The Second Seal

by Sean Deville

  He’d had these thoughts before in the past, brought on by the depression that sometimes descended. Prisoner as he was, his options were limited, but he knew there was always a way out if you looked hard enough.

  For the next five minutes he wandered his prison cell, the various options available to him diminishing. In the kitchen drawers he found only blunt plastic utensils, the food he would be brought not requiring anything other than his fingers to eat. He tried to smash a mirror in the bathroom, only for the glass to barely crack. Reinforced. It became clear his cell had been well designed. Even the drinking vessel he had been provided with was unbreakable plastic. The light bulbs were inaccessible, hidden in covered recesses in the walls. There were no razor blades in the cabinet, the electric razor a fair and less than lethal substitute with no power outlets anywhere near water. The more he examined his surroundings, the more apparent it was there was nothing here that could be turned into an edged weapon.

  He couldn’t slash his wrists or open up his neck, and he couldn’t electrocute himself. None of the various electrical appliances had cabling that he could find. Those who had taken him had decided not to make suicide an easy prospect.

  One of the ancient books gave him the answer though. It was bound closed by leather twine. More books presented this intriguing possibility, and whilst he was able to gather sufficient length to hang himself, there was nothing on the walls or the ceiling that would give him sufficient purchase.

  Then it came to him, as ideas so often do. Ripping the leather twine free was the most difficult aspect of the whole attempt, his limbs still weak from the torments that had been inflicted upon his flesh. Stone also felt guilty about defiling some of these great works which might seem strange considering the end of the world was hurtling at them.

  Wandering into the bathroom, he realised he’d rarely felt this certain about any action in the past. He knew what Horn wanted from him, and he knew if he complied, the lives of billions would be destroyed. Whilst his own soul might already be tarnished, the last ounce of bravery in him demanded he not take the planet down with him.

  Let them find some other sucker to do their dirty work for them.

  It took him several attempts to thread the twine through the grate in the bath’s plug hole. Once that was tied off, he then made a loop for his neck, figuring his handiwork should be sufficient for what he needed to do. Throughout this he felt strangely calm, as if ending one’s life was the most natural thing in the world. Testing the leather, he found it sufficiently strong for what he had in mind, the loop running freely.

  This was when he encountered the problem, how to plug up the hole to stop the water running out. It didn’t take him long to solve that little puzzle, the tiny holes he rammed with toilet paper, a kind of frantic madness now taking him as he ripped at the fragile paper sheets. Piece after piece he jammed down, his fingers growing sore from the effort. Finally, his breath harsh in his throat, Stone relented, satisfied the water would hold for a time at least.

  Someone is going to have to clean all that out, he said to himself. He was about to kill himself, he shouldn’t care about giving one of Horn’s minions unnecessary work. And yet the thought persisted in his mind.

  “Fuck ‘em.”

  With that, he turned the taps on full, relieved when his makeshift plug seemed to hold.

  Whilst he sat waiting for the bath to fill, he wondered why nobody had come in to try and stop him. That revelation would come later. Not once did he waver in the action he had settled on. With the twine that was left over, he fashioned a single piece so there was a double slip knot at both ends. This he would use to tie his hands behind his back. He might be committed, but who could trust themselves when death came knocking.

  This wasn’t the first time Stone had considered suicide, but it was the first time he was going to go through with it. Depression had danced on the fringes of his life for decades, but there was no despair now. Stone felt focused, truly committed despite the inevitable end result. What he was doing was purely rational, the only sane way out of the situation in which he found himself.

  He had been trapped in a room by the Antichrist. Hell and its demons were real, and these maniacs expected Stone to write a book for them. Not any old book, but a diary of the coming apocalypse, a religious tome that would form the basis for a whole new religion. When the Antichrist walked the land, Stone’s book would be the new Bible, the guide to the age of Hell on Earth. How could he allow himself to be used like that?

  The bath filled, and still nobody came to stop him so he stepped into the warm water. Were the watchers asleep? Would they intervene at the last moment?

  There was no need to take his clothes off. Accepting what he needed to do, Stone exhaled deeply, ran one of the slip knots over his left wrist and ducked under the water. Slipping the noose over his head, he tested to make sure it held him beneath. It did. Releasing himself he brought his head out of the water and took one last look at the world around him. He reckoned he wasn’t going to miss it.

  “Get on with it, damn you.”

  Now all he had to do was resist his own innate desire to live. Once again, he submerged himself and slid the noose over his head, only this time his popped his other hand through the free end of his bindings and pulled tight.

  The urge to breathe came on quickly, the brainstem demanding action for the lack of oxygen it detected. Stone steeled himself, knowing panic would overwhelm him. This would be his human mind against the reptilian urge to live.

  The reptilian almost won out. As his lungs began to burn, Stone found his hands scrabbling to free themselves. He knew they would succeed given enough time so he did the only thing he could. He forced himself to inhale, his lungs filling, a deep desperate cough crashing through him. His mind succumbed to panic, fingers clawing at the twine that was digging into the wrists, circulation to his brain being cut off by how hard he suddenly found himself pulling to escape. A voice inside shouted that he wanted to live, but he fought against his own primal needs. Inhaling again, the water filled his lungs more easily, the remaining oxygen in his blood rapidly used up.

