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

by Mark Carver

  To God.

  Please…let him be alive....

  There was no answer.

  ****

  Father DeMarco’s hand trembled as he poured some wine into a small glass, spilling a few drops on the ancient table worn smooth by centuries of study and prayer. A solitary candle illuminated the room, which was a combination of office, library, and storeroom. The east-facing window, which had once invited the morning sun into the room, was now boarded up, as were nearly all of the portals in the ruined monastery.

  His heart fluttered as lightning sliced the sky, pushing slivers of ghoulish light through tiny cracks in the masonry and stones. Distant thunder gurgled, then cracked sharply.

  Father DeMarco took a sip of wine and peered down at the 19th century copy of the New Testament lying open upon the table. Every page was painstakingly hand-copied, making the book quite a rarity, and the ornate Latin text was bordered by intricate filigree around the page edges. Yet these treasures were lost on the priest, whose eye fell upon a small passage in the middle of the page.

  If ye endure chastening, God dealeth with you as with sons; for what son is he whom the father chasteneth not?

  Father DeMarco slammed the Bible shut. The wine glass teetered and toppled over onto the sacred book. The priest yelped with horror and leaped to his feet, swiping the Bible off the table and desperately trying to shake out the wine that was rapidly soaking into the pages. He snatched a cloth from a chair and dabbed away the red liquid, but the damage was done. Sinking helplessly into the chair, he felt like a house of cards that had just collapsed. He glanced at the fallen wine glass lying on the table, and he poked it with his finger. It rolled towards the edge of the table, then fell and shattered on the ground.

  “Father!”

  The startled priest jumped up and rushed to the window before he realized it was boarded shut. Placing his hands against the wall to steady himself, he hung his head low and listened with all of his might. It wasn’t the storm, it wasn’t the wine playing tricks with his senses.

  He had heard it, he was sure of it....

  Like the clanging of a bell, three powerful blows sounded against the wooden doors outside. The voice cried out again, followed by a deafening peal of thunder.

  “Father!”

  Father DeMarco dashed out of the room, flying down the corridors like a raven. He burst into the decaying foyer of the great hall and skidded to a stop as blows rained on the doors again, though with less force than before.

  He rushed up at the heavy, looming doors and seized the massive chain that belted them shut. He looked around for any kind of tool to use against the chains but saw nothing that could be useful.

  He pressed his face to the thin gap between the two doors. “Stay there!” he shouted into the darkness. “I will come out to you!”

  There was no reply, and the priest strained to peer through the tiny space, barely a centimeter wide. Lightning flashed, but he could only see the weed-choked garden and crumbling tombstones.

  Heart pounding, he flung himself away from the doors and scurried out of the foyer and into an adjoining corridor. He nearly tripped over his own feet as he rushed down the rickety wooden stairs into the cellar.

  Patric was asleep in the chair, his arms spread out across the table and his cheek pressed against the wood. The remaining candle burned feebly, having nearly exhausted its wax.

  Father DeMarco grabbed his shoulder and shook it violently.

  “Patric! Patric, wake up!”

  Patric jolted awake and peered up at the priest with bleary eyes. “What....”

  Father DeMarco’s eyes were wide as he shook Patric again. “È un miracolo! Your brother! He’s here!”

  His words were like a splash of cold water in Patric’s face, and he bolted out of the chair. “Impossible!”

  Father DeMarco shook his head breathlessly. “He’s here! God has brought him here!”

  Flinging Patric aside, he rushed to the cellar entrance and clumsily unlocked the door.

  “Hurry!” he called to Patric as he rushed out into the wind and rain. “We must get him inside!”

  Without waiting, he disappeared around the corner, leaving Patric stupefied inside the cellar. A streak of lightning snapped the sky and Patric’s wits returned, and he lunged out into the rain, cursing profusely.

  He saw no sign of the priest, but he had seen him turn to the right after he had rushed out into the darkness, so that was the direction that Patric took. He stumbled up a slick, muddy hill that brought him around to the front of the rotting building. The rain was falling in torrents, and Patric looked around with difficulty through the streams of water pouring into his eyes. He turned towards the wide, sprawling terrace that opened before the main doors of the monastery, and he saw Father DeMarco leaning over a figure splayed out on the wet marble.

  He rushed towards them, tripping over the toppled ruins of an ancient gravestone. He looked down at the man in Father DeMarco’s arms, and his heart lurched.

  “Tourec…” he breathed, sinking to his knees.

  His brother was battered and bruised, and watery blood streamed from numerous wounds. His left hand was badly mangled, and one eye was swollen shut.

  Tourec slowly turned towards Patric and smiled weakly, revealing an empty space where a tooth had recently resided.

  “Patric,” he whispered faintly, then coughed and doubled over in pain.

  Father DeMarco winced as if the pain was his own. “We must get him inside!”

  Patric couldn’t move. He stared at his brother as if he were an archeological mystery that had been buried for millennia and was now finally coming to light.

  “How is he here…?” he asked in bewilderment.

