Armageddon

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  Tearing her gaze from the ashes, Lorelei looked around. The seared corpse of the great dragon lay close by.

  That must have been what burned her.

  With her new understanding, Lorelei discovered that she could move.

  And move she did.

  She floated through the air like an untethered balloon. At first, it was sort of difficult to control her movement, but with some concentration, she was able to maneuver.

  Is this what I have to look forward to? she wondered. Flying around . . . naked?

  Glancing down at her body, Lorelei imagined herself fully clothed. Her flesh began to steam, and an ethereal mist flowed over her body to create a robelike covering.

  “Would you look at that?” she uttered in awe.

  Maybe there was more to this ghost business than she suspected.

  There has to be. How else could Dad expect me to lead them? she thought as the mist coalesced around her head like a hood.

  But there was still much that she didn’t understand.

  Lorelei drifted by the felled dragon. It was huge, but had been taken down by beings less than half its size.

  The Nephilim.

  Lorelei could not help but smile at the thought of her friends, but her smile quickly passed. Had they survived?

  Her thoughts were suddenly, rudely, interrupted as a monster exploded out through the side of the dragon’s corpse, ripping through the thick, scaled flesh with its huge pincers.

  Lorelei screamed, recoiling from the loathsome creature that had been feeding on the dragon’s insides. Its insectlike head was covered in gore. It shook violently, releasing a disturbing cry of its own.

  Somehow Lorelei sensed that the beast could not perceive her ghostly shape, but it did not stop her from acting out in revulsion. She found herself reaching out to the creature’s chitinous head, watching as her ghostly fingers passed into one of its bulging compound eyes. Her hand inside its head, she willed the monster to die.

  The insect screeched one final time, before its head exploded.

  Lorelei stared at her ghostly hand, stunned.

  There was definitely more to being a ghost than she’d imagined.

  * * *

  Satan breathed in the thick aroma of the grave and imagined a time in the not-so-distant future when the entire atmosphere would smell like decay.

  Glorious.

  The Darkstar turned to the row of corpses laid out before him. The five bodies of the fallen Nephilim had been exhumed from the burial ground at the Saint Athanasius School.

  The bodies had been interred in what looked to be bedsheets. The makeshift shrouds had started to rot.

  One at a time, he studied the corpses, forming a unique bond with each. Satan, the Darkstar, saw great potential in these rotting forms.

  “You shall be my children,” he said to them, his eyes lovingly caressing the still corpses. “And in being so, you shall serve me loyally—unquestioningly.”

  Legions of beasts had sworn their allegiance to him over the last few weeks. But the Darkstar knew that their fealty was fleeting. It was the nature of such creatures to serve only their best interests. He knew if the opportunity ever presented itself, the foul beasts would hungrily knock him from his perch of command.

  They served him only because they feared him. But now he would create his own army.

  The armored Lord of Shadows tenderly lifted the decaying cloth to expose the corpses’ faces. He studied each and every one in their various stages of decomposition, so he knew them as only a father knows his children.

  The misery that came to be known as Hell, imprisoned within the form he had stolen, churned eagerly in anticipation of what it was going to be allowed to do.

  It was a power so great, so awesome in its magnitude, that it scared even one such as him.

  This had been God’s punishment to Lucifer: all the sorrow of Heaven, all the sadness and pain caused by the Morningstar’s revolt against the Heavenly Father and His Kingdom, stored away inside him, in order that he learn the folly of what he had done.

  To the Son of the Morning, this was the ultimate punishment, but to one born in darkness, this was a power that bordered on unimaginable.

  Satan admired his new children. A power such as this must be used sparingly—effectively—for even he was unsure that he could control it if unleashed completely.

  Standing above his soon-to-be-reborn family, the Darkstar removed the black metal gauntlet that covered Lucifer’s hand, exposing his pale flesh to the elements. He flexed his fingers.

