The Age of Apollyon Trilogy (The Age of Apollyon, Black Sun, Scorn)

by Mark Carver

  “Natasha…I really am sorry.”

  She sniffed and looked at him with red, watery eyes.

  Patric looked at his hands, feeling like utter scum. “You are right about everything. I have not been a good man for you, and I don’t deserve you. I…I don’t know what else to say.”

  Natasha sniffed again and stared at him for a long time. Patric couldn’t bring himself to meet her eyes.

  After a thick, stifling silence, she said, “There’s nothing to say,” and rose to her feet. Patric watched her leave. He heard the bedroom door close, and he hung his head in shame.

  ****

  “Amen.”

  Father DeMarco closed the heavy Bible and offered a small consoling smile to the meager congregation. To tell the truth, he was surprised that anyone had come to the service at all. Since the retaliatory violence began, fear blanketed the worldwide Christian church like a mist. There was nowhere the enemy couldn’t reach.

  The priest scanned his dismal surroundings. He and his congregation had retreated to a dank wine cellar to worship, afraid of violence at their usual church building, despite the presence of armed guards. Only the most faithful and the most fearful had ventured out to lay their cares at the feet of God. Father DeMarco could see fear and worry etched onto the faces of the congregation. Many truly believed that this was the end, the advent of the Abomination of Desolation.

  No one knows the future, he had reminded them, but he also urged them to recall the hopelessness and terror that gripped the church many years ago when Satan himself appeared to mankind, and the ensuing chaos that jarred and shook the church, but did not destroy it. This new trial would certainly be formidable, he admitted, but a faith that emerges on the other side of great testing emerges stronger and victorious, and the trial that causes one’s faith to be refined should be welcomed, not feared. Satan’s return to earth had indeed convinced humanity that a supernatural world existed, and that if Satan was real, then so was God. The Christian church had instantly put aside denominational and cultural differences and had coalesced into a rock-solid fortress against the surging tide of darkness. But in the twelve years since, in the wake of lethargy and indifference by the enemy, the church had also lost its sharpness. Perhaps this new tribulation was the whetstone to restore the edge.

  Father DeMarco genuinely believed these words as they rushed from his mouth, but he could see smothering doubt in the eyes of the listeners. They weren’t thinking about bolstering their faith and shoring up the defenses of their souls; they feared for their families, their children. They were worried about losing their jobs and their homes. They knew that the Church of Satan was immeasurably strong, and that it had its hands in every government, every corporation, every army. The laws of man could not protect them, even though most countries claimed to be neutral. The Satanic church had unlimited resources, and those who bowed to no god followed the oldest god of all: money.

  He felt these worries no less than his flock did. His congregation had been his life’s work for more than half a century, and he had vowed before God to defend them as he would his own children. Their pain and torment stung his soul. He offered words of encouragement and vigilance, but he had to confess to himself that this storm might be too strong to weather. Ever since he had witnessed those savage missiles pulverize the beloved Duomo di Milano, he felt weak and crumpled inside. Even his stature reflected his despair; one member of the congregation had approached him before the service and nervously asked if Father DeMarco was hurt, since he seemed unnaturally hunched over. He had tried to walk with a lifted chin and squared shoulders, but the invisible weight bearing down on his soul proved too heavy, and his stooping posture reflected his ailing spirit.

  He stepped away from the empty wine barrel topped with an old wooden plank that had served as his pulpit and made his way to the cellar door. He smiled and nodded to those he passed, and as he opened the door and stepped out into the late morning sun, a warmth crept over him. Yet his face was dark. He had felt this same sensation the previous morning, just before God turned his back on Milan and let one of His grandest earthly monuments be ripped open by fiery heathen claws. Father DeMarco likewise turned his back on the sun. He couldn’t imagine it would ever truly feel warm again.

  As the members of his congregation filed out the door, he clasped their hands and bade them be careful, and told them that the church would offer aid and sanctuary to anyone who needed it. As the people disappeared cautiously into the morning sun, he offered urgent pleas for heaven’s protection. He begged God to let him see them again.

