by Mark Carver
Slowly, he lifted his tearful eyes towards the pulverized church, its nave gaping open like a disemboweled monster, all of its brilliance, glory and sanctity vaporized in an instant. Then he lifted his eyes towards heaven.
“Where are you?” he cried, his heart rending itself with agony.
****
The daylight hours had been tense and quiet. The sounds of marches and protests could be heard in the streets, and the skyline was streaked with smoke from arson fires, but Patric knew the real outrage would manifest now that the sun was going down. The town had had a day to stew and simmer after the initial burst of aggression the night before. The explosion at St. Étienne’s was just the beginning....
He had been very reluctant to leave Natasha at home while he went to his job guarding ancient art works at the gallery, and his sense of dread quickened as he made his way through the darkening streets. The news channels were ablaze with reports of numerous attacks on churches, synagogues, and other religious institutions, and that fury burned even now as Patric navigated through Limoges’ narrow stone streets.
He hurried past a seething mob marching through a wide alley, feeling strangely afraid of the inverted crosses and pentagrams scrawled in blood across placards and foreheads. He couldn’t tell what the mob’s intended target was, and he didn’t want to know. Nothing would have made him happier than the decimation of the Christian church, but for some reason, now that it seemed to be actually happening, a sick knot of fear twisted in his stomach. This was not the way things were supposed to be.
He quickened his steps and kept his head down, and for the first time in his life, he hoped to reach his workplace as quickly as possible. As the mob disappeared from sight behind ancient stone buildings, Patric was startled to hear shouts and curses and shattering glass. He could make out one phrase in the growing chaos: “Kill the heathens!”
So, he mused wryly, the Delusionals are deciding to live by the sword as well…
Hurrying past the violence, Patric silently cursed the fools who had assassinated the priests and started this whole fracas. What had it accomplished? It was merely a pinprick that had awakened a terrible beast, and the only result would be the final destruction of the Christian church and its followers. Christian blood would surely flow more abundantly than that of Satan’s loyal legions.
He rounded a corner and felt a warm wash of relief as he spotted the cracked stone steps of the fine art gallery. The distant madness reminded him of the piercing buzz that had bored into his brain during mass last night. This was all becoming too vivid, too...real.
This was not the kind of place to raise a family.
His thoughts drifted to Natasha, and he couldn’t help feeling a bit guilty leaving her at home, especially since just around the corner from their flat was the Christian church—a tempting target for the mobs. Of course, he was sure there was no actual danger for her or the child, but mobs follow no logic or reason, and the slightest breeze can become a hurricane.
She’s a smart girl, he reassured himself, and besides, she’s on their side. If anything, she might even join them.
Patric smirked at the thought of his pregnant fiancée storming the church gates with a torch in hand. His smile quickly wilted, and a pang of worry immediately followed.
She might actually do that....
Patric shook his head to clear away these irrational thoughts. Right now, he just wanted to get inside, away from the intrusion of righteous indignation into his quiet, ordinary life.
Dusk was creeping over the city, and as the sunlight died, the fury of the violent mobs began to grow. The sounds of riots and arson hovered over the rooftops, and billows of smoke were gushing towards the sky.
Patric cast a nervous glance behind him at the agitated skyline, then let himself into the gallery via the side entrance. He slipped into the locker room to change into his security uniform, and he replaced a nervous guard at the front desk who seemed a bit reluctant to head outside into the firestorm. Through the soaring gallery windows, faint orange and yellow light pulsated like a frantically beating heart. He felt more than a little uneasy, even though he was safe inside a triple-locked museum housing Limoges’ most precious artifacts.
