The Last Church

by Richard Lee

  It sliced through Dean’s neck as easily as if it wasn’t there. Blood gushed from the slash. Rachael dived backwards out of its way. Her reactions were too slow and her chest got a slight splattering.

  None of it touched Peter.

  When the upward spray stopped, she again ventured to the edge of the bed. Dean was gone. The pool of blood left behind rose, arcing into the dagger’s hilt, which expanded in Peter’s hand to the point where he was holding only the side. A moment later, the hilt shrank to it original size and all evidence of Dean was gone.

  Peter said something she couldn’t hear.

  Slowly, he stood up to face her. He looked exactly as he did in the magazines, except now his hair was longer and he looked very pale.

  “Not bad for a dead guy,” she muttered.

  One person in every city, state, and country around the world felt a surge of energy. Most of them entered their basement or private study, some having to wake to do this chore. They all had a dagger similar to that of Peter’s. They each drew the dagger across their left palm.

  The dagger instantly soaked up the blood.

  They stared at their cuts. The slices healed instantly and perfectly as if nothing had touched the skin.

  They chanted.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The church was three hundred years old, very new considering other churches were in the thousand-year mark. The building itself was small, with large iron gates at the driveway and a small graveyard behind it. No one had been buried there in over fifty years. Father Michael doubted he would live to see someone buried there. It just wasn’t fashionable these days. There were barely any churchgoers either. His weekly sermon drew only eighteen people; four of whom he noticed were sleeping. He had only three regulars, two men who were trying to stop drinking without the DNA aid they were eligible for and a lovely American girl. Whenever they talked, he read in her eyes another question, which she seemed unable to ask. It was something very serious and he had hoped in time she would gain confidence enough to ask him. Sadly she hadn’t been to church in the past three months. He hoped nothing terrible had happened. Maybe she had gone back to America?

  Father Michael headed to the kitchen. He wore a pair of black slacks and a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The shirt was stretched tight around his large midsection. He wore the same color clothes every day. Part of being a Roman Catholic, plus it matched his full head of bushy grey hair.

  A curse of passing middle age, he thought. At fifty-five his metabolism had slowed right down.

  The kitchen was in the basement. It was concrete. Every room in this church was made of concrete, except the sonic shower. He opened the breadbox and made a cheese sandwich. There were pots hanging on the wall and a large stove. Father Michael had opted to forsake modern temptations in exchange for hand-made food. Several years ago he had had a staff of seven, each a man (or woman) of the cloth. They had all moved on, taking positions in more modern churches, with more money. That’s what it all came down to in the end, politics and money. In fact, if it weren’t for government funding, there wouldn’t be a church here at all.

  He placed his sandwich on a plate and carried it up to his room. It was early afternoon and he doubted he would have any visitors today. It was safe to take an afternoon sleep, a habit he had taken a fancy to over the past few years.

  The church was unlocked twenty-four hours a day as was the old custom. Keeping it as traditional as possible was Father Michael’s goal. And he was doing a very good job of it.

  Still, if somebody did decide to pop in, he would be safe. He did, after all, reside in the house of the Lord.

  He twisted the knob of his bedroom door and used his foot to push it open. The hinges squeaked as it opened to a large, almost empty room. Against the wall was a small single bed. Above that hung a large cross without the image of Jesus. On the opposite wall a small battery powered clock ticked softly. The time was one-thirty-seven. To the left of the bed was a closet and close to the door was a writing desk. Father Michael placed the plate on the desk next to a small jug of water.

  He had decided to eat the sandwich after his nap.

  Keeping his black polished shoes on, he climbed onto the bed, thought about getting under the covers but decided against it, and closed his eyes. He gently folded his hands on top of his large stomach and relaxed. He sighed deeply and tried not to worry about the decreasing number of churchgoers or the fact that the church had no money and the government credit was minimal. Mostly, he tried not to think about the proposed change in status for churches. The change to make them private. He suddenly realized not trying to think about these negative forces was, in fact, having the opposite effect.

  He laid his hands at his side and tried to block all thoughts by whispering his favorite Bible verses. Within ten minutes he was asleep.

  A moment later he was wide-awake. Sweat dotted his forehead and cheeks. A lonely drop rolled off the tip of his nose and fell onto his upper lip. He licked it away as he sat up. On his desk he spied the jug of water. The Lord in Heaven knew he needed a drink and needed it now.

  Father Michael had been plagued by nightmares for as long as he could remember. He was almost used to them. But he had never experienced the fear he felt now, even with the dream ended.

  His legs were shaky as he rose off the small bed and staggered to the writing desk. He grabbed the jug and poured a long drink of cold water. It felt prickly as it went down but it was also good. He sighed loudly as he finished the glass and poured another. Last year, he would have grabbed the whiskey instead. Water was better.

  Images of the dream came back. Bright, quick flashes. Small pictures haphazardly appearing at random. Disassembled fragments fighting to find the right order.