  If he was required to give any accolades to the Creator, it would be for the wonderful design of His divine beings. The angels truly were an achievement to behold.

  And Satan found it fitting that the gift of new life, a life born of darkness and misery, would come from a vessel originally forged in the fires of God’s love.

  A vessel strong enough to contain that which came to be known as Hell.

  Satan conjured a knife of petrified shadow and brought it to his palm. Without hesitation, he pressed the edge of the blade against his fragile flesh, cutting a gash, unleashing the blood within.

  Blood rich with the power of torment and sorrow.

  “This is my blood,” Satan recited, slowly tipping the wound in his palm over the mouths of the dead Nephilim. “It contains the power of my life, which I give unto you.”

  The Darkstar admired his work, the wound upon his hand already healing. Wishing his blade of night away, Satan searched for any sign that he had succeeded. His blood had been completely absorbed, and he visualized it working its way through the bodies, restoring a semblance of life to the cadavers’ cells and organs.

  Satan waited, then began to pace. To call the Lord of Shadows impatient was an understatement.

  “Live!” he ordered them, believing his words contained the catalyst to bring forth the results he so desired. “I command you to live!”

  The corpses showed no sign of life.

  Suddenly there came a knock on the chamber’s door. Satan turned in fury as the imp demon Scox intruded on his solitude.

  “Master?” the red-skinned creature asked. “I heard you cry out, and I was uncertain if it was me that you called for or . . .”

  “Did I not ask to be left alone?” the Darkstar demanded, feeling the urge to peel the flesh from the imp’s musculature and use it to cover a cushion for one of his thrones.

  “Yes, but I wasn’t sure if . . .”

  The imp trespassed farther into the chamber, and his eyes went wide.

  The Darkstar spread his wings and vaulted across the expanse of room to land before the terrified servant.

  “You weren’t sure?” Satan leaned in to the flummoxed imp. “Weren’t you listening to my explicit commands?”

  Scox backed toward the door, but it had already closed behind him, trapping him with his angry master.

  “Yes, yes, I was,” he stammered. “But there have been times when I obeyed your requests for isolation, then incurred your wrath for not heeding your requests to—”

  “Your insolence inspires me,” Satan said, grabbing the imp by the throat and imagining the glorious screams that would act as a balm for his frustrations. He was just about to begin ripping the red flesh from the imp’s face when—

  “Master!”

  “Scox, your pathetic begging will only spur me to work all the slower,” Satan said, sinking his claws into his servant’s leathery flesh.

  “No, look!” the imp screeched.

  Satan turned. The cadavers were moving.

  He tossed Scox away, the promise of torture forgotten.

  “Leave,” the Darkstar commanded, wanting to be alone with his children as they were reborn.

  Satan sensed the stone door open and the imp slip away, as he watched the corpses.

  But as soon as the imp left, the bodies ceased any signs of life.

  “What is this?” Satan growled. Why had they shown signs of life just seconds ago, but now . . .
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  Satan could think of only one difference, insane as it was.

  “Scox!” he roared. “Come here, now!”

  He was about to scream for the imp again, when the door opened.

  “This time—this time, I am sure that you called for me.”

  The corpses were moving again, writhing as if the imp’s presence somehow facilitated their return to life.

  A strange realization came upon the Darkstar.

  “An audience!” he exclaimed.

  “Excuse me, my lord?”

  “An audience,” Satan repeated. “They wish their births to be witnessed.”

  Scox looked at the corpses, then back to his master. “If you say so, my liege.”

  Satan nodded. If an audience of one was enough to spur a few twitches, what would more spectators bring?

  “Bring them in,” Satan announced, his eyes still fixed upon his children.

  “What?” Scox asked. “I don’t know what you’re—”

  “The rabble outside,” Satan explained. “The beasts that claim to serve me—bring them here.”

  Scox hesitated, but knew better than to question any further. The imp left the chamber, and the bodies stilled.

