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

by Mark Carver

  Tourec didn’t know what else to say except “Thank you.” He noticed a flash of movement to his right, and a quick glance revealed Sophia peeking around the corner, unbeknownst to her father.

  “Turn around,” Dr. Rosetta said. Tourec obeyed, and the doctor began washing his chest and abdomen.

  Dr. Rosetta squinted, then clucked in disapproval. “There is serious discoloration around your ribcage,” he announced, dabbing the bruised area gingerly with the hand towel.

  Tourec’s heart sank, and he was almost too afraid to ask about his shoulder blade.

  “Your shoulder’s fine,” Dr. Rosetta said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “A little bruised but nothing broken. But here....”

  He motioned to the ribs and shook his head. “This might hurt a little.”

  Tourec inhaled stiffly and winced as Dr. Rosetta poked the ribs on his left side. He felt two stabs of lightning-hot pain, and Dr. Rosetta stepped back.

  “Mm-hmm,” he said thoughtfully. “Two cracked ribs. You will have a hard time sleeping for the next couple of weeks, my friend.”

  “Is it serious?” Tourec asked.

  Dr. Rosetta shook his head. “No, but you must be careful to avoid injuring yourself any further, or you could puncture a lung. The only way to heal them is time and rest.” He shook a bottle of painkiller pills. “And lots of these.” He poured a few into his hand and offered them to Tourec, who downed them quickly with a glass of water.

  “I can give you some numbing cream for the bruised area,” Dr. Rosetta continued as he leaned forward to inspect the damage. “And you must remember to cough or take a very deep breath about once every hour. This will hurt, but it can help stave off pneumonia.”

  Tourec nodded gratefully and reached for the roll of gauze. Dr. Rosetta grabbed his hand.

  “You don’t need that,” the doctor said.

  “Why not?”

  “I just told you, you need to be free to breathe deeply. Wrapping your chest will squeeze your ribs and prevent you from doing this.”

  Tourec reluctantly placed the roll back on the table, then looked at Dr. Rosetta.

  “Why are you helping me?” he asked bluntly.

  Dr. Rosetta shot a quick glance at Sophia, who started to duck back behind the wall but stopped as she realized she was caught. She emerged from the hallway and stood next to her father.

  Dr. Rosetta’s moustache swooped upwards in a hidden smile, and he pulled down the neckline of his sweat-stained undershirt. Tourec narrowed his eyes and peered closely at the faded cross tattoo that was almost lost in a forest of curly black hair. Tourec looked at Sophia, who looked at her father, who kept his eyes on Tourec.

  Slowly, and a bit painfully, Tourec turned his head and looked down at an identical cross emblazoned on his own left forearm. He unconsciously touched the bold, solid lines, then raised his eyes to meet Dr. Rosetta’s.

  “You were in Jerusalem.”

  “Yes. Briefly.”

  “What happened?”

  Dr. Rosetta paused a moment before asking, “Are you hungry?”

  Before waiting for Tourec’s response, he turned to Sophia. “Figlia, I think Mr. Beauchamp would like some vermicelli.”

  He looked at Tourec with a glint in his eye. “I should warn you: it will be the best vermicelli you have ever tasted.”

  Tourec didn’t know what to say in reply, so he scooted the chair away from the table and sat down.

  ****

  Detective Shapiro watched the coroner’s van speed off down the dark, oily road, then turned back to the pulverized warehouse. Smoke sighed upwards into the sky through the jagged teeth of the exploded doorway, and feebly rays of light peeked through the dozens of bullet holes that pockmarked the industrial-strength windows. He exhaled heavily and motioned for an approaching officer.

  “Talk to me,” he said, taking a deep pull from his cigar.

  “Eighteen confirmed casualties,” the officer declared. “We’re still sweeping the building, but we don’t expect to find any more of them.”

  “How many escaped?”

  The officer stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Hard to say. At least two, perhaps one or two more. We have units out combing the area and patrolling the streets. It’s a small town, and there aren’t too many places to hide.”

  Shapiro grunted his agreement.

  “Do you want me to check with local hospitals?”

