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

by Mark Carver

  “And I’m not your brother,” he muttered, turning and leaving the man in the heavy mist of cigarette smoke.

  ****

  “Look at this bloody mess,” the sergeant grumbled as he kicked a smoldering piece of timber out of his way. “Serves the bastards right for living in a stone fortress with an interior built completely out of wood. You know they were just asking for it, with all the geriatrics in there and their oxygen tanks and what-have-you....”

  The two policemen wound their way through the maze of ash and rubble, and the young rookie who had patiently listened to his superior’s incisive hindsight commentary had to turn away as the firefighters extracted another charred, twisted skeleton from the ruins and bundled it into a white sheet.

  They walked a wide-arcing path, circumventing the chaos of flashing lights, weeping nurses, and clusters of firemen overturning blackened timbers. The rookie followed the sergeant like an obedient dog, and they approached several other middle-ranking officers wearing raincoats and lounging around their cars.

  “Bloody mess,” the sergeant repeated to no one in particular, and everyone agreed. The rookie stepped closer, but backed away after receiving a stern look from his superior.

  “So what’s the word?” a portly officer asked.

  A third flipped through a notepad, trying to shield it from the rain with moderate success. “A nuclear bomb. Just like that.” He snapped his fingers to punctuate his statement. “Everyone inside, done, kaput. The only ones left are some maintenance staff and a few nurses who were out on various errands. But everyone inside was toasted faster than you can cook an omelet.”

  The sergeant narrowed his eyes and planted his hands on his hips. “Now how is that possible? You’ve seen the windows on this place— couldn’t someone throw a chair and let at least someone escape? And what about the doors?”

  The officer flipped through several pages of his notepad, then sucked on his lips. “We’re still looking into that. But our preliminary investigation indicates that the blaze tore through the facility so quickly that no one had a chance to escape. And remember, nearly everyone inside was old, infirm, or both. Falling out one of those windows would have killed them just as quickly as the fire did.”

  “Less painfully, though,” the rookie murmured.

  The three officers glared at him, but their faces reflected their agreement.

  “And what about the doors?” the sergeant asked.

  The officer wiped his smudged glasses as he shuffled through his notebook again.

  “Yeah, that’s the strange thing….”

  He slapped the notebook closed and looked at his colleagues.

  “The handles were made of stainless steel, and they were all melted shut, like they’d been welded or something.”

  The sergeant licked his teeth. “Well, there was a fire, after all....”

  The officer with the notebook shook his head and gestured towards the scorched ruins up on the hill. “That fire was over in a matter of minutes, and it was mostly fueled by wood, which doesn’t get much hotter than a thousand degrees. I checked the door handles, and all of them, every one, were melted shut. The handles were made of stainless steel, and I used to be a metal worker, and I know for a fact that stainless steel doesn’t start to melt until you reach at least 2500 degrees Fahrenheit.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that that fire wasn’t hot enough to melt those door handles.”

  The sergeant coughed and glared at the other man. “Are you telling me that something else melted those doors closed?”

  The officer glanced down at his notebook. “We strongly suspect that this was a case of arson. Electrical failure is also a possibility, but if it was arson, then perhaps someone wanted to make sure there were no survivors.”

  “So how could someone weld the doors shut without anyone inside knowing about it?”

  The officer shrugged and leaned against the hood of the car. “I don’t know, all right? I’m just repeating the facts.”

  The sergeant turned to his eavesdropping subordinate and gestured for him to follow. The rookie fell into step behind the sergeant, hunching his shoulders against the rain.

  “What do you think, sir?”

  “About what?”

  The rookie glanced at the other two officers conferring back at their cars. “You know, what he said about the door — “

  The sergeant whirled and jabbed a dripping finger in his face. “You keep what you heard back there to yourself, do you understand?”

  The startled rookie nodded rapidly.

  The sergeant lowered his finger and straightened his raincoat. “Until we’ve finished our investigation, I don’t want talk of this getting out. Who knows what wild, hysterical ideas might pop into people’s minds if....”

  He trailed off, then shoved his hands in his pockets and continued trudging up the hill. A weary fireman approached them, withdrawing a small notebook from a pocket.

  “Final count, sir. Our initial estimates were correct: no survivors. Twenty-seven patients, thirteen staff. We’re pretty much finished here — just poking around, making sure all the cinders have been extinguished. I’ll give you a full report in the morning.”

  The sergeant saluted carelessly, gazing up at the gaping ruins. "Merci."

  The fireman returned the salute and sloughed off through the mud.

  The sergeant stared at the decimated building for several moments, then turned to go.

  “Saint Camillus de Lellis.”

  He turned around and peered at the rookie.

  “What?”

  The young officer motioned to a relief carved into the scorched wall, next to one of the arched window openings. It depicted a man with a halo holding another person draped in a blanket.

  “He was the patron saint of nurses, doctors, and patients.”

  The sergeant couldn’t help but chuckle mirthlessly. “Well, a lot of good he did these people.”

