Armageddon

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  She drifted closer to the slab, letting her hand float over its smooth surface. Her fingers entered the stone, and a warm tingle reminded her of the sensations she’d felt when still alive.

  “How do we turn it on?” she asked.

  “That is why the child is needed,” A’Dorial answered.

  She looked at the ghost. “Then I have to go back. I have to help Jeremy save the child. . . .”

  The scene around them abruptly changed, the quiet of the temple erupting with the violence of battle.

  “What is this?” she cried out, as gouts of fire exploded around her. Even though she could not be hurt, she still found herself shying away from the destructive forces.

  “The battle has begun,” A’Dorial stated. “Armageddon is in full swing.”

  Signs of struggle were everywhere. Angels with metal wings, which she recognized from the department store parking lot where she’d found Jeremy, wrestled beasts of every conceivable size and nature. For a brief moment her attention was totally transfixed upon the chaos unfolding before her, but she then became distracted by the sight of something far more awesome.

  An angel of great size, his body clothed in golden armor, was squaring off against a being of darkness.

  If Lorelei had still been able to breathe, she would have gasped at what she saw next. The golden angel’s opponent was clad in armor that seemed to be made from solidified night, and he wore the face of her friend and confidant, the Morningstar.

  He had been the one to kill her.

  The desert sands exploded about them as the two forces waged their war, and suddenly, Lorelei felt her own abilities awaken.

  “Is this how you wish to use their life energies?” A’Dorial asked.

  “What do you mean?” Lorelei asked, her desire for vengeance against the one who had hurt her fully aroused.

  “The power that you use belongs to them.” A’Dorial gestured toward the dead who watched. “Their residual energies are there for your disposal,” the angel continued. “But are you certain this is the right battle?”

  She watched the giant angel of Heaven swing a sword of fire at his darkling foe. Light would perpetually struggle against dark, and Lorelei knew that she had her own part to play in that struggle.

  “The child,” she said. “We have to help the child.”

  A’Dorial smiled.

  “Good choice.”

  * * *

  Jeremy drove on, slashing at the Architects’ Agents, never pausing, even as he fought his way inside their sanctum.

  He knew that he could not slow his attacks. He had to bring the Agents down before they brought him down with their superior numbers and savagery.

  Switching from sword to battle-ax, Jeremy swung the enormous blade, cutting a flaming swath through a charge of attackers, their bisected bodies spilling harmlessly to either side of him, as the next wave of Agents came at him without pause.

  “Bloody hell!” the boy cried out, starting to feel the effects of exhaustion. “Don’t you guys ever quit?”

  And that was when he caught another movement from the corner of his eye. He glanced toward the back of the room, where a glass sphere hung.

  Enoch.

  The sight of the little boy made the Nephilim fight all the harder. He was determined to rescue him.

  He took his eyes from the sphere to dispatch two knife-wielding Agents with a grunting swipe of his ax blade, and when he glanced back, an angel clad in armor hovered near the floating bubble, a sword of fire raised above his head.

  Fear coursed through Jeremy. There was no doubt in his mind what the angel’s intentions were. He lashed out in any way he could, frantically trying to cut through the endless wave of Agents.

  But the angel’s sword came down with great sound and fury, a shock wave flowing across the chamber, knocking the Nephilim off his feet.

  Jeremy was already on the move to see if the child was safe, when he heard a booming voice cry out. “Verchiel! What have you done?”

  At the mention of the name, Jeremy’s blood turned to ice in his veins.

  Verchiel, he thought with escalating terror. That’s the bloke who nearly wiped us out.

  Jeremy fought with renewed purpose now. His ax struck the Agents down with double the fury, as he charged toward the back of the chamber. He spread his wings as he leaped, battle-ax of fire crackling as he propelled himself toward the armored visage of Verchiel.

  Heaven help the angel if he’d harmed the child.