  After the last person had left the cellar, Father DeMarco slipped inside and closed the heavy wooden doors. He turned and was startled to see one figure remaining amongst the scattered chairs. His hair gleamed with golden brilliance, and he was kneeling in reverent prayer before the makeshift altar erected at the rear of the cellar.

  Father DeMarco wrinkled his brow. He did not recognize this man. A hushed voice inside his head told him to be cautious, and he approached the penitent figure with quiet steps.

  “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.”

  He froze at the voice. The man raised his head and turned around.

  Father DeMarco gasped.

  “Tourec?”

  “I am sorry to disturb you, Father,” Tourec said, keeping his head low.

  “No, no, it’s all right,” Father DeMarco blurted as he grabbed a seat and sat beside him. He felt a strong urge to touch Tourec’s shoulder, as if to convince himself that he was real, not just a vision. “How long has it been?”

  Tourec looked squarely into the priest’s eyes. “You know how long.”

  Father DeMarco started to speak, but the words evaporated on his tongue. He sighed and looked at his hands. “You’re right.” He looked up again. “But I am glad to see you now.”

  “Are you?” There was a strange bite in Tourec’s words.

  Father DeMarco gestured widely. “Of course. You were one of my brightest.... I always knew great things awaited you....“

  “I started this war.”

  Father DeMarco blinked. “What...what do you mean, Tourec?”

  Tourec’s unwashed blond locks hid his eyes. “I was involved in the assassinations three days ago.”

  “Involved...how?”

  Tourec exhaled. “Florence.”

  A gasp escaped Father DeMarco’s dry lips. “You’re one of them? Tourec, how could you? After everything I taught you—“

  “It wasn’t enough!” Tourec snapped, jumping to his feet and knocking over his chair. “Twelve years I’ve been staggering beneath this weight. When she was...when the Dragon appeared, I did not lose faith like the others, or retreat to the New World. My commitment to the church became stronger than ever, despite my grief. Your words helped me through that, Father.”

  “We both loved her, my son. But you did not stay....you left us. What happened? Where did you go?”

  Tourec paced impatiently before the makeshift altar. “I’ve always been a man of action, Father, and words were not enough. Our church was being assailed on all sides, and I took up arms in defense of her. I went to Jerusalem, to the heart of the Holy Land, to seek solace in God and defend his holy relics.”

  Father DeMarco sighed mournfully. “My son, I am truly sorry. I sought to guide you in the way I guide others, but I never realized how unique you were.”

  “Well, I found new teachers there. They taught me the art of war, and I learned how to apply my skills in the service of our Savior. And I was good, Father, I was really good. You have no idea of the enemy’s craftiness and determination in that part of the world. We foiled countless plots and repelled countless attacks. And today, the Temple Mount still stands, mass is heard at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, and the Wailing Wall is free of blasphemous messages and symbols. For years, I fought in that sacred city, and I learned something there that you never taught me— that evil overcomes good unless good fights back.”

  “Toure
c...”

  Tourec ignored him. “In spite of our victories, I knew that defense could only last for so long. I prayed long and hard, and God spoke to me. He told me that when defense begins to give way, the only way to save the ones you love is to go on the offensive. That’s what I’m doing now; that’s what we are doing. My brothers from the Holy Land and I are taking the fight to the enemy now, on his soil, in his temples. We will not be the victims anymore!”

  Father DeMarco leaped to his feet, feeling a surge of righteous anger burn inside him. “We will always be the victims!” he cried. “Don’t you see, Tourec, you have angered an enemy far stronger than us. In its slumber, we were allowed to survive. I grant that our church has not flourished in a long time, but at least there is a church! A church ready to help those in need and to comfort those in dejection and darkness. But now all of that is mortal danger because of you and your bloodthirsty friends.”