  Shapiro shook his head with distracted impatience. “No, none of them would be stupid enough to go to a hospital if they were wounded. Check out local clinics and drugstores. Look for signs of a break-in; I doubt any of these guys would risk asking for help, so they’ll probably grab some supplies and find a hole to hide in. And maintain a keen presence around all of the bridges that lead out of town, especially near the shallowest part of the river. The water’s cold, but these guys are pros, and I could stand a few minutes in cold water if it meant my freedom. Go, move.”

  The officer nodded and scurried away. Detective Shapiro drew a great swirl of smoke into his mouth and blew it into the air, cursing every deity he could think of.

  ****

  Tourec’s fork clattered against the empty plate and he wiped his mouth with a napkin. He groaned as he looked down at the clean white shirt that Dr. Rosetta had given him to wear. It wasn’t clean anymore— it was speckled with red drops of marina sauce that reminded Tourec of blood.

  “I’m sorry, I am not usually this messy,” he explained as he turned to the doctor and Sophia. Their mouths were open wide and their eyes were even wider.

  Tourec was puzzled. “What?”

  Dr. Rosetta cleared his throat. “Forgive us; it’s just that we’ve never seen anyone eat three plates of vermicelli in less than seven minutes.”

  Tourec frowned and looked behind him at the dusty clock on the wall. “Seven…?” His face flushed in embarrassment. “I suppose I was very hungry.”

  Dr. Rosetta waved the apology away. “Entirely understandable. Though I wouldn’t recommend stuffing yourself like a Christmas goose in the future with those two broken ribs.”

  Dabbing at his mouth again, Tourec brushed a hand across his bruised side. “It aches but the pain isn’t too sharp.”

  “That’s good. The breaks may just be fractures.”

  Tourec turned to Sophia and smiled. “That was magnifique, young lady.”

  Sophia beamed and glanced at her papa. “It was my mother’s recipe. She taught me when I was very young.”

  “Very young,” Dr. Rosetta added. Sophia’s glowing smile faded and her eyes fell to the table.

  There was a moment of thick silence, then Dr. Rosetta pushed himself away from the table. “Mr. Beauchamp, I am afraid that it is not safe for you to stay here much longer.”

  Tourec looked again at Sophia, who seemed quite sullen. “Of course, doctor,” he replied as he stood up.

  “Before you go,” Dr. Rosetta added, turning to a cupboard behind him and extracting a bottle of wine, “I would like to have a few words with you first. Will you join me in a drink?”

  Tourec looked up at the ancient wall clock. “I suppose I can spare a few minutes. I would really like to hear about your experiences in Jerusalem.”

  Dr. Rosetta motioned for Tourec to follow him into the living room, and he gestured to a humble wooden chair beside his own recliner.

  “Please close the curtains, child,” he asked Sophia, “and turn off the light in the kitchen.”

  He reached into a small chest next to his chair and pulled out a frequently-used candle and lit it as the house went dark. Sophia retreated to a chair in a shadowy corner. Dr. Rosetta’s black moustache and eyebrows seemed to stretch farther over his face in the shimmering, ghostly light, and his eyes sparkled with gentleness and severity.

  Tourec glanced warily at the shrouded window. “Tell me about Jerusalem.”

  Dr. Rosetta poured two glasses of wine and handed one to Tourec, who took a ginger sip.

  “Jerusalem....” T
he doctor pronounced the word like a sigh. “I was a member of a peacekeeping force in Syria, though we did much more fighting than peacekeeping. When the Manifestation took place, the entire region exploded. Everyone was terrified, thinking it was the end of the world. Lootings, rape, riots…though I guess it was the same everywhere in the world. But in the Middle East, it was different. In that part of the world, religion is part of the social and political fabric more strongly than anywhere else, and to have the Enemy physically appear on the earth was like dropping a match into a barrel of oil. Atheists attacking Christians, Christians attacking Muslims, Muslims attacking Muslims, Jews attacking atheists— everyone was blaming everyone for bringing this scourge upon our world. Of course it was our faith that took the heaviest toll, since the devil had chosen a Christian landmark to decimate as a demonstration of his power. Had it been a synagogue or mosque, things would have been a lot different for us.”