  Father Michael knew the order. He remembered the dream almost perfectly. A trick he had learned long ago to remember his nightmares. When he was younger, he had thoughts of being a horror writer, but his mother quickly beat that out of him with harsh words and a promise he had made to join the order. He didn’t remember ever making such a promise, but by the time he was sixteen, he knew priesthood was for him. He felt as if he had been chosen. Before his twenty-first birthday, he knew exactly what church he wanted to run.

  Usually the dreams were about mass destruction or mass death or worse, aliens penetrating the dome as the Reynox had done roughly twenty years ago.

  Never before had he seen a face or known the name belonging to that image. And an image of beauty it was. He felt like a fifteen-year-old boy aroused by a holographic centerfold.

  In the dream the woman whispered her name to him. She whispered, “Rachael.”

  Suddenly someone or something was next to her. The image of the man, it had to be a man, was blurry, out of focus as if he needed glasses to see him clearly, yet the girl was plainly in focus.

  Slowly the girl lifted a dagger to her lips. Blood dripped off the glistening, highly polished blade. With a smile, the woman, Rachael, licked the blood into her mouth. A small spill ran down her chin.

  That didn’t scare him. The real fear was seeing the dagger and knowing what it was. What it was used for. But was he absolutely sure this was the same dagger? He quickly drank the water in his glass. He picked up his plate and tipped the sandwich into the unlined rubbish bin beside the writing desk.

  With haste he left the room and entered the library down the hall. It was small and he barely used it. It contained only religious books, many of which he had read many times. None of the books had a dust jacket. The covers looked as old as him, but the paper inside was good. The pages naturally repelled dust and all had a holographic chip inside. Once the cover was opened, the chip would load and show the words printed on each page. The chips were slow in these books. Sometimes Father Michael had to wait a full minute before reading. The church didn’t have the funds to upgrade.

  But he wasn’t looking for a holographic chip encoded book. He was looking for a special book. A book he kept under a voice activa
ted lock and key. A printed book given to him almost fifteen years ago. He had read it a hundred times since then and had studied the pictures, memorized the footnotes and had highlighted special parts of interest to him.

  He opened a small panel in the wall and saw a steel box, A4 in size and width but at least six inches deep. Gently he pulled it out of the specially built hiding place and carried it to a small round table with a wide easy chair next to it. The room used to contain eight tables. They were now stored in various places around the church. Seeing the single chair reminded him how lonely it was around here.

  I still have all my wits and I haven’t gone stark raving mad yet. He smiled at his thoughts. The truth being, he liked the lonesomeness. He had grown used to it over the years.

  He placed the steel box on the table and took the seat next to it. It had been years since he had last opened it and wondered if the voice lock still worked. There was only one way to find out.

  He moved the box sideways so he was sitting directly in front of the lock mike. Slowly and clearly he said the voice password. “Six hundred three score and six.”

  A small whirling noise came from inside. Followed by a click. A small steel arm popped out from the side of the box and the lid slid a centimetre to the left. Using the small steel arm, Father Michael pushed the lid in a semi-circle. It folded itself into several sections and vanished into the end of the box with only the steel arm showing itself.

  He was mildly surprised it worked without a problem, but deep down, he knew it would. Older technology worked better than this new thought processing techno rubbish everyone used these days. The box was the first personal item he had bought since joining the order. He had only bought it because the Order of the Black Snake had suggested a lock box for the book.

  Fifteen years had passed since he met Father Small. Fifteen years since he joined the secret Order by invitation. Five years since they had all died in a fire at St. Peter’s College. Five years since he had last opened this box and read the book. Five years since he thought about the book, the Order or the promise he made under the Black Snake.

  Had the time finally arrived?

  Gingerly he removed the book from its case and laid it in his lap. The hardback cover was plain white without any markings on it. He opened the cover as carefully as he dared and read the inscription on the facing page. It read: To Father Michael, May God give unto us the strength to face the devil without fear, but with love.

  It had taken Father Michael a year to fully understand the meaning of the inscription. At the time of receiving the book, he didn’t know those words were literally meant. He had thought those words meant, “May God give everyone strength to face their real selves and to find his or her heart.” How wrong he had been. The goal of the Order of the Black Snake was to find the devil and destroy him.

  He remembered asking, “How does one find the devil?”

  Father John had answered. He was a muscular man with a smooth voice that matched his smooth brown head. He was the only priest Father Michael had met and liked in the Order.

  Father John said, “There is a book and a dagger. These people are not the devil, only his slaves.”

  “Except one,” Father Small added. “Go on, tell him all.”

  Father John smiled kindly.

  “I’ll tell him,” said Samantha. Her voice was soft as silk. She was the only female member of the group and she wasn’t a priest. The only outsider to know about this group and their actions. She was a private investigator, and her job was to find these so called “slaves” and direct the Order of the Black Snake to the location. Kind by nature, she offset the sweet image by wearing a black leather jacket with a print on the back reading, “I killed Dolphins to make this jacket”.

