by Mark Carver
Two guards in gleaming black armor clacked their halberds against the floor as they snapped to attention, and His Worship passed between them and opened the doors to his chambers with a grand flourish. As he stepped inside, one of the guards immediately reached in and swung the doors shut.
His Worship glided into the anteroom, which served as his lounge and office. It was a cavern of infernal atmosphere. Candelabras shimmered, casting flickering light across the Satanic icons and leather-bound volumes scattered around the room. Moonlight slithered through the slender, soaring Gothic windows, and darkness hung in the air like a black fog. The Voice glided over to an intricately carved table and set his bundle of books upon it, then spun around
There was nothing, only a slight breeze that stirred the curtains. The Voice frowned and glanced sideways. All of the windows were closed, yet the curtains continued to rustle. There was a whisper, and the Voice turned back to the table. Suddenly, he gasped as he felt something pierce his chest and seize his lungs like a fist.
I can see in your heart that you have doubts about my plan.
He choked and gasped for breath as his arms stretched out and his spine arched towards the ceiling.
“My Lord, please…please…” he wheezed, his eyes bulging. “I do not doubt you, my Lord; I just…I am just a man. I am weak.”
The grip inside his ribs tightened and the pontiff grimaced in pain.
Yes, you are weak. You should count yourself fortunate that I have exalted you above the rest, and I expect unquestioning loyalty in return.
“You have it, my Lord,” the Voice gasped desperately. “I swear by the fires of Hell; I am loyal to you alone.”
Then why do you doubt what I have shown you?
A wave of relief washed over him as the fiery talons clutching his lungs relaxed their grip, and he bent over coughing and hacking. When he had composed himself, he straightened his posture and gazed into the darkness with an attempt at dignity.
“I do not doubt your plan, my Lord; I doubt the will of the masses. The coming of the new age will bring quite a lot of disruption and turmoil to our order and our world. We are all frail, my Lord, and we have grown accustomed to the way things are now. Change is often…painful.”
The curtains swirled again with the sound of someone or something inhaling an impatient breath. The world will see the might of Lucifer again, and all will bow before me. Do not trouble yourself with the will of the people; leave that to me. You are simply my voice in this world, and you will speak what I command.
His Worship bowed low before the darkness. “Yes, my Lord. I am your humble servant.”
The room seemed to exhale, and he felt a presence dissipate. His shoulders slumped and he suppressed a sigh of relief, seeking out a chair to fall into. He rubbed his brow and he absently fingered the pentagram around his neck. Serving this master was certainly no easy task....
A short, abrupt sound came from his bedchambers, and he bolted out of the chair. He stalked to the door and opened it quietly. All was dark within, yet he was certain he could hear breathing. He steeled his nerves for another encounter, then paused as he heard someone laughing in a soft yet scornful chuckle.
He stepped into the room and closed the door. At the same time, a candle flickered to life, then another, then another.
The woman in black blew out the match and turned her eyes towards the pontiff. She spoke with a smooth syrupy voice as she made her way around the corner of the colossal bed.
“For such a great man, you can be quite stupid sometimes.”
The Voice bristled at this accusation, but the flame of his anger was quickly extinguished by her body’s slithering curves as she approached.
“I carry a great burden,” he said after a few moments.
“Indeed,” she answered as she drew close to him. She pressed her body against his and draped one arm loosely around his neck. “As I said, you are a great man,” she cooed, stroking his stern face. Her eyes flashed, and a sly smile curled her black lips. “Will you do as he says?”
His Worship sucked in his breath, realizing that she had heard the exchange in the next room. He glared at her. “What do you think?”
The woman in black smiled again and twined her other arm around him.
“I think that you know whom you serve.”
His Worship raised one eyebrow and wrapped his arm around her waist. “Indeed.”
****
The news anchorwoman wore a grave expression as she stared into the camera and read the scrolling teleprompter with a solemn tone.
“The country continues to be ravaged by religious strife as today, a Christian priest was hanged from a bridge in Milan. This follows a night of restless protests and scattered arson attacks throughout Italy and other European countries. Despite a call from the Vatican for Satanists to wage an economic and psychological war against the Christian minority, violence continues to flare up across the continent, with both sides being active participants. As of yet, there has been no formal statement from the Christian church, whose leaders are believed to be in hiding.”
The anchorwoman glanced to her left, then returned her gaze to the camera. “We have some breaking news for you now: a video has just been released on the Internet, featuring several persons who claim to be ‘Christian vigilantes.’ We will show you the video now.”
Tourec’s eyes glowered through his mask as he glared at the watching world beyond the television screen. Behind him were several brethren, shrouded and somber, assembled in front of a grand altar piled with icons and crucifixes. Tourec spread his arms wide, and the golden cross around his neck gleamed majestically.
“We are the soldiers of God,” he announced. “We vehemently oppose Satan, the Prince of this World, and we stand against all of his followers. All praise and glory be to God the Father and his Son, Jesus Christ.”
“Amen,” chanted the hooded figures.
