Faustus Resurrectus

by Thomas Morrissey

  “I don’t know—whatever was blacking out my monitors has just lifted.”

  Yarborough came to his side. “Anything?” Clark shook his head impatiently. The captain grimaced; they’d made it roughly a fifth of the way up the Lawn. “Matz!” he growled into his radio. “Matz! Where the hell are you? Get down here and secure these hostages, pronto!”

  Static distorted the response. “…tack…fight…a moment…”

  A figure streaked along the field. “Stop right there, goddammit!” Yarborough fired a warning shot he ran to intercept it. “Surrender right now!”

  Clark watched him, noting a growing number of whitish flickers in the shadows around them. He was not a religious man, but Donovan Graham’s insinuations about devils refused to leave his mind. Inside his body armor his heart hammered, and tension sweat made him look like he’d just gone for a swim.

  Yarborough returned, panting. “We have to keep going. We can’t let them take back momentum.”

  “I can’t see shit!” Darenelli hissed. “These goddamn flashlights—”

  “What’s that?” Clark pointed north, where a light had begun to shine. It grew brighter until it revealed the truth of their situation: grinning white faces leered all around them.

  The apocalyptic cult had them surrounded.

  “We got the 264.

  “Now kill the rest!”

  Yarborough slowly raised his radio. “All units assemble! Collapse the perimeter and get down here, now!”

  Hoofbeats and motorcycle engines rumbled and the ground shook at the approach of a force from the west side.

  “Matz!” Darenelli cried, dropping the flashlight to clutch his shotgun with both hands. “Never thought I’d be so glad to see his ugly mug—”

  He stopped short when he saw Captain Matz’s face; it was draped over the chalky, grinning visage of a cult member in a top hat. Behind him, more rode the NYPD motorcycles. They, too, wore faces peeled off police officers.

  “Jesus Christ,” someone breathed.

  The police force turned outwards. Half the men went to their knees and took aim with their weapons while the rest stood above them to do the same. In all, Clark estimated they had between a hundred-fifty and two hundred people left.

  The cult members tightened their circle.

  ***

  As Valdes, Faustus and the monk walked away, Donovan’s body cramped into a motionless curl. The darkness, vast and suffocating, became his entire existence. His mind shrank inward.

  Joann’s going to die.

  She thought I was out of my league. She was right. Conrad was right. I’m nothing.

  All of this is my fault.

  I deserve to die.

  Misery swept over him. He had no more energy to resist the fist crushing his spirit. It would kill him, he knew, if the possessed didn’t take him first. He didn’t care. His strength seeped away, leaving behind only numbness. He closed his eyes...

  How can this be the right path, Father, if it ends here?

  ...and nothing happened.

  He waited for the final gasp of suffocation, for the killing blow, but neither came. His breathing, labored and hot, continued. His skin and clothing, wet with holy water, went untouched. The earth remained firm beneath him. Somehow the world went on. He forced his eyes open and saw only darkness. The grass of the Great Lawn tasted bitter on his lips. Blood? He imagined what he looked like, groveling in the dirt, and tried to find anger to spur himself into action. None was there, no emotion remained. Failure had wrung everything out of him. Everything except one, lone thought:

  Maybe this isn’t the end of the path.

  But it had to be; nothing about the situation had changed. Had it?

  Fear ends where the inevitable begins.

  Donovan pushed himself up out of the dirt and into a crouch. His head reeled and he staggered but remained upright. None of the possessed were around. From the south he heard gunshots and shouts; to the north, a single voice incanting something in Latin.

  He stood motionless. The struggle back from the darkness had left him drained and adrift. As he gazed about the empty lawn, an absurd memory came to him:

  The Comparative Religion final had been tough, but he’d finished it with a little time to spare. As he brought his paper up to Father Carroll, he noticed some students praying for divine guidance. He smiled at the priest, who watched the room with some amusement.

  “No atheists in foxholes, I see,” he’d said.

  Father Carroll had chuckled. “Don’t look for God where He’s needed most; if you didn’t bring Him, He isn’t there.”

