by Sean Deville
“If your Holiness believes in what he says, how could I not?”
“We shall see.” There was an anxiousness in the Pope’s manner. He agreed with Cardinal Esposito that this knowledge now needed to be shared, and perhaps it should have been made more widely known long ago. But every Pope before him had kept the truth about demons hidden. In the Vatican archives, there was a separate section only a select few could access. There, in a vault within a vault, the truth of the existence of Hell and its minions was kept away from prying eyes.
“It must be serious for you to call me in like this.” The Director couldn’t remember a time such an urgent meeting had been insisted upon.
“Do you believe in Hell, Director?”
“Such a concept always confused me. If Hell does exist, then I would imagine no human mind could comprehend it.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” the Pope prodded.
“Forgive me your Eminence. What I meant to say is that I don’t know. Not for certain.”
“How rare for someone to give an honest answer. How fortunate you never entered politics.” Even the Pope’s bodyguard smiled in response.
“Are you about to tell me Hell is real?”
“More than that. Satan is also real, and his demons walk the earth.” There was the expected pause as the Pope’s visitor took all that in.
“If it was anyone else saying this, I would consider it some elaborate joke.” Even with the identity of the messenger, the Director was struggling with what he had been told.
“For centuries there has been a war raged on our planet. That war is now nearing its end. The forces of darkness are gathering and when they do, we will be overwhelmed.”
“What am I supposed to do with this information?”
“First, I must ask you to believe.”
“I won’t lie, I’m going to struggle with that.”
“I know,” the Pope said wearily. He supressed the cough that was demanding to be heard. “I don’t expect you to believe what I say on blind faith.” The Pope directed the Director’s attention to his bodyguard.
“This is Eduardo Salvatore. He is the Inspector General of the Gendarme Corps. He will escort you to the Vatican archives where we have prepared a presentation for you.”
“For what purpose?”
“To provide you the proof you need to confirm what I say is true.” The Pope stood, his knees popping with the exertion. The meeting had tired him unexpectedly. He would not rest though, for there were still others who needed to be told the tale he now felt compelled to tell. The Director stood also.
“There’s something else, isn’t there?”
“My dear Director, we are approaching the end times. The Bible tells of a man who will be instrumental in that end.”
“You mean the Antichrist?”
“Yes. If he exists, then we will need to know his identity. Perhaps your agency can discover who this man is. Maybe the juggernaut hurtling towards us cannot be stopped. Maybe it is inevitable. Some say it is God’s will we now face the end of all things. I say we were always destined to fight, and if we can still fight then we can win.”
The Pope watched the Director be led out. Would the evidence that had been amassed be enough to persuade him? It had persuaded the Pope when he had witnessed it in the days following his inauguration, but then the Pope had already been a committed believer. Words written in books wouldn’t be enough, which was why the Director would be shown recorded eye witness testimony. There would be countless letters written by former Popes, each bearing the wax seal to ensure it authenticity. Those letters were statements of truth about the menace infesting the world. More though, there was several hours of video of demons being expelled from the bodies they had claimed.
A sceptical mind would discount it all as the rantings of the insane, because to most people, there was no physical evidence that demons existed in the world. They hid in plain sight, arrogant and relentless. Would you believe in demons after being shown such testimony?
The Pope’s personal assistant stuck his head into the room.
“Does your Holiness require anything?”
“When is my next phone call?” He usually had the constitution of a man thirty years younger, but today he felt weary. Telling secrets was a tiring business.
“We have scheduled a call with the British Prime Minister in thirty minutes, your Holiness.” Two thirds of the way down the list now, his job for today almost complete. The last three names on the list would be the most challenging because they were the most important names of them all. People of power in the American administration must see the truth, for without them all would likely be lost. The Americans were such a cultural phenomenon that, if they fell to the demonic lies, much of the world would follow.
20.
Slough, UK
Simon was beyond terrified.
He lay bound, his eyes covered, random sounds creeping into his ears. His head ached from the panic that overwhelmed him, hands and feet numb from the tightness of his bindings. He'd always been afraid of what might be lurking in the dark, and yet he had been grabbed in the light of day from his family home.
He could remember everything about his abduction until the stinky cloth had been thrust over his mouth which brought the blissful sleep that had filled his lungs. Simon had been there when the two men had forced their way in through the back door, his mother struggling with them. Then came the knife one of them had plunged repeatedly into her chest. Simon had done nothing to help her, the second man holding him, the eyes black, the teeth visible through the depraved snarl.
Then the smell, only to wake up as good as blind. The house where he lived with his mum was supposed to be safe, and yet here he was captive to men who were capable of anything.
Whatever he lay on felt hard, his bones complaining the lack of comfort. They had kept him drugged for most of his time here, the food and drink provided making him sleepy and compliant. He'd made one single gesture to refuse the offerings, which had earned him a slap across the face.
“You eat and drink what we give you or I will stick a fucking tube down your throat and force it into you.” He had been hit a second time for good measure, and that was the last of any resistance he had to offer. The hours thus slipped by in a daze of confusion and dreams. In those moments where his thoughts were his own, they were robbed from him by the grief and the guilt which threatened to consume him.
