her. “We won.”
Christine pulled him into her arms, holding him tight. “Thank God,” she said with hushed fervor. “Thank God.”
Jericho pulled away and got to his feet. “Let’s go,” he said softly, extending his hand. She stood up and started toward the door.
Firmly—too firmly—Jericho stopped her.
“What’s wrong?” she whispered.
Without answering, he started dragging her to the altar.
“Jericho!” she screamed, feet digging into the ground.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he assured, pulling her closer to the altar. “Everything’s how it should be…”
Christine heard something chilling in his droning voice. It wasn’t Jericho. Still struggling, she peered into his face. It had changed somehow. Shifted. The deep-set features were shadowed with depravity.
The earth dissolved as Christine realized what had happened.
“Oh God,” she rasped. “Oh no. No…”
Jericho was possessed.
Desperately struggling to resist his savage strength, Christine felt herself being dragged to the altar, inch by terrifying inch. Past the statue of St. Michael, his Sword of Faith pointed at the ruined ceiling.
Jericho’s sweating face steamed with unholy lust as he hauled her to the altar. Triumphantly, he forced her down in front of the crucifix.
“Jericho, no,” Christine pleaded. “You’ve got to fight him. Please.”
He ripped away her blouse, raw violence glazing his eyes as he pawed her pinknippled breasts. “I know you,” Christine pleaded. “You’re stronger than him … That’s why you came back for me. Don’t let him win!”
Jericho’s face came close to hers, careening between confusion and hate. Rage knotted his jaw and he squeezed Christine’s soft neck. Muscles trembling, he battled the impulse to crush her throat. In stunned horror, Christine watched his face shift and ripple as if underwater. His features stretched into an obscene leer, then began to thicken into something loathsome … something unhuman. A sickening stench came from his clammy mouth as he tried to kiss her.
Her body shuddered with revulsion and she scratched and kicked wildly. “Fight him Jericho!” she screamed. “Don’t let him win!”
For an instant the beast’s hideous face melted back to human and Christine glimpsed Jericho’s blurred features.
Abruptly Jericho wrenched back, eyes rolling madly toward the statue of St. Michael, then at Christine.
“Run!” Jericho groaned, mouth curling in an ugly grin.
Christine felt the ground drop away when Jericho’s fingers released her.
Barely aware of what was happening, Christine saw Jericho turn, stagger, and jump. Her stunned brain was unable to process what happened.
Jericho took a stumbling leap and dove headlong onto St. Michael’s marble sword—impaling himself. Oily with blood, the sword protruded obscenely from a gouging wound in his back.
Bellowing in demonic agony, he wriggled in midair like a huge insect.
Christine gaped uncomprehendingly, her emotions crashing like waves against rocks as she watched Jericho writhing in his death throes. Suddenly he went limp, arms flung back.
Sobbing, Christine staggered closer. Jericho’s head sagged to one side, eyes closed, expression almost peaceful.
His eyes clicked open. With a bestial grin, he lunged free from the sword—and grabbed her arm. As he pulled her closer, the blood gushing from his wound become an oily black ooze. Whimpering with terror, Christine saw the ragged wound begin to heal.
And an unholy hunger pulsed through her belly.
A low rumbling bubbled up from beneath the church, swelling deeper and louder until it broke in a titanic wave, shaking the walls. As the rumbling flooded the church, a colossal thunderbolt cracked her consciousness—and Christine collapsed.
Dimly, from a great distance, chimes began to ring.
Then a faint chorus of human voices floated up in a familiar chant.
“NINE … EIGHT…”
Christine felt Jericho’s weight pressing down on her. Her eyes fluttered open and she saw his glazed, demonic features.
“… SEVEN … SIX…”
His ragged chest wound had nearly healed and Christine could feel his brutal strength pouring back as he pushed between her thighs.
“… FIVE … FOUR…”
Struggling, Christine heard his breath coming in quick, exhausted gasps and looked up. Jericho’s face loomed over her, teeth clenched and eyes squeezed shut.
“… THREE.… TWO…”
Jericho opened his eyes and smiled.
“… ONE!”
“Arrrggghhhh,” Jericho convulsed as the life force slid from his flesh like a hand being pulled from a glove.
A foul haze misted from beneath his skin, the fumes twisting into a grotesquely bestial form. It uttered an inhuman howl as the ground shattered open, erupting with flaming claws that tore the hideous presence to screeching shreds.
The pit opened wider as the fiery claws pulled their prey down into the great, sweltering maw. In that moment Christine glimpsed the yawning horror of lost souls. And knew the sorrow of God.
Suddenly a joyous noise broke through the discordant moans boiling through the chapel. Bells rang, whistles blew, and millions of voices came together in a single wish for humanity.
“Happy New Year!”
The next thousand years had begun.…
As if a dream, the swirling chaos evaporated into total silence. Except for the cheers drifting from Times Square and the wail of a distant siren, the chapel was quiet.
But for Christine, the lifeless body
beside her was no dream. It was a living nightmare. “Jer! Jer!” she whimpered urgently, pawing at his bloody flesh. “Oh God, Jer … Oh God, please, no!”
Tears streamed down her face, falling on Jericho’s cheek like salty rain.
A few glistening drops moistened his lips and his mouth moved.
Jericho’s eyes opened, then closed again.
“Happy New Year…,” he murmured weakly.
Trembling, Chrstine ripped open his blood-soaked shirt. A jagged scar slashed his skin where St. Michael’s sword had pierced his chest.
But the wound had healed.
Jericho lifted his head and looked at the scar creasing his chest. “The priest was right,” he said quietly. “It was a test of faith.”
“You would have given your life for me,” Christine whispered.
Jericho grinned. “I thought I had.”
She smiled, eyes smoldering with something deeply primal as she helped him stand. He put his arm around her and they began walking to the door.
It was then Christine saw the devastation around them: broken statues, shattered glass, splintered pews, and a thickening haze of smoke from a number of small fires. One confessional was blazing, igniting a large velvet wall hanging. And a cluster of hungry orange flames chewed at the altar.
By the time they pushed through the doors, the smoke had become a choking fog.
Outside it was New Year’s Eve and beautifully snowing.
As Jericho and Christine staggered down the steps, fire sirens and revolving lights converged on the street below. Day-Glo-clad firemen rushed up the stairs past them and disappeared into the smoke billowing from the church.
“What happened?” one of the firemen asked.
Jericho cradled Christine in his arms and glanced down the street. A few blocks away in Times Square, the roaring crowds celebrated the turn of the century.
“There was a fire,” he said tersely, walking past. “But I put it out,” Jericho added, as he and Christine stumbled into the clear, snow-cooled night—and entered a new millennium.
Read on for an excerpt from
AFTERBURN
A novel by Colin Harrison
Available from St. Martin’s Press