  ****

  Susa, Italy

  Father Domingo of the Temple of Set, formerly the Cathedral of San Guisto, glanced warily at the flickering horizon as he lit a cigarette and took a long, grateful drag. In the gathering dusk, the distant lightning illuminated the jagged underbellies of the menacing clouds, which looked like stalactites clinging to a cavern ceiling in the dying light. He straightened his jet-black frock and took another puff of smoke, mentally checking off a list in preparation for tonight’s mass.

  It was going to be quite an important service. The city was already in an uproar over the terrorists’ Internet video message, which had more or less the desired effect on the world. There were reports of Christians banding together and staging demonstrations in several big cities, which were usually followed by scuffles with Satanists, or worse. One unconfirmed report told of a napalm attack on a group of Christian demonstrators in Prague, though Father Domingo doubted if it was actually napalm that was used. More likely, it was just a Molotov cocktail thrown by a brave teen attempting to impress his friends.

  Personally, he didn’t care too much for these violent tactics, and demonstrations by either side seemed counter-productive. History brimmed with examples of violent oppression backfiring on the oppressors, though Father Domingo doubted this pressure would galvanize the Delusionals into a hardened fighting force.

  He couldn’t help but smile to himself as he flicked away a stub of ash from the cigarette. He had personally seen the airport and train station packed with bleary-eyed refugees fleeing like cockroaches when the kitchen light is switched on. The foolhardy batch of thugs going on television in ski masks, slinking into temples, and killing clergymen in the shadows were superfluous and, quite frankly, hypocritical. Father Domingo had studied plenty of Christian theology and he knew that if God actually cared about this world anymore, He would never allow such actions from His loyal herd.

  This fact was going to be the main point of his sermon tonight, since it was obvious from their desperation that
the Delusionals had been abandoned by their God and had to resort to cowardly guerilla tactics to justify their antiquated faith. After the congregation was whipped into a frenzy, Father Domingo was going to unleash his powerful concluding weapon: the announcement that Italy was going to follow in France’s footsteps and seize any and all churches suspected of plotting violence or insurrection. He had been personally assured by a high-ranking friend in Parliament that the bill would be quietly voted on and passed the following week. In return, Father Domingo, with the support of several prominent clergymen around the country, had promised to purchase the impounded properties from the government for very agreeable prices. If all the pieces fell into place, he estimated that more than 75% of Italy’s remaining Christian cathedrals and churches would be dedicated to Lucifer before the end of the year.

  “Father Domingo.”

  The priest whirled around in surprise, his cigarette flying from his fingers onto the stone pavement. He was both startled and mesmerized by the woman’s cold, striking beauty.

  He was also baffled by how she could have stepped out onto the terrace behind him through the ancient wooden door, which always emitted an irritating creak when opened, but he had heard nothing.

  Squinting at her in the dissolving twilight, he stammered, “Y-yes, can I help you?”

  The woman offered a crooked smile and her eyes sparkled, although there was no lightning in the sky at that moment.

  “I wonder if I might have a word with you. Inside.”

  She opened the groaning door and motioned into the church with her black-sleeved arm.

  Father Domingo frowned and formed his mouth to speak, then blinked his question away. He stepped inside and the woman in black followed him. They entered the north transept and they walked past unlit chapels towards the nave crossing.

  “May I have your name, signorina?” he asked, wanting to study her face but afraid to do so.

  The woman smirked again, her long dress rustling with each silent step. “My name is not important. But I can tell you that I come on the highest authority.”

  “The Vatican?”

  As they approached the altar, the woman’s smile broadened, revealing her gleaming teeth.

  “Higher.”

  The woman raised her eyes above the altar, and Father Domingo followed her gaze.

  His heart leaped into his throat.

  “Blood of Christ....”

  ****

  The crowd assembled outside the Temple of Set milled about impatiently, murmuring to each other. The temple doors were still closed, and there was a storm approaching. One particularly impatient fellow ventured up to the heavy oak doors and pounded on them.

  “Let us in!” he shouted, and his demand was echoed by the crowd.

  The doors obediently creaked open, and the man looked back at the crowd in confusion. Everyone appeared just as puzzled as he was, so he shrugged and led the way inside. The congregation shuffled into the sanctuary, which was dimly lit except for the blazing altar at the far end of the nave.

  “What is that?” several voices whispered. The congregation crept closer, then shrieks of terror broke out across the crowd.

  Father Domingo’s lifeless eyes looked down upon the congregation from his elevated perch, his arms thrown wide in a ghastly embrace. His hands and feet were nailed to the large wooden pentagram that rose above the altar in a blasphemous crucifixion. Two mistresses of the temple, Father Domingo’s consorts, were similarly crucified behind the priest, impaled to the wooden choir screen. All three were stripped naked, their throats slashed and blood seeping down over their bodies. Below them, upon an intricate tapestry depicting Lucifer’s rebellion against God, were large words scrawled in blood: “Judgment awaits.”

  The members of the congregation were too stunned to move; they could only stare at the gruesome scene like frightened children. After several moments of horrified stupor, a few members of the crowd regained their senses. Some began to weep, others whispered to one another.