  The bandage on his left hand, Father Carroll’s stole on his right, both squished with holy water. The iron spire lay at his feet. He stared at it, feeling faintly ridiculous and ashamed of his weakness.

  If Joann is that way, why are you standing here?

  He picked up the spire and headed for the stage.

  ***

  Valdes sensed the setting to invoke Lucifer before he saw it.

  Since the portal had opened in the Cancer Hospital, he’d become aware of an unusual frequency vibrating in his inner ear. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was a change from the usual energy of the city. That frequency had changed upon the arrival of Mephistopheles, becoming lower and more guttural, and now had shifted once more with the imminent arrival of Lucifer. This new resonance—for it wasn’t an audible sound, but a sensation that stirred darker emotions—combined qualities of dread from the first and terror from the second, but it was more than the sum of those parts.

  Of course it feels different than anything, he thought. This is the edge of the abyss.

  He smiled at his own melodramatic tone.

  As if from thin air, the stage appeared in the darkness before him. He paused from far enough away to be able to see everything. The altar, built by the possessed out of wooden bench slats, stood in front, in the center of the Sigil of Baphomet design. Hands no longer quite human had sanded and smoothed the material until it seemed to be one large slab, into which Mephistopheles and Faustus had carved designs of intricate magical significance. A container of metal that the possessed had twisted and pounded into an odd, oblong shape sat before and below it. It measured the height and width of a Jacuzzi and brimmed with dark, viscous red fluid, the blood collected from victims of the park’s conquest. Skulls swathed in slabs of fat made grisly torches that burned brightly around the Baphomet circle, forming a gruesome, semi-solid wall of fire. Overshadowing everything was the half-shell stage backdrop. The cries of those impaled on its hooks, the blood and gore that dripped down its arched walls evoked the worst of Hieronymus Bosch and every medieval depiction of Hell, but he was unmoved.

  “Enjoying the view?” Mephistopheles was suddenly there, in the dark next to him.

  “It’s a little theatrical for my tastes.” Valdes slowly, almost unconsciously, rubbed his hands together as he turned away. “How do we begin?”

  “I’ll make the opening invocation. You’ll take the Vessel,” Mephistopheles gestured at Joann’s limp body, which he’d left on the edge of the stage, “stand atop the altar, speak your preliminary statement and then…” He spread his hands.

  “Preliminary statement? I didn’t prepare anything.”

  “How else does one begin a business transaction? Introduce yourself.”

  “That’s all?”

  “These things are not complicated to do,” Mephistopheles said. “It’s getting to the point where you do them that takes the thought and planning.”

  “Given the setting,” Valdes looked up at the writhing bodies, “I suppose I expected something more…dramatic. How do I get to the—”

  In a flicker of shadow, Valdes was standing within the circle of fire, atop the altar, cradling Joann in his arms. Her body seemed to have no weight; he could have held it all night. Below him, the oblong container was a dark pool. He blinked and steadied himself as Mephistopheles began to speak in Latin, his voice a sing-song chant. Although ther
e were noises of fighting further south, the Lawn had grown still around them. Fat from the torches crackled and sizzled, blackening the skulls, popping parietal seams with the heat. Faustus stood to one side of the stage with a solemn expression, head bowed. Mephistopheles stood on the other side of the ring of fire, facing Valdes. As he spoke, his voice grew louder and more charged. He reached a crescendo and half-turned, extending his right arm to the south and his left to the north. He seemed to be reaching for something. The air heated as though lightning was about to strike. Valdes watched charges and sparks of energy drawn from the south to his fingertips. Mephistopheles began to speak again, still in Latin, but with more passion and greater urgency. The sparks grew larger and more sustained as the sounds of fighting became louder. An aura appeared and began to swell around Mephistopheles as he took in more and more energy. The darkness that normally surrounded him began to lighten, becoming less and less black until Valdes could see the threads in the fabric of his monk’s robe. It occurred to him that gathering energy and light was the harshest situation for the Prince of Darkness to be in. Mephistopheles bore the strain in his otherwise bland face and made a “come on” gesture with his left hand.