  “Quickly, Scox!” Satan bellowed.

  Squeaks, squeals, hisses, growls, and roars announced the arrival of the Darkstar’s minions.

  “Come in, come in,” he waved.

  He could tell that the monsters were confused, perhaps expecting some sort of trap, but they continued to lope, slither, undulate, and glide into the chamber.

  Satan could barely contain his pleasure as his monstrous Community stared and the corpses writhed to life.

  The beasts were asking questions, but it was not time for answers. Satan raised his hand for their attention.

  “Silence!”

  The chamber grew eerily quiet even though filled almost to capacity.

  “You are all about to witness something . . . fantastic.” Satan pointed to the shapes that squirmed across the stone floor like maggots atop a piece of rotting meat.

  At his command, the movement of the five corpses became more frantic, clawed fingers ripping through the remaining shrouds that covered their bodies.

  Those that had been dead had returned to life, shucking off their burial garments like snakes leaving their old skin.

  And what a spectacular sight they were.

  Their bodies were now oily black as the Darkstar’s blood, the surface of their skin reflecting the chamber’s light with an unearthly shine. Their eyes glowed a sickly yellow, and their mouths, which were twisted in a rictus grin of pain, were filled with jagged, razor-sharp teeth.

  Satan’s new army crawled on all fours, their muscular backs bucking wildly with their transformation. One after the other, they tossed their heads back, crying out in a strange combination of agony and relief, as huge, batlike wings tore through the fabric of their flesh.

  “Look at them,” Satan commanded proudly. “My blessed angels of darkness, my angels of the void.”

  The Darkstar broke his gaze from his creations to take in his audience. His chest swelled with pride as he saw fear in their watchful eyes.

  He smiled, for now he finally understood.

  He knew what it was like to be God.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The fallen angel and the Malakim flitted about the storm-racked Himalayan mountains, as Tarshish’s angel magick transported them here and there on their search.

  “Does any of this look familiar to you?” Mallus asked, raising his voice above the howl of the frigid winds.

  Tarshish shook his head. “Things have changed a lot since the early days,” he said. “Who knows if the Metatron’s body is even in the same place.”

  The Malakim paled. “I think I need to sit.” He trudged through the snow to an outcropping of ice-covered rock and leaned against it.

  “Are you all right?” Mallus asked.

  “Fine,” Tarshish answered. “Just not used to using my magick so freely. It’s draining.”

  The two knew that the power they sought was not going to go with them willingly. They were likely in for a fight.

  A fight that they might not survive.

  “Do you think this’ll do it?” Tarshish asked.

  Mallus looked out at the swirling snow and the seemingly endless mountains beyond. “Depends on what you’re talking about.”

  “If we can find the Metatron’s remains, and locate God’s power that we unleashed . . .”

  “Yes, go on,” Mallus urged.

  “Do you think it would be enough to forgive us our sins?”

  “That’s a good question.”

  “And what do you think the answer would be?” Tarshish prodded. The Malakim must have realized that he was slowly being covered by the drifting snow, because in a sudden flash, the snow on his clothes turned to steam. “Go ahead and tell me whatever you’re thinking. I can take it—I am the last of the Malakim, master of powerful angel magick and all that jazz.”

  “Let’s just say I think we’ve done some serious bad throughout the ages,” Mallus said. “But this could go a good distance in getting the Lord God Almighty to look upon us favorably again.”

  “So, no full pardon?”

  “What do you seriously think?” Mallus asked him.

  “Yeah,” Tarshish agreed. “We were pretty nasty. Maybe we don’t deserve to be forgiven.”

  “Perhaps,” Mallus said.

  “So why bother then?” Tarshish asked. “Why risk what little life we have left if for no reward?”

  “Isn’t that the kind of attitude that got us into this situation?” Mallus asked.

  Tarshish shrugged. “Yeah, probably.”