  “And whose fault is that?” Tourec growled. “In the past twelve years, what has the church been doing? Burrowing underground like an animal? Cowering behind armed guards stationed at cathedral doors? Fleeing to the New World and forsaking one’s brethren here? When I was in the Holy Land, I saw a church that was vibrant and alive. A church that had been under attack not since the Manifestation, but since the days of the Apostles themselves. Romans, Jews, Muslims, Satanists...persecution has been a continuous way of life for the Christians in Jerusalem, and they are strong because of it. The European church is weak because the enemy slumbers, so we slumber too. What does Revelations say about the church of Laodicea? ‘You are lukewarm, neither hot nor cold, so I will spit you out of My mouth.’ What my brothers and I are doing is a vaccine, a shot in the arm to awaken the church’s might and power, so that the enemy will quake in fear, not us.”

  Father DeMarco couldn’t believe what he was hearing. His knees wobbled and he collapsed into his seat. He gazed slack-jawed at the crucifix upon the wine barrel altar, then turned back to Tourec.

  “Do you really believe this is the way, Tourec?” he asked, his voice low and feeble. “That this is God’s will?”

  Tourec looked away. “Someone had to do something. What have we become, Father? No more missionaries, no more schools and monasteries, no political or economic influence...we are what they were before the Manifestation. A fringe group, a cult of radicals. Our church is a joke.” He turned around and stared at the gleaming crucifix. “I hear no laughing now.”

  Each breath squeezed Father DeMarco’s chest. “Tourec,” he panted, “I beg you, don’t do this. You will only make things worse for us. Our people will be devastated. I understand what you are saying, and I agree: we have become weak; it is true. But open warfare with the enemy is not the answer. I beg you, for the sake of your soul and for our church family, don’t do this.”

  “I must, Father,” Tourec snapped, his eyes flashing. “I am sorry for the pain and misery that will be poured out because of me and I beg God’s forgiveness, but an unrighteous action can be sanctified by a righteous heart. I have searched mine, Father, and it is clean. And I believe that if Isabella were here, she would say the same thing.”

  Father DeMarco winced in actual pain as he heard that name. “Isabella...“ he breathed.

  With a scowl, Tourec knelt before the altar and lifted a quick prayer to heaven. He rose to his feet and crossed himself, then turned with a rush of his robes and faced the priest.

  “Bless me Father,” he commanded firmly.

  Father DeMarco looked through his tears at the boy he had nurtured so many years ago.

  “I...I cannot....”

  Tourec’s lip quivered slightly, and his eyes flashed fire. He spun on his heel and hurried to the cellar entrance. He burst through the doors and disappeared, leaving Father DeMarco alone in silence.

  ****

  Smoke billowed into his eyes as Patric frantically tried to flip the French toast. He cursed himself for not fixing the kitchen ventilation fan. He finally succeeded in turning over the blackened bread, and he glanced towards the dingy bedroom door.

  Natasha had not emerged all morning. Patric had waited in the kitchen as the invigorating sunlight streamed through the window, but he couldn’t think of anything to say to repair the damage he had done. As his friend Jacque had told him one drunken evening: “If a girl is mad at you, don’t say anything, because you’ll only make it worse. Just do something nice for her. It won’t make everything go back to normal right away, but at least she won’t become more angry.”

  Patric’s stomach tightened as he remembered he had run out on Jacque, leaving him in that den of darkness. He shuddered, thinking about how his lascivious fantasy had morphed into a demonic nightmare in the blink of an eye.

  He paused and stared into space. Did all of that really happen? Was it just an after-effect of too many drugs? Had Su really become… possessed?

  He mulled over her grating words.

  Find your brother, bring him to Paris, or the child dies....

  It was much too frightening to be dismissed. There was no way Su knew that he had a child. Or a brother, for that matter. He barely knew it himself, and he knew even less where to find him.

  What did it all mean?

  He furrowed his brow and tried to shake his fear. It couldn’t have been real. It was just the lunatic ravings of a drugged-out hooker.

  Right?