  “I am Cornelius Valdes,” Valdes began, speaking in the loud, clear voice with which he’d addressed his audience at the Cancer Hospital. “I request an audience with Lucifer Morningstar, the First of the Fallen. I would like to strike a bargain.

  “I’ve lived most of my life bending to the will of others. I’ve seen and experienced how the world treats those without the courage and strength to follow their own desires. I was one of them and I suffered for it. Over the last several months I’ve been engaged on a quest to right that wrong. A lot of people stood in my way. I used the weak and defeated the rest. Now I stand here, in full control of my destiny, ready to receive my reward. I’ve done everything required, I’ve met all the conditions. It’s time.”

  Mephistopheles raised his left arm and snapped it down, the force of his movement concussing the air with a muffled boom. Instantly the energy he’d collected shot forth, pouring into the vat of blood and making the red liquid churn. Valdes extended his arms, holding Joann above it.

  “Welcome to my world, Your Highness.”

  He released his grip.

  ***

  Donovan followed the sound of Latin through the darkness. He crossed the ground quickly, a little surprised by the ease with which he moved. The sounds of fighting, the death that had swept through Central Park, the sorcery and the supernatural all conjured images of an otherworldly battlefield strewn with corpses and monsters. Instead he found himself alone on a cold, dark, seemingly endless plain, running to save the woman he loved from nightmarish circumstances that were far, far over his head.

  The Latin came from near a circle of light, and as he drew closer he saw he was almost sat the stage. The circle was made of flames, and within them he recognized Valdes perched atop something. The monk stood opposite him, outside the circle. His right arm extended towards the sound of the police battling for their lives while the left arm pointed towards a Jacuzzi-sized metal vat at Valdes’s feet. Valdes was holding something wrapped in white. Donovan heard his voice but couldn’t understand the words; his attention was drawn to the white-wrapped object. It was Joann.

  The monk jerked his arm like he was holding a whip. Thunder cracked and energy began to pour from him into the metal vat.

  Valdes released his grip.

  Donovan’s eyes went wide. The word was a whisper on his lips: “No…”

  She dropped with a splash.

  Donovan ran forward. He got within a dozen feet of them before the monk glanced at him and grinned. Instinctive fear threatened to paralyze him again, but it was the line from Marlowe’s play that came to him and stopped him short: “Quin redis, Mephistopheles, fratris imagine”; “return, Mephistopheles, in the form of a friar.”

  Mephistopheles…here? Now?!

  His legs refused to move.

  But if it is, then…

  Donovan staggered three more steps before the monk’s will forced him to his knees. He lunged forward. Anger he’d been unable to find before now roared through him, charging his body with the strength to resist. The monk’s eyes, white specks against deep purple, widened the tiniest bit. He angled his head and a group of the possessed surrounded Donovan. Donovan lowered his head and charged blindly into them, lashing out with his holy water-soaked fists. He knocked two out of the way before the rest piled on, bearing him to the ground with their sheer mass. One seized a handful of his hair while another, despite the sizzling and burning the holy water inflicted, began to pound away at him. The world glazed over with a red mist and he shouted, fighting, swinging his fists against the onslaught. The juicy slicing slithered into his ears and a pair of the bone-scythes crossed beneath his chin.

  I will save you.

  The energy Mephistopheles had been collecting sparked something within, creating a light that burned brightly enough to render the metal container translucent. Donovan squinted but couldn’t look away. The liquid was a deep, dark purplish-red, like a new shiraz before decanting. Joann floated in the center of it. The light grew brighter still, bleaching all color until only the brilliance remained. Then came a deep, rasping groan, a mausoleum’s long-rusted hinge forced open. Waves of emotion, dangerous and seductive, poured forth in a torrent, battering Donovan’s soul. Abruptly the light vanished, searing Rorschach blots onto his retinas. He shook his head, blinking furiously, and finally cleared his vision.

  She stood before him.

  “Joann…?”

