by Mark Carver
A crudely drawn pentagram was splashed in red paint across a once-glorious mosaic of the Garden of Eden. The high priest of the temple was kneeling naked on the floor, his arms spread wide and unintelligible sounds coming from his mouth. His back was towards Tourec and his companions, and he was not aware of their silent approach.
Like frenzied harpies, the shrouded figures pounced upon the man, seizing him by both arms and bending him backwards.
“Blood of Christ!” the priest swore in surprise.
Tourec smacked him roughly across the mouth.
“Do not utter that name, heathen!”
The other two men twisted the priest’s arms behind him, causing him to cry out in pain as his back arched sharply. Tourec immediately stuffed a cloth into the priest’s mouth to muffle his cries, and the frightened man’s eyes bulged with terror.
“Wha duh yuh wah?” he strained through the gag.
Tourec turned his back on the sweating priest and paused to examine the red pentagram scrawled across the wall. He sniffed and wrinkled his nose as he detected faint odor of iron. He reached out and touched the paint, then drew back his hand in horror.
It wasn’t paint.
He whirled around and leaned down over the portly, naked man bent towards the ceiling. Tourec pulled back his hood and fixed his blue eyes on the priest’s terrified face.
“I am God’s holy vengeance,” he said with a low voice.
The priest’s eyes widened further as he struggled weakly against the men holding his arms with grips of steel.
“But God is also merciful,” Tourec said as he looked down upon the vessel of Satan. “I will give you one chance to save yourself.”
He tore the pentagram from his neck and cast it to the floor in disgust. He pulled a brilliant crucifix from beneath his robe and clutched it tightly.
“Do you repent of your sins and acknowledge Jesus Christ to be your Lord and Savior?”
The priest’s face flushed and his eyes darkened with hatred. “Fuhh yrr!” he wheezed through the cloth.
Tourec exhaled through his nose and his fingers tightened around the crucifix. “Then may God have mercy on your soul, for we will not.”
****
“Burn the words of the silent God!”
The crowd that was gathered in the square before the Temple of Astaroth roared and cheered as the flames climbed the night sky and licked the pages of the Bibles like hellhounds. Numerous pentagrams that dangled from necklaces and earlobes flashed in the firelight, and the eyes of the crowd gleamed with excitement. Even the children who were scattered throughout the crowd grinned and clapped their hands with delight, darting bravely towards the fire to pick up books that had fallen off the pile to cast them back into the flames.
The black-garbed circle widened as the fire blazed brighter and the heat intensified. The monks who were overseeing the bonfire looked about nervously, wondering what was delaying their priest’s arrival. He was scheduled to lead a procession of out the temple and into the piazza as soon as the fire started, but no one had yet come forth.
With a thunderous clang, the temple bells pealed across the square, and every head in the crowd turned around to witness three hooded monks emerge from the large central portal, bearing a heavy burden. The piazza and facade lights had been dimmed in preparation for the bonfire, making it impossible to make out any details of the figures approaching the crowd. For a moment, everyone forgot about the raging blaze and concentrated on the mysterious new arrivals.
One of the monks attending the blaze stepped forward. “Where is Father Nocetti?” he called out.
The approaching figures made no reply, though as they drew near, they began singing low, haunting melodies. The monk tilted his head to the side and strained to make out the bizarre sounds. He had heard something like this before, many years ago.
It sounded like...Gregorian chanting.
A thrill of imminent danger raced through his nerves, and he raise an accusing finger like a weapon.
“You!”
There was a flash, a crack, and the monk dropped like a bundle of empty clothes. The crowd gasped and instinctively drew back. As the circle parted, the three monks sprinted forward with their heavy shrouded burden bouncing on their shoulders. Those nearest to them shrieked in horror. The bundle being carried by the monks was moving, and it reeked of kerosene.
Before anyone could react, the monks screeched to a halt before the blasphemous bonfire and heaved their squirming burden into the flames. Instantly, the chemical fumes ignited with a roar and the writhing shape bound with black cloth twisted and jerked in agony.