  Then his hands fell still, a calmness claiming him. He’d been under the water less than a minute, but now he realised time was meaningless. This had all happened before and would all happen again. People killed themselves all the time. Why was he any different?

  Stone felt himself lift out of his body, the chemicals of his dying mind bringing on another hallucination. The water around him disappeared, his neck no longer constricted, burning air once again tantalising his lungs.

  Stone looked around. There was a brief glimpse of his still thrashing body and then he was surrounded by a momentary blackness, the night air of his vision claiming him.

  “You think escape is that easy?” the now familiar voice asked.

  “I’ve beaten you,” Stone exclaimed. “Get someone else to write your damned book.”

  “It’s not my book.”

  “You know what I mean,” Stone insisted.

  “But worthy are you to take the scroll and to break its seals. You are my plaything and I’m not going to let you go.” Light began to form in the distance, a horizon revealing itself as a red sun began its painful rise.

  “Do what you must, but it’s too late.” Stone almost laughed, his heart filled with a relief he had never experienced before. What he had done was horrendous, and yet he had won. For once in his miserable life he had finally come out on top.

  Around him, the light shone down, illuminating the huge golden throne. This time the face of the man who sat upon it was blank. The man mounted on the white horse next to Stone was painfully familiar, however. Horn sat on the muscular stallion with a sickening smile emblazoned across his face. Stone felt he knew what this meant. Whereas before the man on the throne had been in possession of many faces, now he had none. The Antichrist had been chosen.

  How many children on Earth had Satan sired?

  “It’s never too late. If
anything, we never expected you to act so quickly. You reinforce why you were chosen.” The voice had never sounded so satisfied.

  “Lies,” Stone shouted, but his heart told him the truth was being spoken.

  “You are worthy to witness the one who will take the scroll and to open its seals, because you were slain, and with your life you purchased for God persons from every tribe and language and people and nation. You will make of them to be a kingdom and priests to serve our new God, and they will reign on the earth in his name. Sound familiar? Do you see how you were so easily played?”

  For a moment, Stone realised his vision had expanded so that he could see all around him. He saw everything, though he wanted none of it.

  “Those aren’t the words,” Stone insisted. He knew that part of scripture better than anyone.

  “Of course they are,” replied the voice. “Those are my words as you will write in your great book of wonders.”

  “I am not the lamb,” Stone insisted. “Jesus is supposed to be the lamb.” Although the voice said the words, the sound came from all sides, as if Stone was surrounded by a chanting crowd. The sky thundered with the laughter of the voice.

  “I know, but you will be witness to his deeds.”

  “But it’s too late. I’m already dead.”

  “Dead, eh? Think again.”

  Stone felt himself breathe, water exploding from his throat. The hallucinogenic world around him cascaded into nothingness, and then he opened his eyes. Kane was kneeling over him, a grim look on the demon’s face. Stone found himself lying on the marble floor with which his prison’s bathroom was blessed. The room was warm, the smell of delicious food caressing his nostrils from the other room. Kane held a knife menacingly, used to cut the bonds Stone had fruitlessly thought would help bring about his own demise.

  “Welcome back,” Kane said. “Normally such insolence would deserve punishment, but I have been instructed that this had to happen.” Kane slapped him playfully on the cheek several times. “Your teeth will have to wait for another day.”

  “I…I was dead.”

  “Yes, you were,” Kane said, standing. “And now you’re not.”

  He didn’t want to get up and he knew it would be so easy for him to lie here until sleep took him again, despite the hardness of the ground below him.

  His lungs ached, the flesh of his chest tender. The twine was long gone from his neck and wrists. Stone’s heart beat a rhythm in his skull, the pulsing pain no doubt a side effect from his attempt to kill himself. In a moment of madness, suicide had seemed the only answer. Knowing he was constantly being watched, he had hastily concocted a means to end himself.

  All for nothing.

  “I’ve brought you some food,” Kane added. “You should eat something.” Kane held a hand down to help Stone up, but the author refused to take it. “Such ingratitude,” Kane noted, although his tone showed no offence had been taken.

  “You brought me back. Why?”

  “You know why!” Kane’s face darkened. “You had better know. You are supposed to be the great scholar, the prophet for the new order. You were brought here to bear witness and to proclaim the truth to the world.”

  “I’m just a writer,” Stone insisted, instantly regretting his choice of words. The only reason he was still alive was because of what those who had taken him thought he could deliver.

  “If that ever becomes true, I will take great delight in making your last hours unimaginable.” Stone knew that drowning would be a walk in the park compared to what Kane could inflict.

  “You expected me to try and kill myself?” He saw it clearly now. What a fool he had been.

  “Some would call it a selfless act,” Kane informed him, “but we both know it was just your cowardice winning over.” Kane threw a towel at his captive. “Dry yourself off and eat your food before it goes cold. Mr Horn has assured me that, if you try to kill yourself again, I will be allowed to feed you your own testicles.”

  3.