“We claim responsibility for the attacks in recent weeks,” Tourec continued, “and we promise that such attacks will continue as long as members of our faith are assaulted and persecuted. We have committed our lives to love and peace, but we will not stand idly by while our brothers and sisters are trampled and brutalized. We do not fear what man can do, and we do not fear the eternal fool Lucifer, who thought he could overthrow Jehovah, the Creator of Heaven and Earth.
“Glory to God in the highest,” the monks chanted again.
Tourec paused a moment, letting the anger seethe in his heart. His eyes shot fire through the air and wires, penetrating the hearts of the audience on the other side of the camera. He inhaled deeply, then delivered the conclusion to his message.
“Brothers and sisters in Christ, I urge you: rise up! Resist the devil and his hordes, and do not fear to use force when you must. These are not peaceful times; these are times of terror and violence, and we have been called now to live by the sword, and die by it if necessary. But above all, do not waver! Keep the faith, and God will protect you.”
His eyes and his voice darkened, and he continued, “And to the minions of the Deceiver, we say this: though our numbers are few, our might is infinite, for we wield the sword of God, against which no man or angel can stand. Repent, or fall beneath his righteous hammer of judgment! Amen.”
“Amen.”
The video faded to a black screen emblazoned with a simple white cross, then the anchorwoman reappeared. She looked visibly disturbed, and for a moment, she seemed at a loss for what to say next.
“Well, it seems…we have just witnessed a very…we have a panel of experts standing by to give us their commentary.” She was quite relieved when the cameras cut away to two men and one woman waiting expectantly at a table across the stage. They all nodded politely towards the camera, and the anchorwoman used this brief respite to regain her composure.
“Signori, signora,” she said, “please give us your thoughts about what we just saw.”
A thin-faced man with dark eyes dramatically cleared his throa
t as a graphic below his chin identified him as a professor of religious studies at the University of Siena. “This is terrorism, pure and simple. It is no secret that the church of Satan is directly opposed to the church of Christ, but until now, it has allowed the Christians to worship as they pleased. Now the Christians have struck first, unprovoked, and against civilian targets. We have seen this scenario played out in countless religious and ethnic disputes throughout history, and each side always claims to be the victim, but in this instance, the aggressor is clear.”
The anchorwoman nodded in agreement, then turned to the woman seated between the two men. “Signora Bianco, you have written several books and given countless lectures on the irrelevance of Christianity in our modern world, especially since the Manifestation. Why are these ‘vigilantes’ so adamant in defense of their, according to your view, antiquated faith?”
Mrs. Bianco adjusted her massive glasses and settled her equally massive frame into the comfortable studio chair. “Since the Manifestation, the world’s religious demographic has experienced a colossal upheaval. It was a revelation to the world that was even more dramatic than Jesus and His miracles in Jerusalem. But God has remained silent since Satan made his presence and existence known, and this only serves to intensify the desperation that the Christians have as they cling to their increasingly flimsy faith. Now they have taken to the streets to antagonize the sleeping bear in a pathetic attempt to justify the persecution they crave. It’s pitiful.”
The anchorwoman coughed uncomfortably, then turned to the last gentleman at the table. “Dr. Costanzo, you are a professor of early Christian studies at the University of Parma. From the tone of your lectures, and your numerous books on the subject, it can be inferred that you sympathize with the Christian church. Is this the case?”
Dr. Costanzo’s eyes shifted nervously behind his spectacles, and he flashed an anxious and toothy smile. “Well, I wouldn’t say I sympathize, per se, since that would sound like I endorse these vigilantes — “
“Do you?” the anchorwoman demanded outright.
Dr. Costanzo huffed and squirmed in his chair. “Of course not. I do not support terrorism in any form, even if it’s for a righteous cause — “
“You think what these men are doing is righteous?” Mrs. Bianco demanded incredulously.
“What? That’s…that’s ridiculous!” Dr. Costanzo cried. “I just said that I don’t support — “
“So you’re against them?” the rival professor asked scornfully.
Dr. Costanzo glanced at the camera and attempted another smile, but it came out as an idiotic slack-jawed expression. “Listen, I feel like I’m being singled out here....”
The anchorwoman swiveled in her chair and looked at the camera like a mother about to apologize for her unruly children. “Christians continue to flee the country in droves, and the border crossings, airports, and sea ports are clogged with refugees seeking to distance themselves from the conflict. Popular havens are the Americas, the British Isles, and Australia, which have been Christian strongholds since the Manifestation. In light of this video message, we will wait and see what the government’s official response will be, though an accelerated crackdown is to be expected as Premiere Bertonelli scrambles to restore social order and unity to our country.”
Father DeMarco pressed the remote button and the television screen winked off with a whisper. He turned and stared out the window, letting his gaze fly over the rolling hills and tranquil groves of trees. In the distance, black clouds swarmed like scouts sent out in advance of a fearsome army, and the priest did not doubt that a storm was coming. Even here, in his little retreat in the hills, he could feel the ground rumble with the approaching torrent of doom.
He squeezed his eyes shut and clasped his Bible to his chest. With trembling lips, he prayed feverishly to a God that he hoped was listening, and commanded that the small yet insistent voice of doubt within him be silenced.