  * * *

  The Overseer had expected Verchiel to accept his offer. Together, they could have transformed the world, but the child of God had intervened. The Architect felt an odd sensation. It was an emotion common to those beings that he and his aspects had manipulated over the millennia, but it was new to him.

  Anger.

  Recoiling from the sphere’s explosion, the Overseer watched the child tumble through the air to land on the floor. Verchiel’s attack had surprised the Overseer and caused new concerns for his mission.

  “Verchiel! What have you done?” the Overseer screamed in displeasure.

  What occurred next was another unforeseen turn of events. The Overseer watched as the Nephilim intruder found his way into the Architects’ sanctum, flying to attack Verchiel in anger.

  The two were locked in battle, and the Overseer could see the situation getting quickly out of hand. It was time to eliminate the most dangerous threat to his plans.

  The child called Enoch was sprawled on the floor amid the shattered remains of the sphere that once held him. He was beginning to stir, but the Architect would not allow him to awaken. This child of God, this instrument of discourse, could very easily ruin everything that he had worked so hard to achieve.

  The Overseer selected the longest, sharpest piece of the containment sphere that he could find. This would be the quickest and least dangerous way to dispose of the troublesome youth. Carefully, he advanced upon the still stunned child, and then he felt it, a presence close by. At first, the Overseer saw nothing, but as he perceived other realities that existed around him, he saw the spirits of the dead that crammed the room. One in particular, a female, came toward him, a look of determination upon her face.

  “You’re not going to harm that boy,” she said, using an audio spectrum that only he could hear. She stood before him, her fists clenched in repressed anger.

  And the Architect simply turned away.

  Unconcerned by threats from the dead.

  * * *

  Lorelei had thought that there were more Architects, as the one lunged toward the child.

  She had warned the heavenly creature, but it was obvious that he had made his decision.

  As she had made hers.

  Lorelei radiated energy from her hands in a single, concentrated burst.

  It struck the Architect squarely in the back, sending him sprawling to the floor.

  “I warned you,” she said, sensing the number of dead assembled behind her diminish.

  The Architect had dropped his makeshift weapon as he fell, and now he lay perfectly still. Cautiously, Lorelei approached him, wondering if she might have gone too far.

  The Architect grabbed her arm with a spidery hand, startling her. How could he touch her?

  “The dead never posed a problem before,” the Architect said. “I must reconsider that.”

  Lorelei tried to pull away, but his hold was too strong. As she struggled, A’Dorial and the others slowly drifted away from her. She screamed for their help, but she saw only fear in their haunted stares.

  Lorelei could feel her soul’s energy grow weaker, less defined, as the Architect’s grip strengthened on her arm. She suddenly became painfully aware that it was only a matter of minutes before her essence would blow away like smoke from an extinguished match.

  The Architect rose, stronger, as he selected another slice of glass from the floor. “This will do nicely.”

  Lorelei struggled to break free, her strength dwindling, as he dra
gged her along toward the child.

  Enoch sat where he had fallen, still appearing dazed and confused.

  The Architect loomed above the little boy.

  Lorelei turned her fading gaze on the other spirits, holding out her hand, desperate for their assistance. She knew what they feared; their soul energies would be consumed, never to return to the source of all things. But she needed their strength, their energy, to save the child without whom the world would be lost.

  The Architect drew back his arm to strike, and the mass of dead acted.

  A’Dorial took hold of Lorelei’s hand, acting as a conduit for the others. Their energies flowed through him, and Lorelei could feel the power of her own soul return twentyfold, giving her the strength to fight back against her aggressor.

  The Architect halted his assault in mid-slash.

  He tried to wield his weapon, but now it was Lorelei’s turn to hold fast.

  Glowing with the energies of the other spirits, she looked deeply into the single, bulging eye beneath the Architect’s scarlet hood.

  “You’re not going to like this one little bit.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The power of God attacked with relentless fury.