  “Patric!” Father DeMarco shouted, hoisting Tourec’s arm over his shoulder. “Help me get him inside!”

  Patric jerked out of his trance and eased his brother’s other arm over his own shoulder, and the three of them stumbled across the slippery grass, down the hill, and around the back of the building to the cellar entrance.

  “Get him to the table,” Father DeMarco ordered as he rushed to a cluttered corner and returned with several candles, which he quickly lit using the feeble flame of the existing candle. He then hurried off in search of first aid supplies

  Tourec moaned and coughed violently as Patric laid him upon the wooden table. The candlelight grew bolder, and Patric gasped as he saw his brother clearly for the first time. Tourec saw Patric’s reaction to his injuries and smiled again.

  “Don’t worry; it’s not as bad as that time at the windmill.”

  A distant memory echoed in Patric’s mind, then roared to the forefront of his thoughts, and he couldn’t help but chuckle.

  “You’re right,” he croaked.

  Tourec grimaced and his chest rose and fell in spasms. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” he wheezed, seizing Patric’s hand.

  Patric instinctively started to pull away, but stopped himself and clasped Tourec’s hand firmly. “Don’t talk,” was all he could say in reply. He couldn’t meet his brother’s eyes.

  Thankfully, Father DeMarco quickly returned with an armful of medical supplies, which he dumped on the table in a heap.

  “Let’s get him cleaned up,” he said to Patric as he poured alcohol on swabs of cotton and began cleaning the lacerations that covered Tourec’s face.

  Patric stared at his brother in astonishment, and his gaze fell upon the swarm of tattoos that covered Tourec’s bloody arm. One design caught his eye: a sword-like cross, capped by an esoteric Latin inscription.

  Patric clenched his jaw and looked up at the priest.

  “What can I do?”

  ****

  François du Gaulle set his jaw as he glared at the heaving doors before him. Shouts and clanking machinery sounded outside the church, and the doors bellowed inwards again like a great lung being inflated. A solitary drop of sweat streamed down François’ forehead and he locked arms tightly with the other members
of the congregation.

  A breathless young man rushed into the room. “Brother François,” he panted, “the news is reporting that the resistance fighters have been killed, all of them!”

  The doors swelled with another blow from outside, and François looked at his wife by his side. She looked up at him, tears sparkling in her eyes but determination etched on her face.

  François turned back to the young man. “Our prayers are with them, but we must hold fast.” He looked to his left and to his right at the ranks of the faithful standing with him. “We must all stand fast!”

  “Amen!” was the enthusiastic response.

  A chainsaw roared to life beyond the doors and the jagged, whirling blade slid through the gap like a metal tongue. François winced as the blade made contact with the heavy wrought-iron lock, and sparks flew wildly.

  Antoinette du Gaulle began to sing a hymn, her soft, angelic voice almost completely drowned out by the metallic grating. François glanced at her and smiled, then joined in the song. The rest of the congregation also raised their voices up to heaven as the wooden doors splintered and cracked under the pummeling blows from the battering rams.

  With a mighty crash, the doors exploded inward with a shower of splinters. Piercing beams of light sliced through the darkness, stabbing the eyes of the congregation locked arm in arm, their faces grim and resolute. A swarm of shadows burst into the sanctuary with the word “Police” blazing on their black chests. The erratic beams of light glinted off of their riot helmets and batons. One faceless figure raised a megaphone to his mouth.

  “By order of the Ministry of Security of the Republic of France, we are seizing this property on suspicion of being used by persons in collusion with terrorists to attempt to harm public safety and welfare. All citizens herein are being placed under arrest. Do not resist.”

  The officers surrounded the congregation, whose voices were still joined in melody and their arms still locked together.

  “Arrest them!”

  The officers surged forwards, painfully twisting the arms of the resisters and separating them from each other. The song ceased abruptly, and François was wrenched away from his wife.

  “Chère!” he cried out, reaching out to her as she disappeared amidst a sea of Kevlar vests.

  Antoinette stretched out her hand in vain as tears streamed down her face. The policemen quickly subdued the members of the congregation and began dragging them outside into the harsh glare of police vehicle headlights.

  The officer kept François’ arms pinned tightly behind his back and he grunted in pain as the vest he wore beneath his shirt stabbed him in his ribs. François looked to his left at Luc who had assumed the duties of assistant minister when the man who had actually held the office had fled with the others. Luc nodded grimly, and François turned his eyes to the starless heavens.

  “Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name....”

  “Shut up!” the arresting officer growled, but François only raised his voice.

  “…Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven....”

  The other believers heard François’ prayer and joined him, pronouncing each word with power and conviction.

  “…Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us....”

  “Get in there!” the officer commanded, throwing François roughly into the back of a police van. The other brothers and sisters were also tossed into the back of waiting vans, but the communal prayer continued.

  “…And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil....”

  The doors slammed shut, and François closed his eyes.

  “…For thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory, forever and ever. Amen.”

  The police van erupted in a ball of flame and shrapnel, and the decimated shell lurched forward, crashing into a second police car. A moment later, two other vans exploded, hurling white-hot shards of metal and glass that sliced through the crowd.