  Father John sighed. His smile was gone.

  “All right,” he said. “There is a rumor of one man. This man is supposed to be equal, in a way, to the Morning Star.”

  Father Michael nodded. Any mention of the Morning Star, Lucifer, had his full and undivided attention.

  “He doesn’t have the powers of the Morning Star,” said Father Brian, a large heavyset man, “but he does have the will of the devil.”

  “And desire,” added Samantha.

  Father John continued, “The rumor has it, that he possessed the only first original version of a book called...something or other.”

  “A wish for the devil,” Father Small said.

  Father John nodded. “Yes, that’s right,” he said, “but I believe this man called it something else. I’m sorry, Father Michael, the name has escaped me.”

  “Than I shall tell it,” Father Small said. He sat down in a chair close to Father Michael. “We don’t know the man’s name, only that he became someone famous and wealthy beyond his wildest dreams after finding a book he called—” He glanced at Father John. “—The devil’s wish book.”

  “Who is this person?”

  Shrugging his shoulders, Father Small said, “As such, that is the problem with rumors. Not all information is given.”

  Father Michael said, “I’ve never heard of any such book.”

  “Of course you haven’t,” Father Small said. “Why would you?”

  Father Michael felt like he was being talked down to. Being made to feel like a fool because he didn’t know of this one book. A book based on rumor, not fact. And known only to certain circles. Groups he wasn’t a part of until now. He decided he would remain quiet and keep his thoughts to himself.

  Father Small said, “This man has the will of the devil. He has a vengeance, for what exactly no one is sure of. It is believed he had the original wish book, due to having called it by another name.

  “Supposedly, the book remains in a person’s presence for twenty years and if you kill, you get to demand a wish. People with this book are never captured by the police.”

  “We capture them and make them change their ways,” Father Brian said with a smile.

  “The book will grant any wish. After twenty years it will automatically move on to another person. Research has shown that it usually goes to a person without much hope of financial success. It has never been passed on to somebody poor. By that I mean poor in spirit or a street person. Many times we have wondered why the poorest person never gets this chance and we have yet to find an answer.”

  “This man is the Antichrist?” Father Michael asked with a smile of disbelief.

  “He is not the Antichrist,” Samantha said. “He has a personal goal to achieve.”

  Father Small said, “He will return to this world when the time is right. It is our job to be strong enough to stop him.”

  “And so we hunt his followers, those with a slightly different version of his book, those who know he will return and wait for him. These people have the same goal as him. Or they will have after accepting the book.”

  “It is these people we must convince to stop their practice. They gain strength with their kills.” Father John added, “Strength is confidence in oneself, and this book gives them eighty-nine percent.”

  “When he returns we must stop him, no matter what the cost.” Father Small rose from his seat close to Father Michael, went to a small bar and poured a glass of red wine.

  “This is all just a rumor though,” Father Michael said.

  “That’s right,” Samantha said. “It’s just a rumor. There are many such tales, Father. One rumor is that he wrote a more powerful book, one that will bring us face to face with the real Lucifer.”

  The priests laughed. Father Small said, “Samantha, please.”

  She had dark red hair and a great number of freckles spotted her nose and cheeks. She wore no make up and most men, Father Michael assumed at the time, would find her attractive. She also wore blue or black jeans every time he saw her. She came to all meetings, but usually remained quiet, sitting in the corner and just watching and fumbling with the zip of her leather jacket. She sure didn’t look strong enough to be a detective of any sort, but during one the Order
’s “investigations” he discovered just how strong she really was.

  In an unmarked cruiser, the Order followed Samantha to a quiet house in Section Five, a well to do area of Area City. Mostly politicians, government agency workers or computer designers lived there. They parked outside the house and watched it closely for three hours.

  He stayed in the car with Father Maxwell, Father Brian and Father Kenji. They wore everyday clothes: slacks, long sleeved shirt and a cotton vest. Father Small supplied the clothes.

  Father Small, Father John and Samantha were outside the cruiser. They stood close together and looked to be holding a serious conversation.

  This was Father Michael’s first investigation and he was extremely nervous. He didn’t know what to do or expect. He thought they were going to talk to somebody and try to help them, try to change said person’s bad ways.

  Samantha walked to the front door of the house. As she got closer, bright security lights flashed on, throwing a piercing orange glow across the lawn and street.

  The cruiser’s side door slid open.

  “Father Michael, please stay in the cruiser tonight. This is your first investigation and we don’t want any problems.”

  “I won’t cause any problems. I want to help this person as much as you do.”

  Father Maxwell laughed. It was a sudden grunt barely resembling a laugh and it stopped just as fast from Father John’s cold stare.

  “You will have time to view the holo-tape next week. Remember, even though you’ve been with us for almost a year, you are still under probation.” With that said, Father John turned and walked into the orange light.

  Father Maxwell pushed past Father Michael as he climbed out of the cruiser. He received a friendly slap on the back from Father Kenji, who said, “Soon, Father Michael.”