  It did not care if its host body was caused irreparable harm by its unbridled assault, or if the very world upon which it stood was damaged beyond repair.

  It cared for nothing except the eradication of its enemy, light vanquishing darkness.

  It was as simple as that.

  Simple, but oh so dangerous.

  Aaron knew the destructive potential of the power that resided within him, but the longer he spent with it, the less he cared. With every passing moment, he was becoming less Aaron Corbet, and more the Metatron.

  The Metatron drove the Darkstar back, his enormous broadsword of fire striking its foe again and again. But the Darkstar met each of the attacks with his own mighty blade, forged of impenetrable darkness.

  What remained of Aaron could not help but feel a twinge of sadness as he looked upon his mortal enemy, who wore the face of his father. He was tempted to pull back on the savagery of his attack, hoping that Lucifer’s goodness would re-emerge. But the rage of the God power would hear nothing of it, overwhelming his sympathies with ease.

  This was the enemy, and he would be vanquished.

  The Metatron’s blows rained down upon the Darkstar, driving him back against the great stone slab that held the mystery of the Ladder. But Satan’s wings propelled him upward and at the Metatron. Taking advantage of their close quarters, he summoned a small blade of ebony and thrust it with great force into the Metatron’s stomach.

  Aaron’s cries of pain mingled with those of the power of God. Great gouts of burning blood poured from his wound, coating the Darkstar and the stone slab.

  The Metatron’s wings beat the air savagely, as he retreated from the temple. Kneeling just outside the door, Aaron gazed down at the hilt of the blade still protruding from his gut. With a trembling hand, he gripped the knife and tried to pull it free.

  The handle dissolved in his gauntleted hand, but he could still feel the blade inside him.

  He looked back into the temple and saw Satan standing over the stone slab. The Darkstar’s body was burning from the Metatron’s blood, but he did not seem to care. Instead, he wiped the blood on the stone.

  With spectacular results.

  The stone began to hum with sudden and unbridled power, and its surface began to glow.

  Aaron gasped, rising upon trembling, armored legs.

  The Darkstar turned ever so slightly, a twisted grin upon his features, as he gloated over his accomplishment. But his happiness was short-lived, for as the blood of the Metatron cooled, so did the activity from the slab.

  Satan turned abruptly, his wings of darkness fanned out behind him.

  “I think we need to try that again.”

  The Darkstar flew through the temple and crashed into the Metatron’s armored body. The pair connected with fists flying and wings beating, their struggle carrying them down the temple steps to the floor of the crater, where the Unforgiven and the armies of the Darkstar still battled.

  Aaron managed to get his knee firmly against Satan’s stomach and thrust him away. He quickly examined his wound and saw that the bleeding had stopped, but he could feel that the blade was slowly poisoning him from within.

  But he could not think of such things.

  This was Armageddon, the ultimate battle of good versus evil.

  The Metatron had to defeat the darkness before it could reach Heaven.

  Satan hurtled toward him with a scream unlike anything Aaron had ever heard, as if it were dredged up from some heinous nightmare. The Darkstar’s sword was raised over one shoulder, poised to strike.

  Aaron could sense that there was something different about this blade, the way it crackled and hummed, and knew that it was calling on the dark energies of those fighting nearby, using them to increase its power.

  But there was still good in the world, and if evil could forge such a fearsome weapon, so would good.

  Using the power of God, Aaron reached out to all the goodness, love, and innocence that still remained, and formed a massive weapon of divine fire and righteousness.

  The Metatron and Satan collided, swords connecting with such force that the resultant explosion sheared away the walls of the crater, exposing even more of the ancient city of Megiddo.

  Aaron was thrown a good distance away and rose with great difficulty, the pain in his lower body growing even more intense as it radiated from his belly. He forced himself to rally, hefting the mighty blade for the next assault.

  The Darkstar landed in a crouch before him, then sprang up with a roar, lunging at the Metatron. As the black sword sliced through the air, Aaron could have sworn that he heard the cries of souls in torment.