There was none of the drug-induced confusion now. Simon was lucid, the terror building with each sound that tormented his ears. His dad, when he had been bothered to be around, always said there were people out there who liked to do bad things to little boys. This had never helped Simon's nervousness around people. But he never understood what those bad things were. Until now. Now he thought he understood exactly what his dad had been talking about.
Evil came in many forms. So, when the door to the room he was held in opened, Simon's panic intensified. He tried to scream, but the tape over his mouth muffled most of it.
“How they squeal,” someone said. The voice matched that of the man who had slapped him, the body possessed by a demon called Malphas. Simon knew more than one person had entered, but he didn't know there were five in total. If he had been like Emily, and if he had been able to see, he would have witnessed the black aura around four of them.
“This really is the real deal, isn't it?” spoke a hesitant man. Simon had never heard him before, and didn't know his name was Patrick. If the boy could have reached out and looked inside Patrick's mind, he would have been appalled by the sadism lurking there. Simon's plight excited and aroused this man.
The other four, the ones with the darkness shrouding them, had minds filled with pure evil. So depraved were the possessing demons, the words floating around in their minds would have likely been completely alien to Simon's young and impressionable being.
“There are more children where this one came from, more fresh souls for us to feed off,” the voice of
Simon’s teacher said. No, it couldn't be. Why was his teacher here? How could she, of all people, do this to him? “There is one in particular that will be of great delight to the one we call today. She sees me for who I am.”
The temperature in the room seemed to plummet.
“What happens next?” asked Patrick.
“You are here to give yourself willingly,” Malphas replied. “You are supposed to be familiar with the ritual.”
“I am, but reading it in books is different to real life.” Patrick's voice came closer, a hand suddenly caressing Simon's head. The child squealed afresh and would have done anything not to be touched.
“Do not be concerned,” the voice of a once friendly woman said. “We are here to guide you.”
“Ronove speaks truth,” Malphas added. Ronove? That wasn't his teacher's name. Simon felt he couldn't be mistaken about such a thing. This was Mrs Robinson; he knew it was. So why did she sound so evil?
“I don't care, so long as I get what was promised to me.” The hand on Simon’s hair suddenly grew into a fist, almost pulling Simon's scalp off.
Patrick's lips came close to his ears. “Are you listening, you little shit? I want you to scream and I want you to beg with the knowledge that none of it will do you any good. By the time I'm done with you, you will be begging for death.”
“You torment the child well,” Malphas commented. Simon didn't think he had any tears left, but more came when vice-like fingers began to twist his right ear. “By building the fear you increase the chances of the ritual working.”
“You mean it's not guaranteed. Nobody mentioned that.” Patrick sounded disappointed.
“Nothing in life or death is certain. Except the obvious.” Simon heard his teacher chuckle then, and any hope he would escape this evaporated. The terror brought heightened sensation, Simon's sanity on the brink of collapsing in on itself. The five people moved around him.
“Stand here,” Malphas instructed someone. From the direction of the sound, Simon could tell Malphas was standing by his head.
“Patrick, through wisdom and prophecy, you have been selected to join us to make the sacred number,” Ronove said.
“I, Malphas, call upon all to come forth before you. Let the truth be seen in his name. At the offering’s left foot, Naberius. At the offering’s right foot, Pruflas. On my left hand, Ronove. On my right hand, the vessel for Haagenti, the new, the un-bled.” Simon had no idea what any of this meant. He didn't need to see to know the breath that escaped him was visible, like the cold winter mornings when his childish thoughts could pretend he was grown up and smoking.
“Do you accept the task asked of you?” Ronove asked.
“Yes”, Patrick replied.
“Do you honour the name of Satan and promise to worship him?” asked Pruflas.
“Yes,” Patrick replied again. Simon's skin began to creep. Please, let me go. I won't tell anyone. I'll keep so quiet.
“Do you renounce the false gods that have claimed the named here as their own?” said the voice that seemed to hover over Simon's forehead.
“Yes,” Patrick said.
“So it is written,” Malphas uttered. “So it is wrote.”
“Then tell those who dwell in professed righteousness. Let it be known the keys to the doors of the gates of Hell have been found.” Naberius now spoke, a strong draft suddenly filling the room. On the edge of his hearing, Simon heard a harrowing cry, not of a single voice, but the sound of a billion tortured souls. He could suddenly smell smoke and burning flesh. Simon knew that smell; every kid did.
“Stand and step towards the altar,” Malphas ordered. Five pairs of hands grabbed Simon now, every limb and his head grasped harshly.
“Do not deviate from the path; do not step from the circle. Only the Sons of Perdition will survive this night.” Why was his teacher doing this? As if in unison, the whole room seemed to erupt in screeches of suffering.
“Now is the hour,” a fresh voice said. It took Simon a moment to realise it was coming from where Patrick had stood, but it sounded distant, like he was hearing it from deep within a cave. Something sharp was placed against the bare flesh of Simon's chest, and with renewed energy he tried one last time to break the bonds. “I come, I come to join you my brethren.”