  A voice broke out above the din. “Where are the others?”

  Several people reluctantly fanned out, peeking behind statues and beneath the pews. One brave soul cautiously looked behind the choir screen upon which the two priestesses were splayed out, and he yelped with fright.

  “I-I found them…” he stammered, covering his mouth with his hands.

  A fresh wave of gasps and sobs arose from the congregation, and the fervor of anxious murmuring increased.

  “What do we do now?” many asked.

  Every eye turned towards their beloved priest and his consorts. Then they reached into their pockets and drew out their cell phones. They raised them as if giving an offering to the dead, and the sound of clicking cameras filled the sanctuary.

  ****

  The train lurched to a stop, wrenching Patric out of his slumber. He opened his eyes, then bolted upright, glancing around him. He was alone. He felt a stab of sadness, in spite of his new-found resolve. Before he could stop himself, he offered up a short prayer: Please don’t hurt them.

  He glanced around nervously, as if he was afraid that someone heard him. When the attendant announced the train’s arrival, Patric rose to his feet and gathered his bag from the overhead compartment. He had left the other bags in a locker in the Vizille train station. He wondered if he would ever be back to collect them again.

  To his surprise, no one else from his car got up to disembark, and several people looked at him strangely. His eyes shied away from theirs, and he hurried off the train and onto the platform, stumbling into a man walking along the tracks.

  “Scuzi,” the man blurted.

  Patric mumbled an apology and the man straightened his coat and continued on his way, though after several meters, he glanced over his shoulder and glared at Patric with sinister eyes. Patric gasped, then blinked in confusion as he saw the man spread his arms wide and embrace a little boy who came sprinting across the platform.

  You’re paranoid, and you’re seeing things, Patric chastised himself as he clung to his small luggage bag and proceeded to the exit. Before he reached the station door, a scowling security officer raised a rough hand in his face and commanded him in Italian to spread his arms and surrender his bag to be searched. He didn’t comprehend what the guard was saying but his gestures were quite clear. He quickly obliged, glancing up at the television while his body was scanned with a handheld metal detector.

  “A shocking scene today at the Temple of Set in Susa,” the anchorman announced, “as Father Domingo, the temple’s charismatic high priest, and two priestesses were found crucified in the sanctuary last night just before evening mass. No suspects are currently named but the prevailing opinion points to the mysterious band of Christian terrorists who have been assaulting Satanic clergymen around Europe for the past several days.”

  Patric’s blood ran cold.

  He was standing in Susa Station at this very moment. Susa was where his mother had told him to seek out his brother.

  His brow furrowed with confusion as a thousand conflicting thoughts battered his brain. He glanced up at the television and flinched in disgust as uncensored, high-resolution images of the slaughter flashed across the television screen. The security guards finished their search and motioned for Patric to be on his way, but his eyes were glued to the screen, and the guards simply shrugged and left him alone.

  The anchorman continued. “While these unprovoked attacks have unfortunately become a familiar occurrence in recent days, this gruesome massacre was far more vicious and gratuitous than previous attacks. Premiere Bertonelli was outraged, holding an emergency press conference early this morning at his villa in Milan.”

  The news program cut to Bertonelli’s angular visage, and he appeared to be greatly fatigued. His face was flushed with anger and his eyes flashed as he spoke.

  “This is the final straw!” he fumed. “These…these…Christian animals have just signed their own death warrant. At the behest of the Satanic Party, and wi
th the full backing of Parliament, I am authorizing our police and military forces to seize and shut down any and all Christian churches that are suspected of supporting or contributing to these terrorists and their cause. We will not tolerate such heinous acts in our country, and we will take any measures necessary to ensure that our citizens can worship in peace and security. I am making the apprehension and punishment of these terrorists my top priority, and I encourage anyone with knowledge that would preserve our national security to contact the local authorities. Report anything that you think might be useful, and I promise you: we will bring these deluded monsters to justice.”

  As the conference exploded in a flurry of questions, the program returned to the anchor desk. “Bertonelli’s new referendum mirrors a similar directive issued by French president Nicholas Merdans only days before. Since the order was given, over 150 French churches and other Christian facilities have been seized by the French government and closed until further notice. Meanwhile, evacuations continue as thousands of Christians, Jews, and Muslims flee their....”

  Patric shook his head in disbelief and shuffled towards the exit. That terrible crime had happened here, just hours before he had stepped off the train. Something inside him urged him to head to the temple to pay his respects, but he knew he could waste no time on detours. He had a mission to accomplish first.

  He pushed his way through the revolving door and jumped back as a violent crack of lightning seared the sky, followed almost immediately by a deafening clap of thunder. Rain gushed from the clouds like a fountain, and the streets of Susa flowed like rivers. He looked around helplessly, then cried out as he spotted an umbrella vendor cowering in a corner of the building. His feet splashing in the puddles, he hurried over and hastily purchased a black umbrella. He hoisted it over his head with relief, smearing away the wet strands of hair that stabbed his eyes.