The patrons had left long ago, and Patric doubted that there were even any patrons at all today. For some strange reason, he felt exposed and vulnerable sitting at the front desk, a feeling he had never felt before. He was also keenly aware of how angular and uncomfortable the guard’s seat was. Exhaling a low breath, he glanced around for a remedy for his discomfort. After a few moments of searching, he seated himself in a far corner crisscrossed by shadows from the flamboyant tracery on the windows. The paintings and relics mounted on the walls struck no chords in his soul; Natasha was the artistic one. Yet tonight, the vast array of valiant soldiers, coquettish maidens, and wild-eyed horses scattered throughout the great room seemed to twitch and breathe and blink as fiery glimmers splashed across them like rain upon a windowpane.
Patric dropped his gaze and tried to focus on slowing down his heartbeat. He gazed at an empty spot on the wall and breathed methodically, relieved to feel himself becoming calmer. After a few minutes, he relaxed his body and slumped in his chair.
The chaos of anger and aggression seemed to be growing more and more distant. A warm softness was beginning to surround his head, and his eyelids were becoming heavy. He woke himself once with a start, then immediately slipped into a thin, uncomfortable slumber.
****
Something warm and wet touched his ear.
His eyes snapped open. It was completely dark. Was there a power failure? He looked around but could see absolutely nothing, not even light from the windows.
He didn’t know why, but his eyes felt funny, as if his eyelids were stuffed with cotton. It took him a moment of intense concentration to realize that they were still closed.
What the…?
With tremendous effort, he lifted his eyelids like heavy garage doors. The red-lit room tilted and twisted, and a violent swirl of shapes made him squint. All around him, like mischievous ghosts, voices laughed, coughed, and moaned, and a blast of pungent liquor aromas assaulted his nose.
He felt the tickling sensation in his ear again, and he slowly turned to identify the culprit. Through the haze and fog, he could make out a lovely face framed by raven black hair, and a pair of playful, enchanting eyes....
A thick surge of happiness oozed through his veins. He tried to speak her name, but there was no sound, but it didn’t matter anyway since he only knew half of her name, and the last thing he wanted was to offend her by calling her “Su-Something.”
He smiled at her, marveling at how thick and syrupy his lips felt. Su smiled back, and Patric was sure that his heart would erupt through his chest. She was beautifully naked and coiled like a serpent on the black velvet couch, pawing and stroking him as she nibbled on his earlobe. She was apparently lost in the same soporific whirlwind as he was, and he leaned over and kissed her messily.
After a few seconds, or perhaps minutes, Patric needed air. He broke away from her and slumped back on the sofa, his head lolling heavily. All around him was a carnival of indulgence. Nearly everyone was almost or completely naked, every nose was flecked with white, and every eye was red and watering. The air was stifled with smoke of all varieties, and several couples were scattered across the gaudy furniture, writhing and sweating and gasping.
Squinting in a futile attempt to focus, Patric recognized an acquaintance stretched across a couch on the other side of the room, snorting cocaine off of a woman’s lower back. Ignoring Su, he stumbled across the room, careful to avoid a frantic couple intertwined on the carpeted floor.
“Is that you, Jacque?” he mumbled, slapping his hand heavily across the man’s back.
Jacque jumped with a start and the prostitute fell heavily onto the floor, spilling the cocaine across the carpet. Jacque peered at Patric with shifty eyes that slowly focused, and his ragged, driftwood face broke in
to a toothy smile.
“Quite the party, isn’t it?” he shouted over nonexistent music.
Patric nodded, though it was perhaps simply a consequence of his body rocking with the combination of alcohol and hallucinogens.
“How did I get here?” he slurred.
Jacque looked back at the sofa and an expression of confusion darkened his face, which melted immediately when he saw the hooker asleep on the carpet in her own saliva.
“Patric, you mean you don’t remember? I found you on the street. You told me that your shift was over, and the streets were too crowded and dangerous to get home right away, so I brought you here. You don’t remember that?”
Patric furrowed his brow, trying to squeeze memories like juice from his mind. He could vaguely recall what Jacque had described, but...he thought had just been dozing at the gallery a moment ago.
Did time really fly so quickly?