For a moment, everyone was petrified with horror; then, like a floodgate being opened, the crowd surged forward. Several hands grabbed nearby fire extinguishers, while others rushed towards the enemies of Satan’s church.
His eyes flashing in the flames, Tourec raised his arms to heaven, brandishing two handguns. The attackers stopped dead in their tracks, and Tourec’s voice echoed mightily across the piazza.
“Praise be to God!”
As if a giant stone had fallen to the earth, the ground beneath them quaked, and an avalanche of smoke and fire pulverized the defiled cathedral behind them. The crowd watched with shock and horror as their beautiful temple vomited great gouts of flame and stone and glass, and the piazza trembled like a raft upon the sea. Mouths gaped wide and eyes brimmed with tears as one of the glorious bell towers cracked, swayed, and fell upon the sanctuary like a dead body, smashing the roof and gutting the nave with all the gentleness of a fisherman gouging a fresh fish. No one could move, and the wretched soul sizzling and boiling upon a bed of burning Bibles was forgotten.
After several horrific moments, a few people in the crowd slowly came to their senses, and they whipped their eyes to and fro, searching for the perpetrators of this terror.
The monks had vanished.
CHAPTER 4
Limoges, France
The railway station was in absolute chaos. News about the brazen attack in Italy was screaming from every television across Europe, and the Vatican’s command for non-violent yet resilient assaults upon the Christian church was now all but disregarded.
Hovering over the heads of the mob, countless televisions were blaring the French president’s angry tirade.
“Our government strongly condemns these atrocious acts of violence perpetrated in the name of a religion that has historically stood for peace and love. This government defends the rights of all people to worship as they please, but we will not tolerate aggression in the name of any faith. Our hearts and prayers go out to those affected by the tragedy in Italy, and I promise that these Christian terrorists will be stopped at any cost.”
As they made their way through the station, Patric and Natasha dodged and weaved through numerous quarrels and skirmishes. It was quite apparent from the turmoil at the station that the firm hand of the law was not enough, and numerous angry citizens were foaming at the mouth, looking for any chance to deliver their own brand of justice.
“Hold on to my hand!” Patric shouted as he tried to thread his way through a throng of people who were pushing and shoving for a chance to get a ticket to England, a place that was fast becoming a safe haven for those wanting to flee the continent. Close by, several gruff and irritated policemen shoved vengeful Satanists away from a group of Christian travelers, who unleashed a torrent of curses and threats of God’s wrath. The entire station was swarming like a beehive, and the police presence was barely noticeable in the melee.
Patric felt Natasha’s fingers slip away, and he looked behind him in panic. Protecting her stomach with one hand, Natasha elbowed two arguing men aside and grabbed Patric’s arm again as she panted for breath. He managed a comforting smile, though his stomach was in knots.
This is impossible....
His eyes fell upon Natasha’s abdomen, and he felt his nerves strengthen. There was no other option. He had to find a way.
Natasha yelped, and Patri
c instinctively pulled her towards him before he could even see what was going on. Behind her, two men were locked in a struggle on the ground, one of them growling, “Heathen! Don’t touch my family!”
Patric squeezed Natasha to his side and led her away from the fracas. “Come on, let’s try and get a ticket.”
Natasha nodded, pressing herself against his chest. They huddled together as they moved away from the bustle and noise of the trans-continental ticket windows to the less crowded domestic rail lines. There were still dozens of hopeful travelers lined up at the ticket windows, and Patric reluctantly left Natasha on a bench to join the mob.
As he waited in the queue, shuffling his feet a few inches every time the line moved forward, he glanced around nervously, trying to determine if anyone around him was a Christian. He wasn’t interested in confronting anyone; he just wanted to be prepared if someone else decided to make trouble in his vicinity. He stilted himself on his tiptoes and cast an anxious look towards Natasha, who was sitting meekly on the wrought iron bench.