  Tourec took another sip of wine. “So what did you do?”

  Dr. Rosetta shrugged. “I did what any man of faith in my position would have done. When I saw the atrocities happening in Jerusalem, the desecration of holy sites and relics, I abandoned my post in Damascus and made my way to the Holy City. I joined the Brotherhood, like yourself, and defended the churches and chapels from the heathens.”

  “But you said you were only there for a short time....”

  “Yes,” Dr. Rosetta said, looking absently into his wine glass. “When I was deployed to Syria, I left my wife and dear child behind. Sophia was only four when I left home, and I was stationed in Damascus for almost two years. I was then in Jerusalem for just over a year when I received news that Sophia’s mother had died suddenly, and I returned to take care of my daughter.”

  He cast a quick glance at the corner where Sophia was sitting, but the chair was empty. His eyes gleamed with sadness in the candlelight, and he took a small sip of wine.

  “Do you regret any of it?” Tourec asked after a few moments of silence had passed.

  Dr. Rosetta looked up at the ceiling and frowned. “I didn’t, until I returned home and I saw my darling Sophia, so full of life but so distraught after losing her mother. After all, I had been gone for more than three years, and she knew me more as an idea than as a father, just someone in the pictures with her as a tot. Her mother was her real family. While I was away, I believed that my reasons for leaving them behind were noble. But when I came back, I felt an immediate sense of regret.”

  He leaned forward and glared hard at Tourec. “I had left my family, my own flesh and blood, to fend for themselves in this vile, devil-ruled world while I was hundreds of miles away, defending things and places that I had only read about in books. More than regret, I felt shame. There is nothing in all of Christendom that is sacred enough to justify a man forsaking his family, especially in these dark days.”

  Tourec’s eyes met the doctor’s for a moment, then drifted slowly to the floor. “Doctor, do you think what I am doing now is right?”

  Dr. Rosetta recognized the piercing doubt in Tourec’s voice. He inhaled and stared at the flickering candle. “I am sure you are familiar with the passage in the Scriptures that says: ‘Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.’ How can the murder of men of the cloth, even those who worship the devil, ever be good?”

  Tourec regarded his wine. “So you disapprove.”

  “Mr. Beauchamp, when you were in Jerusalem, did you feel the hand of God guiding you?”

  Tourec looked at the doctor for a long moment. “Yes, I truly did.”

  “And do you feel His hand now?”

  Tourec’s eyes became murky, and he cleared his throat. “I don’t know.”

  “Then why are you doing this?”

  Tourec bit his lip and swirled the wine in his glass. He looked up at Dr. Rosetta, his eyes sparkling with tears. “I had to do something....”

  Both men jumped to their feet as the door downstairs exploded with a crash and incoherent shouting rang out.

  Dr. Rosetta seized Tourec by the shoulders.

  “They’ve found you! Quick, out the back window.” He grabbed a set of keys from a hook on the wall and pressed them into Tourec’s hand. “Take my car, the green Volkswagen. Go to the lake and find dock number 23. The red key starts the boat.”

  The commotion downstairs grew louder, and Sophia rushed out into the living room.

  “Papa!” she cried.

  “Shh!” Dr. Rosetta hissed. He turned to Tourec.

  “Go!” he ordered. “Go out the bedroom window onto the roof. The car is in the garden. Go, go!”

  “What about you?” Tourec asked breathlessly.

  “We’ll be fine,” Dr. Rosetta whispered as footsteps pounded on the stairs. “Go!”

  Tourec cast a grateful glance at Sophia, who held his eyes for a painful moment, then he dashed into the back bedroom. He flung the window open as angry fists began pounding the living room door behind him. He paused for half a second, struggling against his instincts to remain behind and fight, but he knew that would simply end in death for all of them. Grimacing in pain, both in his body and in his spirit, he scrambled onto the roof, trying to keep himself as low as possible. He tiptoed across the roof like a cat, then eased himself onto a terrace, which allowed him to jump a couple of meters into the garden.