“Take this life so that we might feed off its essence.” Even with his sight obstructed, Simon knew they were all crowding over him now, their fingers clawing into his flesh as they mercilessly pawed at him. He could feel the blade pressing down, the sharpness becoming pain as the skin was penetrated. Someone ripped the tape from his mouth, and Simon let loose an ungodly scream.
“Yes, call him forth with your suffering,” Ronove commanded. Death had been such a bizarre concept to Simon, but now he understood it and knew that sometimes it could be a mercy. Soon the knife would be pushed deep into him. Wouldn’t someone come and save him?
“Help me,” Simon pleaded.
“It is too late for you boy. Haagenti is already here.” In Simon’s terror, he had no idea who it was who spoke. The covering on his eyes was removed, and Simon was finally getting to see the malformed faces looming over him. He shut his eyes, not wanting to see any of this.
“Welcome, brother. The fifth of us, the sacred number to bring upon the world that which we crave. Who can doubt our claim to what is ours?” Malphas spoke the challenge, only for someone to answer.
“I can,” the voice from the doorway said. And then it wasn't Simon screaming anymore, but those tormenting him.
***
Those guarding the demons had been a disappointment. None of them were able to challenge Lucien in the slightest. The first he had caught smoking outside, Lucien's blade opening up the carotid artery. To allow yourself to be so distracted in your duties was a poor reflection on the state of the world. Lucien held his victim upright as he bled out, another human life to add to his total. The sentry was big, but gym muscle was no match for Lucien’s dedication. When the life finally left the man, Lucien took him gently to the ground, a hope that this guard had serviced the demons out of naiveté. If that were the case, the heavenly host would still reject him. There was only the eternal void and its harshness left for this soul.
Some would say Lucien should have used non-lethal means to subdue his prey, but he had no time for such pleasantries. Despite his initial surveillance, he was faced by an unknown number of enemies in a property he was unfamiliar with. Sparing lives risked hesitation and complacency. He was a hammer of God, a force of nature to crush all those who opposed the Lord’s will. It didn’t matter if you served Satan out of choice or misfortune. Lucien wasn’t here to be the judge of that. He recited in his head the words he had heard from Father so many times.
“Caedite eos. Novit enim Dominus qui sunt eius”.
“Kill them. For the Lord knows those that are His own.”
The second guard Lucien found at the back door to the property. This one seemed more alert, but his vigilance didn’t save him. The bullet from Lucien’s suppressed Glock was already smashing through the man’s temple before he could react. These were not the foes of Inquisitors. These were amateurs, paid to do a job without any understanding of the doom that had descended on them. If it wasn’t for the ultimate prize waiting somewhere in the property, Lucien might have felt his skills were wasted here.
Unless it was a trap of course. That was always a possibility. Leave the perimeter lightly defended, to suck the unwary into a killing zone. Lucien knew this not to be the case here. These men weren’t the sort to give their lives so easily. He knew such men, knew the look they had in their eyes. They lived lives of greed and self-deception rather than unwavering devotion. There was no hint of selfless sacrifice in them. The only thing they were devoted to were their own egos and desires. They would not willingly sacrifice their lives.
Such weakness deserved to be purged. Lucien had been given a cause he was more than willing to die for. Could these men say the same? How pointless must their existence
have been.
The shot guard fell forward down a short flight of steps, Lucien quickly closing the gap, eyes searching for the briefest hint of movement. No sounds came from inside the farm house, no cries of people alarmed or alerted. Kneeling momentarily, Lucien searched the guard. The weapon he found looked poorly maintained, not something a professional would wield. Another piece in the puzzle about who he was up against slotted into place.
They were most likely hired muscle, thugs who lurked in the criminal underworld. The planet would be made better by their demise. Their mothers would silently cheer the news of their death. Once again Lucien had furnished Hell with a fresh soul to be tormented.
Inside, the house was warm, Lucien’s sense of smell guiding him to his next kill. In the corridor ahead, he heard a toilet flush. A door opened and he came face to face with a startled woman who had chosen to wear too much perfume. Before she could react or cry in alarm, the back of her head exploded as the bullet that entered through her forehead blew it out. She was flung back into the bathroom, what was left of her head impacting on a sink unit. More noise than Lucien would have liked, but already he was moving, his senses showing him the way.
“Michelle?” a loud voice enquired. Thank you, Lucien whispered. Thank you for speeding my hunt.
The last two were still in the building’s kitchen, a large opulent space full of white units, chrome and glass. One of the final guards was standing, the noise of Lucien’s suppressed gun louder than Hollywood would have you believe. Veterans, men of honour who had honed the skills of their profession, would not have let themselves be so vulnerable. Neither of the guards had drawn a weapon and Lucien’s shots ended any threat these men posed.
Lucien’s heart rate had barely risen above its resting state.
He surmised there was a reason why they were in this room, the door to the basement closed. He could hear nothing from below, even as he opened the door. But there was no hiding the stench coming from down there, the telling aroma of the damned that only someone with Lucien’s ability could smell. Most normal folk wouldn’t be able to detect it, but then Lucien was far from normal. Down there was where he would find the sons and daughters of Satan.