  Antoinette’s lips trembled as she sent a silent prayer to heaven. Then she wrenched her arm away from the distracted officer and pressed her elbow to an invisible button beneath her blouse. The officer stared at her in horrified surprise, and Antoinette exploded, the blast shredding the bodies and faces of the policemen around her.

  Giant fingers of flame curled around the decimated police vans, and the courtyard of the small, ancient church was littered with bodies and limbs. Only a few had escaped the carnage unharmed, and they clambered through the wreckage in a daze. There was nothing left of the suspects.

  One officer stumbled into a police car that was only partially destroyed, and he clutched at the radio with a bloodied hand.

  “Dispatch, come in, this is Squad Three-Four-Zero. Come in....”

  “This is dispatch, over.”

  The officer coughed a stream of blood onto the car seat. “Send…all available units to the Chapel of St. Michael. Officers down…multiple casualties....”

  He coughed again. “The bastards blew themselves up!”

  ****

  It was clear from the rigid expression on the news anchor’s face that she was barely restraining her anger. She pursed her lips and folded her hands on the glass desk.

  “The band of insurgents who have been terrorizing Satanic temples around Europe engaged Italian police forces in a fierce gun battle earlier last night. Reports indicate that nearly all of the suspected terrorists were killed, and while there are unsubstantiated rumors that some escaped, police believe that they have neutralized the terrorists’ capabilities to carry out any more attacks. However, governments around Europe are urging caution among worshippers and clergy members attending temple services, saying that until they are certain that all of the insurgents have been captured or killed, the threat of violence remains.

  “News of the insurgents’ demise has created shockwaves of turmoil and despair in the Christian community, which has largely been driven underground in the wake of public outcries against Christianity and its followers. The recent decision by France and other European nations to seize and confiscate Christian churches and other property has been met with strong and sometimes violent resistance from Christian congregations. There have been at least five reports of suicide bombings in France alone, as well as several other reports in other countries, particularly Italy, Germany, Spain, and Portugal. These desperate acts of violence against police forces and the general public have only strengthened European governments’ resolve to subdue these fanatics as quickly as possible. A brief study conducted by the Inter-European Institute for Social Progress shows that over 90% of the population favors the prohibition of the Christian faith and its practices.

  “Wolfgang Gilmach, public secretary of the Church of Satan, held an early morning press conference, where he expressed his gratitude to the Italian security forces who conducted the raid on the terrorists’ hideout.”

  Wolfgang Gilmach smiled coldly as he glowered into the camera. “We congratulate those who bravely put themselves in harm’s way to neutralize this band of renegade delusional fanatics. The Church of Satan is mighty and immovable, and let there be no mistake: there are none who can stand against the will of our Great Lord Satan, and all who rise up against him shall fall beneath his merciless hand. The glory and power of our Great Lord shall be revealed once again to the world when His Worship, the Voice of Satan, holds mass in Paris tomorrow night when the full moon rises. Hail Satan!”

  The anchorwoman appeared again on the screen. “The city of Paris, and indeed the whole country, has been in a state of excitement since news of His Worship’s pilgrimage to Paris was announced last week. The city of Paris will be quite a sight to behold as His Worship pays his first visit to the sacred city since the consecration of the newly-constructed Temple of the Dragon seven years ago. We will bring you updates on this breaking story as more information becomes available.”

  PART III.

  But God is
truth itself....

  —St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologica

  ——————————

  Satan, whose word is Chaos.

  —Conrad Robury, The Black Book of Satan

  CHAPTER 9

  Father DeMarco quietly closed the door and slipped silently into the corridor. Using the candle to light his footsteps, he made his way to the storeroom where Patric was waiting, his head buried in his hands. He looked up as Father DeMarco entered and eased the door shut.

  “He just needs a few hours of sleep,” the priest explained as he set the candle upon the desk. “He’s been through quite an ordeal.”

  “How did he get here?” Patric asked as he rubbed his tired eyes.

  “He told me that he was caught in the police raid earlier tonight in Bussoleno. He sought refuge at a Christian family’s home, but was discovered and escaped in a car, which crashed into the river. He managed to free himself and swim to shore, where he was able to steal a small fishing boat. The current in that river is quite strong, and it brought him here in just a few hours. He said he saw patrols searching the river, but by the grace of God, the eyes of the enemy were blinded and he slipped past them.”

  Patric couldn’t help but snort in contempt. Father DeMarco pretended he didn’t notice.

  “It really is amazing, even miraculous,” he continued, “no matter what one believes.”

  Patric smirked. “What you call miraculous, I call an uncanny coincidence.”

  Father DeMarco peered at Patric with searching eyes. “Son, your brother, whom you haven’t seen since childhood, appears on our very doorstep, on the one night you also arrive, hundreds of miles from home. That is far more than a coincidence.”

  Patric shrugged and looked away.

  Father DeMarco frowned. “Don’t you believe that God still moves this world?”

  “I believe he did. But not anymore. His silence for so long indicates more than just a lull in His attention.”