  An inky, hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach disbelieved him, and he paused for a moment.

  The sound.

  The same sound that he had heard during mass. The sound just before a possessed person delivers a message....

  Something urged him to turn on the television. He aimed the remote at the screen and pressed the button, at the same time yelping in despair as he saw the scorched toast hissing in the skillet. He dumped the coal-colored bread onto a plate and breathed a sigh of exasperation.

  A deep, soothing voice trickled from the TV. Patric glanced up and gasped.

  The Voice of Satan.

  The pontiff stood before a black backdrop embroidered with a golden pentagram. He was clothed in red robes, and his piercing eyes glowered from beneath his shadowy brow. His gaze shattered the screen and bored straight into Patric’s soul.

  Patric was mesmerized.

  “My children,” His Worship began, “I speak to you with a heavy heart. The attacks on our church have grieved me deeply, and I know that anger burns in the hearts of the faithful. Yesterday, the world witnessed the true fury of our mighty order, and the cowards who hide behind their masks of righteousness were dealt a clear, firm message. However, lawlessness is not to be our course of action. Though our church is strong, we must abide by the laws of man, and we do not wish for social anarchy, as many claim that we do.

  “We have shown the weaker religions that we are capable of great violence, but we shall also show that we are capable of much more. Violence is a flame that can burst into an uncontrollable inferno in the blink of an eye, and we do not wish to see innocent individuals or businesses victimized. Our quarrel is not with those who remain neutral, foolish as they may be. We seek to destroy only the church of the silent God, and we have more ways than violence at our disposal.

  “Therefore, I implore you, children of Satan: scorn the Delusionals. Humiliate them in public, refuse to conduct business with them, cast their children out of your schools, deny them entry to hospitals, parks, and libraries. Smother them with shame and guilt. Should you choose violence, know that you will be accountable to the laws of man, but your Master administers a greater law, and by this, you shall be judged in the afterlife. By any means available, heap continuous misery upon the heads of those who would deny our Master. Show them that the tolerance and complacency of the past twelve years have come to an end, and all must now choose: bow before the Prince of this World, or spend one’s few remaining days in torment.”

  The screen abruptly cut to black, and a blonde-haired reporter appeared, struggling to hide her distress. “That was His Wors
hip, speaking from the Templum Satanam in Vatican City. Since the assassination of several clergy members of the Church of Satan two days ago, the world has seen numerous retaliatory attacks, directed primarily against Christian targets, though Islamic and Jewish sites have been attacked as well. While not condoning the violence outright, His Worship made it clear that the Church of Satan is targeting the Christian church, and it now looks like we may have a new holy war on our hands. For FRN-27, I’m Celina de la Croix.”

  Patric couldn’t move. The television arrested his gaze, even after the news program gave way to annoying advertisements.

  He didn’t even notice Natasha standing by his side.

  “We should leave,” she whispered fearfully.

  After a few moments, Patric nodded. “You’re right.”

  He turned to her. “The Delusionals will fight back. There’s no way this will end well.” He glanced out the window and saw trails of smoke meandering towards the clouds. “It’s already out of control, and it’s just getting started.”

  Slowly, almost reluctantly, Natasha embraced him, and he exhaled in relief. For a few minutes, neither said a word.

  Natasha broke the silence. “Where can we go? We have no money, no friends in other countries.”

  Patric winced as the terrifying words screeched in his brain.

  Find your brother, or the child dies....

  “I know where we can go,” Natasha answered her own question before Patric could speak up. “Let’s go north, to Sweden or Norway. The Pagans up there are much more peaceful than the Lucifereans here in Western Europe. They’re all about nature and spirits, and much less militant in their beliefs. As long as we don’t get into any confrontations, I think they would welcome us, especially if they knew that we fled because we have a baby on the way.”

  She rubbed her stomach affectionately. Patric watched her, paralyzed.

  …Or the child dies....

  He smiled weakly. “That sounds like a good idea. I’m sure we can find some place that will give us shelter.”