An image of Tourec flashed in his mind. He had recognized Tourec’s voice immediately on TV, and even if he hadn’t, those eyes were unmistakable. There had once been so much love in those eyes, love for his Heavenly Father, and for....
He clutched the Bible tighter, and his eyes glimmered with tears. How much longer, Lord? his heart cried in anguish. Time doesn’t make it easier....
The blackening sky quaked and rumbled, and a cold breeze slithered through the open window. Father DeMarco placed the Bible on the table, then got up and shut the window with excessive force.
****
The train blasted into a tunnel and scorching white lights zipped by like dimensionally-warped stars. Several dozing passengers jolted awake and grumbled to themselves, then nestled back into their seats, hoping to resume their dreams that took them anywhere but on a train.
Patric didn’t flinch, and he didn’t sleep. He stood in the smoking compartment between the cars, staring straight ahead, his gaze slicing the rushing darkness like the scythes of light punctuating the tunnel walls. He wasn’t actually seeing anything, since the vision center in his mind was arrested by one immovable image.
Her face. Her eyes.
At first, Patric had been horrified to find that his mind was imprisoned by thoughts of his mother rather than Natasha, but eventually, he accepted the fixation. He couldn’t get that look out of his head, and it was even more indelible after he had spilled the truth in her small room at the hospital, and she had said something that resonated in his heart.
“Patric, why do you follow your god?”
Even now, speeding away from her, from Natasha, from home, his mind couldn’t assemble an answer from the countless dogmatic fragments floating in his brain.
Why? He clutched at his hair and hung his head down. Why him? Why all of this? Why was his god doing this, to one of his own children?
The train burst out of the tunnel, and the darkness was replaced with a sickly overcast light as the rain resumed its assault on the windows.
Suddenly, like a lightning bolt searing his heart, he had a revelation.
Why should the devil love him? Patric was a pathetic example of a Satanist. He claimed Lucifer as his master, but he was really on his own side. Even though the Proclamation granted unlimited freedom to all who wish, Satan could not be expected to help anyone who did not return the favor. This was the way of the world, after all.
A crackle of thunder outside mingled with the clattering of the train car’s frantic wheels, and Patric said a prayer as fingers of cigarette smoke drifted over his eyes.
I know I have been disobedient. I have questioned you and your power and your forgiveness. I have placed my own life before your master plan, and now I surrender myself to your will. I ask that you keep Natasha and our child safe, but your wisdom is greater than mine, and I know that I can do nothing for them now, so I will devote myself completely to the task that you have given me. I will find my brother and bring him to Paris, as you have commanded. Purge me of my weakness and give me the strength to endure whatever trials lie before me.
A flash of lightning split the sky, and Patric felt a surge of strength scorch his nerves.
This is what he had needed all along. He sucked in a deep lungful of smoke and exhaled slowly. He had been a fool to question and resist this mission; he should have considered it an honor to be commissioned by the Prince of Darkness in this war. His thoughts flitted back to Natasha, and that lingering sense of dread and worry seeped away, replaced by a strange sense of calm. They would certainly be safe…after all, Natasha had even greater faith than he did.
He inhaled smoke again.
Faith. That’s what he had been lacking for so long. Of course, he knew the Great Dragon was real — everyone did. But not everyone knew that the Great Dragon had a plan for this world, and all were a part of it. It was on this uncharted sea that Patric found himself now, and he saw the futility of lamenting the fact that he couldn’t see where the ship was going. The captain was none other than the Prince of Darkness, and Patri
c’s part in all of this was simply to carry out the task that had been given to him, and trust that his loyalty would aid the ship in some small way in reaching its destination.
At least his master had the bravery to make his will made known loud and clear, rather than speaking through esoteric texts with a thousand interpretations. Patric swore that he would rather give allegiance to a brazen and bold master, though he be harsh and even dangerous, than to a supposedly “loving” God who remained distant and silent.
Patric straightened his back and squared his jaw. He promised himself that he wouldn’t fear that awful humming or those pitch-black eyes; after all, they were servants of Satan just as he was. Only Delusionals and non-believers feared the power of Apollyon, and indeed he was worthy of fear.
He heard approaching footsteps behind him and a mumbling voice asked, “Hey friend, bum a smoke?”
Patric paused for a moment, then fished in his pockets for the crumpled cigarette pack. He offered one to the passenger, a middle-aged man with earth-tone clothing and a heavy beard.
“Thanks,” the man said as he lit the cigarette with his own lighter. He took a grateful drag, then glanced up with murky eyes. He spotted Patric’s pentagram necklace, and a smile that was almost lost inside the beard widened his face.
“You know,” he said, pointing at Patric with the cigarette, “I know you don’t believe it, but Jesus loves you, brother.”
Patric seized the man’s head and smashed it against the wall. The cigarette exploded against the floor like fireworks.
“No, he doesn’t,” he hissed into the man’s ear, tightening his grip on the shaggy mat of hair. “And if he was any kind of god, he wouldn’t love you either.”
He released his grip and stepped back. The man pried himself away from the wall and panted heavily as he stared at Patric in bewilderment. For a moment, Patric felt himself consumed by burning anger, but chills of shame began to brush against his soul. His eyes fell away, and he licked his dry lips.