  “We did a lot of damage to this world when we sided with the Architects,” Mallus said. “I think we owe it to ourselves, as well as to all the others trying to make things right.”

  “But will it matter?”

  “Won’t know unless we try.”

  Tarshish stared at Mallus, the Malakim’s ancient eyes seemingly dissecting him and then putting him back together.

  “How did somebody so smart fall for all the crap the Morningstar was shoveling during the war?” the Malakim asked.

  “I don’t know, why don’t you tell me.”

  They both had a good laugh.

  “You rested now? Can we go?” Mallus asked finally.

  “Yeah, I’m good.” The Malakim pushed off from his rock, his body emitting waves of crackling energy.

  Mallus stepped closer, feeling the Malakim magick take hold of him, as they prepared to teleport about the mountains again on their search.

  “How close do you think we are to actually locating the Metatron’s shell?” Mallus asked.

  “I don’t know, but there’s something that I’d like to try.”

  And the pair was gone, the falling snow covering up any evidence that they had ever been there at all.

  * * *

  Jeremy opened the can of stew with his burning knife, while heating the contents with his hand.

  “This should be hot enough,” he said, his breath fogging.

  It was cold in this abandoned cabin by the Baltic Sea, but the larder was relatively well stocked, if one enjoyed canned foods, that is.

  Jeremy carried the food to the cot where Enoch lay beneath multiple blankets.

  “Here,” he prodded, bringing the steaming can and spoon to the toddler’s mouth. “Sit up and have a bite. You need to keep up your strength.”

  “I’m not hungry,” the child said from beneath the covers.

  “Yeah, but you will be,” Jeremy answered. “And once I’m done, you’ll be telling me that you fancy a snack. Have a bite to eat now and avoid pissing me off later.”

  “I told you—”

  “And I told you,” Jeremy snapped, reaching over and pulling at the pile of blankets.

  The child was curled into a tight little ball. His body, unnaturally large for one who had been born so recently,
still appeared small and helpless.

  “Please eat something,” Jeremy said. He’d continued to will heat into the palm of his hand so that the contents of the can would not grow cold.

  Enoch looked at him intensely; there was much anger in those eyes, as if Jeremy were somehow responsible for the troubles they’d been having.

  “I’ll eat,” Enoch stated angrily. “But I won’t like it.”

  “That’s fine with me.” Jeremy dragged a stool beside the cot and sat down. “Why don’t you pull those covers over your shoulders?”

  Enoch scowled but did it anyway, draping the blankets across him like a shawl.

  Jeremy dipped the plastic spoon into the stew and brought it to the child’s mouth.

  “I shouldn’t even be eating this,” the baby said. “I’m less than two months old. This will probably wreak havoc with my digestive system.”

  “You’ve been doing fine,” Jeremy said. “Baby food is only for real babies.”

  “I’m a real baby,” Enoch protested.

  “No, you’re not,” Jeremy retorted.

  “Close enough.”

  “Not sure if I’d even go that far,” Jeremy said, taking more stew onto the spoon and bringing it to Enoch’s mouth.

  “Bastard.”

  “Shut up and eat your stew.”

  Enoch took another mouthful, this time more eagerly. The baby was obviously hungry. Big surprise.

  A roar sounded from somewhere outside. It was distant, but close enough.

  A sword of fire immediately came to life in Jeremy’s hand. He set down the can of stew and darted toward the window. The thin glass was covered in frost, distorting the view outside.

  He could see something moving in the frozen water outside, its serpentine neck jutting up from the ice with another roar.

  “What is it?” Enoch asked.

  “I don’t bloody know,” Jeremy said. He held the sword down by his side so as not to alert the monster to their presence inside the hovel. “Sea serpent, I’d gather.”

  Enoch helped himself to the can of stew, having some difficulty using the spoon.

  “It’s hard to believe that there was a time when a creature like that would have been unheard of,” Jeremy said.

  “I never knew such a time,” Enoch said, chewing noisily.