  It wasn’t actually a garden; it was more of a wooden fence enclosing a patch of waist-high weeds and grass sheltering a run-down Volkswagen coupe. Tourec flung open the fence gate and leapt inside the car, wincing as the driver’s door creaked loudly. He jammed the key into the ignition and turned it forcefully. The engine grated and groaned but didn’t start.

  Tourec’s heart pounded frantically, each beat like a baseball bat crashing into his ribs.

  “Come on, come on,” he snarled furiously, turning the key again. The engine coughed and sputtered twice, but again failed to awaken.

  Please, God....

  He glanced in the rearview mirror just as a figure stepped into the driveway behind the car. Tourec’s heart froze, and he cranked the car once more. It roared to life with surprising robustness just as the shadowy figure aimed his gun. Tourec rammed the shifter into reverse and floored the accelerator. The gun went off and a bullet blasted a neat hole through the rear windshield and whizzed past Tourec’s ear before exiting through the front windshield. Tourec didn’t flinch and the car slammed into the shooter, sending him flying into a parked car on the other side of the narrow street.

  Tourec shifted into gear, and he could hear shouts and revving engines behind him, but he didn’t wait to find out what kind of pursuit force he was dealing with. Forsaking any ideas of slipping stealthily into the night, the Volkswagen blasted through the winding streets.

  Frantically wiping streams of sweat from his eyes, Tourec looked again in the mirror and saw flashing blue and red lights echoing off of the buildings behind him. Despite his dire situation, his turbulent thoughts paused for a moment on Dr. Rosetta and Sophia. His heart sank as he thought of what would certainly happen to them once the police realized that they had been harboring him and helped him escape. A seething pang of guilt enveloped his heart, and he gritted his teeth in anger. He started to pray for their safety, but something stopped him.

  You don’t get to pray for them, his conscience commanded. You are the reason for their strife, and you have no right to intercede on their behalf.

  Tourec felt a flame inside of him blow out like a candle. Tears began to stream down his face as he wrenched the wheel to left, sending the vehicle careening down a bumpy cobblestone street. The flashing lights behind him disappeared in the maze, but he didn’t slow down.

  You bring nothing but death and pain to this world, the voice inside him continued, and he didn’t have the strength to silence it.

  He knew it was right.

  What have you accomplished? What has all of this been for? Everything is your fault!

  A police car blasted out of the side street and pulverized the pass
enger side of the Volkswagen. Tourec’s head crashed against the window as the car spun wildly, smashing through a flimsy metal barrier and tumbling into the rushing river below.

  CHAPTER 8

  "Venite adoremus…venite admoremus...."

  His Worship, the Voice of Satan, raised his hands towards the gleaming gold statue of the Great Dragon, shadowed by a grand iron canopy and capped with a silver pentagram. His eyes rolled back in his skull, and his voice reverberated in his throat like an echo chamber.

  "Venite adoremus…venite admoremus…Domini Satanas."

  There was a sound behind him. His eyes snapped back.

  For a moment, they were inky black, then faded back to their usual icy gray color. He lowered his hands and they disappeared inside of long, swooping sleeves. Slowly and mechanically, he rose to his feet and turned around.

  A very nervous monk stood at the far end of the chamber, wringing his hands with anxiety. He licked his teeth, then breathed out through his nose and descended the steps to the chamber floor. He glided across the marble like a robed ghost, and the monk’s anxiety grew rapidly as his master approached.

  The Voice stood before the monk, and he smiled benevolently.

  “Speak.”

  The monk visibly relaxed at the pontiff’s gentle tone. “I am terribly sorry to interrupt you, Your Worship, but you gave instructions to inform you at once about any news of the campaign against the terrorists.”

  His Worship waited for a moment, and his right eyebrow rose slightly. “…Yes?”

  The monk swallowed and smiled weakly. “Acting upon information provided by an informant among their ranks, police conducted a raid in Bussoleno in Turin less than hour ago. It is believed that this was a gathering of the top leaders of this organization, and the reports indicate that nearly all of them were killed in the ensuing firefight.”

  An expression of vengeful satisfaction creased His Worship’s brow. “Were any taken prisoner?”

  The monk shook his head. “It doesn’t appear so. They fought tenaciously and the police had to use extreme force to overcome them. Some may have also taken their own lives.”