He exhaled and moved forward. This was all happening like a bad dream playing at double speed. So much had happened in the past few days— less than a week ago, everything was normal, even lethargic. Of course, the imminent arrival of the baby had always been in the back of his mind, but there were enough daily distractions to sweep that reality under the rug until the time came.
But now....
Someone jostled him from behind and he lurched forward with a grunt.
“Pardonne moi,” a thick voice said with unusual friendliness.
“Not a problem,” Patric replied, glancing up at the man, and his eyebrows jumped with surprise. “Jacque?”
His friend’s craggy face broke into a smile. “You were going to leave without saying goodbye?”
Patric coughed and shifted his feet. “Um, yeah, well, I, uh...I really wanted to get Natasha away from all of this. You know, with the baby and everything...I just wanted to take her somewhere quiet and peaceful.”
“Oh, is that so?” Jacque said, his voice laced with a tiny hint of suspicion. “And where are you two going that is so quiet and peaceful?”
A frantic debate raged in Patric’s mind, whether to tell Jacque the truth or to lie about his destination.
“We’re going to Vizille, near Grenoble. I have some relatives there, and we’ll stay with them until things quiet down here.”
“Oh, that sounds nice. A little getaway in the countryside will help you forget all of this unpleasantness.” The way he pronounced the “s” reminded Patric of a snake’s hiss.
A strange light flashed in his eyes, and he leaned closer to Patric. “But you shouldn’t have left without saying goodbye. You’ve already done that to me once before.”
There was a dark undercurrent in his tone that disturbed Patric, who coughed again to buy time for a response. “Well Jacque, you, uh...you saw me that night, you saw how messed up I was. I just had a bad trip, and...I just needed to get out of there fast.”
Jacque’s face was motionless for a moment, then split into his trademarked toothy grin. “Of course, of course.... We all have moments like that. Moments when we just want to run away from our troubles, turn our back on our responsibilities, just lose ourselves in the swirl....”
Suddenly, the air buzzed with an awful humming sound. Patric’s heart jolted and every muscle in his body tightened. His breath froze in his throat as his eyes fixed on Jacque’s face.
The station intercom crackled and the buzzing noise vanished. Patric nearly collapsed with relief. An impatient voice announced that there were no more tickets to Berlin or Amsterdam. A chorus of groans erupted from the tumultuous crowd.
Patric glanced at his feet in embarrassment and wondered if Jacque had noticed his terror. He looked up and gasped.
Jacque’s eyes were black as coal, yet his skew-toothed smile remained plastered on his face. The air suddenly vibrated with the sound of a million insects.
Patric trembled as Jacque leaned closer and whispered in his ear, “We have eyes and ears everywhere, my friend. Don't forget that.”
He turned and walked away.
Patric’s breath spurted from his mouth like a machine gun, and his veins felt like they were going to pop. Only his eyes could move, and he followed Jacque until he had vanished into the crowd. Then, like a gunshot, his paralysis snapped as the buzzing sound disappeared. With an anxious glance over his shoulder, he stepped forward and was surprised to find that he was next in line for a ticket.
Natasha looked up and smiled at him as he approached the bench where she was sitting. “Patric, I think I saw your friend Jacque. Did you see him?”
Patric instinctively whipped his head around, scanning the crowd. “Um, no, no I didn’t,” he stammered. “I wonder what he’s doing here.”
Natasha shrugged, oblivious to his anxiety. “Did you get the tickets?”
He held up two plastic cards. “The train leaves in twenty minutes.”
They made their way to Platform Twelve, avoiding trolleys stacked with suitcases and passengers jostling for position. It wasn’t hard to spot the Christian refugees— they were usually huddled together, their faces gaunt, tired, and fearful. Poisonous feelings of contempt and scorn arose within Patric, and he felt the urge to spit on the cowering fools. Was his brother really one of these cowards? They truly were the meek, though they weren’t going to inherit anything except pain and rejection. Patric had had little contact with Christians since the Manifestation, but he could see now that they certainly deserved the title of “Delusionals.”