“Bébé,” a soft, yearning voice called out.
He turned around and grinned.
Su and another equally naked woman of Arabic descent beckoned him back into their waiting arms.
He made no attempts to resist.
CHAPTER 3
Almighty God, bless the faithful that have fallen in Your name.
Grant us protection and perseverance as we stand against the trials and tribulations to come.
Encircle us with Your saints so that the enemy may know that we fight not for ourselves, but for You, O Lord.
Search our hearts and see that our will is pure; yet we are fallen, finite creatures, and our feet may sometimes stray from the path of righteousness. But do not let Your wrath burn against us, O Lord, and we ask that You sanctify our actions, for everything we do is in Your name and for Your sake.
Grant us wisdom that we may align our steps with Yours, and let us not waver for any reason. Let us resist fear, complacency, and temptation, and keep our eyes focused on Your glory, and the glory that awaits us in heaven.
Forgive us for the sins that we have committed, and for those we shall soon commit.
In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.
Amen.
Tourec crossed himself and looked up. Amidst the sea of candles and crucifixes, the Blessed Virgin gazed down at him with soft, sorrowful eyes, and the light radiating from her meek countenance seemed to shimmer and pulse. Her gentle voice was faint and distant, yet her words rang deep within his heart.
You grieve your Heavenly Father.
Tourec felt a chill race through his veins as a heavy hand fell upon his shoulder. He lowered his eyes and his face fell into shadow.
“Are you ready, my son?” spoke a low, crumbling voice.
“I am.”
Tourec raised his eyes again to the Virgin Mother. He clenched his jaw as he rose to his feet and withdrew two silenced pistols from his cloak.
God would forgive him. He had to.
Tourec cocked the guns in defiance.
****
Damn mosquitoes.
Patric slapped his ear in frustration as he pried his face away from the bed. He felt a twinge of disgust as a cold, sticky string of saliva tethered his cheek to the sheets. The buzzing around his head did not disappear, and he opened one eye with great effort to locate the aerial villain.
The room was dark, faintly illuminated by a weak bedside lamp that glowed red. Erotic pictures decorated the walls, if the occupants inside needed any additional stimulation. Patric opened the other eye and scanned the room.
Su-Something was standing in the corner, facing the wall and swaying slightly. Feeble rays from the awakening morning sun filtered through the purple curtains and cast a mysterious hue over her slender body. Patric grinned wolfishly and opened his mouth to invite her back to bed, but he winced as the buzzing in his ear increased sharply.
At that moment, Su whipped her head to the left and glared at him with soulless black eyes.
Patric’s blood froze. The head-splitting hum immediately grew louder again, and he felt fear grip his heart.
The sound...it’s the same as....
With a hellish shriek, Su sprang from the corner like a spider and leaped onto the bed. Before Patric could react, he was pinned beneath her, handcuffed by her fists clenched around his wrists. Despite her small size, she felt twice as heavy as the night before, and he couldn’t budge an inch.
Utter terror gripped his soul, and his gaze was commanded by Su’s vacant eyes, which were black as the deepest depths of space. Her sweating body heaved violently with each massive, gasping breath, and her mouth was frozen in a half-smile, half-growl. She stared at him with hunger and ferocity, and Patric was too horrified to scream.
With a jerk, Su’s head wrenched back and upwards, jutting her chin towards the red-draped chandelier. Her back arched forcefully and her vertebrae cracked. Her body was wracked again and she flung herself down upon Patric, her salivating mouth inches from his face.
“Do not listen to them!” she rasped in a hollow, wheezing voice that seemed to echo in her throat. “Do not believe their lies! Obey your master! The light is a lie!”
“Wha-what are you talking about?” Patric whimpered pitifully.
“The light is a lie!” the delicate Vietnamese girl bellowed. “Find him! You must find him!”
“Find who?”
Su roared with demonic fury.
“Your brother!”