  But this wasn’t Joann, and Donovan knew it. He searched her face, examined her body; he saw none of the character life had etched into it. She was unquestioningly perfect, her perfection an objective fact, not a subjective decision based on knowing her, living with and loving her over time. Her skin positively glowed. All of the blood’s color had leached into her hair, irises, lips and dress, recasting her beauty with overtones of perversion and dark sensuality. Overwhelmingly drawn to her yet fearfully repulsed, he could only stare.

  She set her gaze on him and her eyes swallowed his heart.

  Not like wine, he thought. Like a flower that symbolizes the eternal.

  Amaranth.

  The gateway had been opened.

  The King of Hell had arrived.

  “Consummatum est,” Mephistopheles said with a bow.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  “ENTWINE”

  “I don’t know what happened to him, Father,” the old woman went on, keeping a wary eye out. “Once he started to follow that Mister Valdes, he became a different person. I haven’t seen him since the day he walked out, swearing he’d found the ‘truth.’ Feh.” She dismissed this with a wave. “Can you help me?”

  “Of course, dear lady, of course. What’s his name?”

  “God bless you, Father. His name is Michael.”

  “And yours?”

  “Bridget.” A shaft of outside light fell across her path. She stepped through it, and for an instant Father Carroll saw something hanging around her neck. Is that…a rabbit’s head? “Can you come a bit closer, Father? My eyesight’s not so good these days.”

  The evil of possession wafted from her like cheap bodega perfume. My, what big teeth you have, Grandmother, Father Carroll thought. He kept the spire at his side but tightened his grip on it. “Where do you think he might be?” he asked, sidestepping her request. “Was there somewhere in here Valdes and his group squatted, perhaps?” He edged towards the room with the portal.

  “Oh, you don’t want to go down there, Father,” she said from right next to him. He hadn’t seen her move, and her presence so close took him a little off guard. “There’s nothing there to interest you.”

  “Actually,” the priest said, regaining his composure, “I’ll go anywhere I have to if it helps your son. Or you.”

  “Me?” She coughed, a wheezing sound that it took him a moment to realize was a laugh.
“Why would I need help?”

  He looked down at her and smiled. “Because everyone makes decisions in their lives that have adverse consequences on themselves and the world. God forgives anything as long as forgiveness is sought. Humans are imperfect beings, but our imperfections don’t have to define who we are. Overcoming them is a much more appropriate way to honor God, and ourselves.” He extended a hand. “Let me help.”

  His skin touched hers, and with a flash of light, the holy water on his skin seared into her. She screamed, spraying spittle everywhere, and seized his arm. His holy-water soaked clothing sizzled her flesh, and with another shriek she whipped him around into a wall hard enough to shake plaster loose. Pain shot down his spine, and the spire clattered to the floor. Baring jagged rows of teeth, she hissed at him, all pretenses abandoned.

  “Don’t you know the first rule of dealing with the possessed, Father?”

  “‘Never engage them in conversation.’” He righted himself stiffly and brushed off dust. “And I won’t, except to tell you this—I’m here to help you. To help all of you. Let me help. Please.”

  Bridget scuttled forward, her hunched shoulders resembling a beetle’s carapace. Father Carroll took a few steps back. In this form she blended with the night, visible only as slivers of white in the corner of his eye. “We are here to achieve much greater things than to be aided by a priest.” She spat the last word out. He danced back but her agility caught him off guard, and her weight sent him staggering back into the magical barrier. The dark energy sizzled a taser blast along his nerves. She shrieked at the contact and drew back as he staggered, just managing to stay upright.

  “Get thee behind me, thou unclean!” he gasped, brandishing a cross. “Be gone from that to which thou hast no claim!”

  “Oh, but I do have claim, priest. Or do you not know what occurs in the park? What this one was part of—”

  A shockwave of evil stronger than anything Father Carroll had ever experienced suddenly shook the world. Reality shifted, and the result plunged a knife of despair into his chest. He tried to shake it off when another airborne shockwave hit, cracking the dilapidated building and raining bits of plaster down on them.