  The sword appeared to be growing larger, absorbing more evil from the desert battlefield. Aaron used his mighty wings to jump from the path of the sword, fearing that his own mighty blade was weakening against the seemingly endless evil.

  Pain was beginning to hamper his speed, and Aaron knew that it was only a matter of time before his luck would run out. He managed to evade the black blade until he saw an opportunity, swinging his own sword across the Darkstar’s midsection.

  Satan didn’t even pause. The black metal was torn and ragged, but it swiftly repaired itself.

  “You’ll have to do better than that,” Satan said, preparing to cleave the Metatron in half.

  Aaron stumbled on the uneven ground. The evil blade descended with a predator’s scream, but Aaron twisted his body enough to raise his own sword. He managed to deflect the Darkstar’s blow, forcing the ebony blade to bury itself deeply in the bleached desert ground.

  With perilous results.

  The very earth shuddered, as if repulsed.

  Satan withdrew his black blade with a hysterical laugh, as the earthquake’s damage unfolded before them.

  A sharp, whiplike cracking sound filled the air as the desert sands shifted violently beneath their feet, and a giant chasm, miles long, opened like a yawning mouth in the desert surface.

  * * *

  Vilma stumbled at the awful tremor, watching in growing horror as the ground opened and the enormous crack appeared, zigzagging across the desert floor like a lightning bolt.

  While she was distracted by the sight, a goblin warrior was suddenly in front of her, its thick arm pulled back to deliver the killing blow.

  She was about to lift her sword of flame to block the thrust when there came a high-pitched whine, followed by a roaring blast, as the goblin’s head evaporated in a cloud of red mist.

  Vilma turned, sword in hand, to see Taylor Corbet lowering her weapon.

  “One needs to pay attention on the battlefield, Ms. Santiago,” the woman, whose clothes were torn and covered with dust and blood, said, then took aim and fired her high-tech weapon at yet another foul beast.

  They were s
urrounded by them: foul creatures of every conceivable size and shape. They were like a tidal wave of pure ugliness and evil, but there was no way that Vilma was going to allow them to swallow her.

  “So true, Ms. Corbet,” Vilma called out, flying at a group of trolls that were beating one of the Unforgiven with clubs. There were four of them and only one of him. It was unfair.

  Vilma hated unfair.

  She landed in a run, charging the four trolls. Her sword of fire took the hand of one, and the face of another, before the trolls realized how much trouble they were in. The essence of the Nephilim inside her purred with excitement, like the engine of some really fast sports car. It loved when things were like this, feeding its nature for battle. This was what it existed for.

  Another troll lost its head, its large body providing her with a kind of springboard as she leaped up on its back, springing into the air, her wings spread wide like a fan, and delivered killing blows to the remaining beasts.

  The Unforgiven soldier silently rose to his feet, retrieved his rifle, and returned to the fight.

  “Don’t mention it,” Vilma said, ready for the next confrontation.

  The forces of the Unforgiven were more than overwhelmed, but it did not stop them from continuing to fight. The voice of God still echoed in their minds, rousing them to action.

  The sound of a fighter jet caused her to look skyward, the Israeli plane firing its missiles and obliterating a dragon from the sky. It gave her hope to see that some of humanity had answered God’s call—warriors and civilians emerging from their places of safety to fight for earth, Heaven, and God.

  There were human foot soldiers upon the desert battlefield as well. Vilma did not know what nation they had originally sworn their allegiance to, only that they now fought as one against a common threat.

  Vilma took to the air above the carnage, looking for where her skills would most have an effect. An explosion came from above, and she darted down to the desert, shielding herself as jagged pieces of jet fighter rained down, the shrapnel taking out some of the demonic fighters, aiding their cause, despite their loss.

  Searching for a sign of what had taken out the fighter, Vilma saw a most unusual sight.