It was quite an ordeal getting on the train, which was full to capacity despite its less popular inland destinations. Tickets for trains heading to coastal areas were the most sought after, but it seemed that everyone wanted to leave, no matter the destination. Patric suddenly felt uneasy as he realized that most of these people were probably Delusionals.
His suspicions were confirmed almost immediately after he and Natasha squeezed into their seats. Directly across from them sat two elderly women with crosses around their necks. He grimaced at the sight of the impotent symbols, but as he looked up at their faces, he was struck by how calm and gentle their expressions were. One of them even smiled at Natasha, acknowledging her bulging stomach with her eyes. Natasha, noticing the dangling crosses, looked away.
Patric glanced at his watch impatiently. It was almost noon, and they had a three hour ride ahead of them. He masked a scowl as he studied the old women. I swear, if one of them starts talking to me....
The conductor sounded the final call, and a minute later, the train lurched forward on grinding wheels. Patric glanced over at Natasha, who was looking a little pale.
“What’s wrong?” he asked with concern.
Natasha shook her head. “Just feeling a little sick....”
“Do you need to go to the toilet?”
She shook her head again, and her face wore an expression of weary concentration as she stared into space and willed her breakfast to stay down. “I just think I need some water.”
Before Patric could answer, one of the old women smiled and said, “I’ve got some water, dear.”
She pulled a bottle of water from her travel bag and offered it to Natasha. With a smirk, Natasha regarded the water for a moment, then reluctantly reached out and took it. The old woman offered another bottle to Patric, who dismissed it with a wave of his hand. Her smile still unwavering, she turned to an elderly man seated across the aisle. “Would you like some water, Father?”
Patric turned in surprise and stared hard at the old man. He certainly didn’t look like a priest; he wore no vestments or collar, not even a cross. He looked extremely tired, though most of his face was hidden by a heavy gray beard. The old man returned the smile and said, “No, thank you, Sister,” then turned back to his newspaper.
The train began to pick up speed and the turmoil of the station seemed to melt away. The clacking of the wheels and the rhythmic swaying motion lulle
d the passengers into an artificial calm. Natasha, apparently feeling better after sipping the water, began helping herself to a sandwich, which she shared with Patric.
As he ate, Patric studied the priest in the adjacent seat, who took no notice of his attention. After perhaps half an hour, the priest coughed and rose to his feet, slipping a package of cigarettes out of his pocket as he made his way to the rear of the car. Patric licked his teeth, then got up after a moment and followed the old man.
He found him lounging in the smoking compartment of the rail car, sucking on the cigarette and staring listlessly out the window. His face was a bit red, which betrayed his habit of enjoying frequent glasses of wine. Patric smiled to himself and drew a flask from his pocket as he stepped up to the window next to the old man.
He took a sip of whiskey, then offered it to the priest. The old man looked at him as if he had offered him a poisonous snake. Patric’s eyes narrowed in contempt.
“What, God doesn’t allow his children to enjoy simple earthly pleasures now and then?” he asked with a sneer. “I see you’re enjoying one right now yourself.”
The priest looked down at the cigarette, then reluctantly accepted the flask. He took a draught that was slightly longer than etiquette allowed, then wiped his lips.
Patric smirked again. “Looks like you needed that....”
The priest nodded, and smiled in spite of himself. “It’s been a rough few days.”
He eyed Patric’s pentagram necklace with suspicion. “But I’m sure you know that.”
Patric nodded. “I do. But, if it’s any consolation, I haven’t taken up arms against your church. I’m more of a passive resister.”
“Oh?”
“I enjoy everything that your church tells us is wrong. That’s how I fight.”
The priest took another puff of the cigarette. “Well, I hate to break this news to you, my son, but that’s something even the holiest of men do every now and then.”
Patric’s satisfied smile faded. “What do you mean?”