  London, UK

  The ladder took Lilith down into the end branch of one of the many abandoned and long forgotten tunnels below this part of the city. Built in the Victorian era, the tunnels were created for reasons long since obsolete. Civilisation had been down here since, a series of dusty, disused and disconnected lights traversing the length of the corridor. Lilith didn’t need their brilliance to move around in the blackness, nor did she utilise a torch, her gloved fingers easily finding the groove in the wall she herself had created. Vertical swipes at regular intervals across that line confirmed the distance along the tunnel, her mind counting them off as she walked. The small maze would lead her to a door to the surface world.

  Lilith had been down in the tunnels enough times to learn the sounds and smells that permeated the stale air down here. Half way along this particular tunnel she realised the air wasn’t its normal stale self. There was a freshness to it, a faint breeze moving the corrupted air. Also, with her heightened senses she could detected odours that shouldn’t be here.

  The smell of men.

  She wasn’t alone. Lilith had no idea how many there were, but she knew they would be lying in wait up ahead. It was a surprise to discover her escape route had been compromised, but the tunnels were no great secret. Their subterranean nature had been forgotten by the modern surface world, but there were still records to access. Lilith cursed herself for underestimating those who had come to take her.

  It was always important to remember that the agents of the British state were as good as those of any country, and she was likely now up against the best of them. If she was lucky, they would be police, but more likely an MI5 snatch team. The British intelligence services were like an immense, insatiable monster. If they detected you, they would be relentless in their pursuit using every means at their disposal. They had come for her in force and her chances of getting out of this intact were now slim.

  Their numbers would be their advantage, her familiarity with this subterranean place and her training were hers. She also had a further edge over them. Due to the lack of light, they would be forced to use thermal imaging goggles to allow them to navigate the blackness. She had to take them out before they saw her.

  Ten metres down the tunnel she encountered the thick iron gate, a recent addition. Briefly stripping off her glove, she pressed her thumb against a small panel. The lock released, the gate swinging easily and virtually silently on its well-oiled hinges. Lilith guided the gate closed and heard the almost inaudible click as it locked back into place. From here on in she would be vulnerable.

  She knew where they would be waiting for her, a crossroads ahead. It would be the ideal place to take her, especially as they wouldn’t know she had come down here blind. Due to the curvature of the tunnel, she would still be out of their sight and Lilith slipped a hand into the backpack she carried, her fingers gripping the concussion grenade. If she could blow herself a path through them, it was only fifty metres to the surface. Stood still, she held her breath, the slight sound of a foot shuffling on dry dirt confirming her suspicion. Silently, she activated the grenade, releasing the pin as carefully as she could and hurling it ahead of her, hearing it bounce off the century-old wall.

  “Grenade,” someone shouted. Lilith was already crouching down, her eyes closed and pushed against her knees, hands clamped over her ears. She would be far enough away to escape the blast wave, but she needed to preserve her other senses as best she could because the initial few seconds would be crucial. To those close by, the grenade would not only blind and deafen, but it had a good chance of severely injuring as well. She would have a brief window of opportunity in which to take advantage.

  She’d faced worse odds in her time.

  The explosion ripped through the corridor, the walls shaking with the impact. Lilith was already up and moving, her Glock 17 ripped free from its holster, the sounds of distress ahead guiding her blind eyes. There were three of them, the noises guiding her aim. She fired at the most obvious target
first, the muzzle flash briefly illuminating the surroundings, her first bullet finding its target. There was to be no mercy down here, not with the danger to her own person so marked. Despite the Kevlar vests they no doubt wore, the armour-piercing ammunition would cut through their defences.

  Her memory told her where the other two were, the second flash proving that her second shot was on target. Even with the suppressor, the Glock’s report assaulted her ears, but she had the advantage now and her third shot hit its target in the forehead. Three down, but there would be more.

  The first man she had shot groaned, and Lilith shot him again. No remorse, no pity.

  She was still alive when realistically she shouldn’t have been. This relayed the further disadvantage her attackers had. They clearly wanted to take her alive.

  Searching one of the bodies, she ripped the helmet and the fitted goggles from its head and donned them. If there were other agents down here, they would be expecting her now. The world around her exploded into greyness, the four tunnels of the crossroads expanding away from her. Looking down, she saw the Tasers two of them were armed with, non-lethal means to incapacitate her. Bad idea when you were facing a trained killer with no sense of empathy. Lilith took the left tunnel, the other two options dead ends.

  That was when her luck failed her. This part of the tunnel curved as well, opening into a larger space, a set of steps ahead. She had no idea why it had been built like this, but she knew it would now be the scene of her last stand, the sound of running feet echoing around her. The advanced team had failed so they would now come at her all guns blazing.

  Crouching, she took aim, only for her own trick to be used against her. Three metal objects came bouncing down the steps and she hurled herself away from them, hands over ears, eyes clamped shut. It did little good, not with three blasts in such close proximity. Lilith’s mind felt like it had suddenly been put through a blender, her ears ringing so loudly she couldn’t hear the feet descending the steps. The blast waves washed over her, debris from the ceiling falling all around. She didn’t have time to recover from that before two more objects entered the space, the tear gas pouring forth, rapidly filling the enclosed space.