For a moment, Patric’s overwhelming fear gave way to terrified confusion.
“My-my brother? I don’t know where he is!”
“Find him! Bring him to Paris! Before the full moon rises, bring him to the Unholy City!”
Patric gasped with pain and surprise. “Paris? Why Paris?”
“Find him!” Su shrieked hysterically as veins popped in her forehead and neck. “Find him or the child dies!”
A strand of saliva trailed from her gaping mouth onto Patric’s face.
“Whose child?” he gasped.
Su didn’t answer. She just stared at him with a horrifying grin that displayed every single tooth.
Like a splash of cold water to his face, Patric’s terror suddenly morphed into anger.
“Don’t hurt them!” he commanded, knowing now that he wasn’t speaking to Su. “Stay away from them!”
Su lowered her contorted face and stared deep into his eyes.
“Find your brother...!”
Patric could bear no more. Summoning every ounce of his strength, he flung the girl off the bed. She slammed against the wall and crumpled on the floor like a blanket. Squinting through tears, Patric grabbed his clothes and bolted out the door.
He barreled into the African madam, at that moment escorting Jacque to an empty bedroom.
“Monsieur!” she cried.
“Patric!” Jacque called after him as he vanished through the door into the sunlight.
Patric lurched and spun and nearly fell down the iron stairs leading to the alley. He threw on his rumpled clothes as he ran, ignoring Su’s pleading cries coming from the second story window.
He flew across the awakening city like a mouse pursued by an invisible cat, dodging cars, carts, pedestrians, and foliage. The violence of the previous night had ceased, though smoking ruins of Christian shops peppered the streets. He didn’t notice any of it. A sick, festering fear twisted in his stomach, alongside the shrieking muscle cramp that grew more insistent by the minute.
His feet pounded the cobblestone streets like gunfire.
Please let them be okay....
He didn’t know who he was praying to, but at this point, he certainly knew who he was not praying to.
His hair flew wildly as he rounded the corner where the Christian church remained untouched, though several anti-Christian signs and heaps of garbage littered the street, and he burst into the stairwell of his apartment building. He bounded up the stairs three at a time and exploded through the front door.
“Natasha!” he called out in breathless terror.
He wai
ted for a moment, listening.
“Natasha!” he shouted again, stepping into the kitchen. Sweat droplets flew off of his hair as he whipped his eyes back and forth, searching for any sign of life.
“Natasha!” he called again.
He took another step forward and jumped as he saw her crouched on the floor against the stove, hugging her legs tightly.
“Oh, mon amour,” Patric gasped, kneeling down beside her. “Are you all right?”
Natasha’s face was streaked with dried tears and her eyes were circled with dark, sleepless rings. She turned slowly towards him, her face tight with accusation.
“Where were you?”
Patric swallowed painfully. “Natasha....”
She slapped his comforting hand away from her face. “You leave me here...all night...while the whole city becomes a war zone. You come back now, stinking of liquor and whores, and you ask me if I’m all right?”
A deep stab of guilt struck Patric right where the screaming cramp ached. “Natasha, I...I’m sorry....”
“Sorry?”
Natasha leaped to her feet as her fury exploded.
“You bastard! I was terrified, Patric, terrified that something had happened to you! You didn’t call or anything; you just left me here, worried to death! I know; I understand that you have a job to do, but you come home now, pretending to be concerned about my safety — “
“I am!” Patric interjected weakly.
“— And I find that you’ve been drinking and screwing the night away, without a single thought for me or our child! Is this what kind of man you are?”
Patric raised his hands to plead with her. “Darling, please, calm down; it’s not good for the baby....”
“Bastard!” she screamed again, slapping him broadly across the face, then collapsing in a puddle of tears. Her whole body quivered and she sobbed loudly, burying her face in her hands.
Patric’s heart ached. He wanted to reach out and comfort her, but something held him back. Dejected, he slumped against the cabinet and stared vacantly at the wall.
