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

by Mark Carver

  A sickening swirl churned in his stomach. Sweat mingled with the rainwater trickling down his face, and he looked down at his trembling hands.

  What am I doing here? Am I just going to drive up to the Temple, kick my brother out of the car and say, ‘Here he is, now give me back Natasha?’

  Squealing tires interrupted his anguished thoughts. He leaped out from behind the building just in time to watch the rattling car speed away.

  “Tourec!” he shrieked, sinking to his knees in despair. A strong gust of wind whipped through the station, toppling an empty rubbish bin. The container crashed onto the pavement, startling Patric to his feet.

  Bring him to the Temple, or the child dies....

  Patric fumbled around in his pockets and pulled out his mobile phone and a wad of cash. Fortunately, he still had his identification with him as well. He heaved an exasperated sigh as he walked closer to the road. Several cars zipped past, but he knew that no one would stop to pick him up if he attempted to flag down a ride. People were far too suspicious of one another these days, and this attitude had made hitchhiking a distant memory.

  Patric flicked his wet hair away from his eyes and squinted as he peered down the road. There were several low-lying buildings about half a mile away. If he was going to find a ride to Paris, that would be his best chance. Just as he took a step forward, a crushing thought dropped on his soul.

  Tourec was gone. If Patric couldn’t bring his brother to the temple, what was the point of even continuing?

  An idea jolted his brain and he froze in his tracks. If Tourec thought it was necessary to flee, then he must have some nefarious plan in mind. Patric raised his gaze to the distant, mist-shrouded silhouette of the Temple of the Dragon.

  That’s where Tourec was going. He was going to attack the ceremony.

  Patric inhaled sharply. He didn’t need to bring Tourec to the temple; he was heading there himself. The only thing that Patric had to worry about was getting there before Tourec did.

  His face darkened with determination, and he started down the road towards the cluster of buildings.

  ****

  Tourec watched his brother sink to his knees in the rearview mirror and his heart felt squeezed with sadness.

  “I’m sorry, Patric,” he whispered as he turned his attention back towards the road. He took care to drive within the speed limit and obey the traffic rules; he didn’t want to attract any unwanted attention. As he approached the city limits, the road quickly filled with cars, and soon the traffic pace had slowed to a crawl. Tourec glanced around nervously, searching for a way out of the congestion.

  An off-ramp appeared and he hastily drove onto it, freeing himself from the snarl of vehicles. He quickly found himself lost in a morass of dilapidated buildings and the rusting hulks of abandoned cars. The streets were nearly barren of people, except for a few downtrodden souls cowering in doorways and huddling under crumbling porticos. Tourec caught the eyes of a few of them as he passed, and he recognized the lifeless gleam of drug addiction.

  He navigated the rubbish-strewn streets with caution, his worry growing as he lost sight of the towering silhouette of the Temple of the Dragon.

  Please show me the way.

  He screeched to a stop as a spectral figure in a soiled grey overcoat shuffled in front of his car. The figure turned at the sound of Tourec’s squealing brakes and glared at him with cold black eyes peeking out above a surprising clean red scarf. Tourec gripped the wheel tightly. His arm twitched as his instinct told him to reach for his gun, but his mind reminded his nerves that he had no weapon now. He locked eyes with the dismal mass of fabric and wiry hair obstructing his path, unsure of what to do next.

  The figure raise its arm and pointed a filthy finger towards the scorched hulk of what used to be some sort of retail store but had recently been devastated by fire. Tourec stared at the ruins for a moment, then turned back towards the mysterious guide, who had disappeared. Tourec scanned the road and saw a bundle of grey and brown hobble down the sidewalk and vanish into an alley. He glanced again at the burned-out building, his fingers tapping the steering wheel. With a groan of resignation, he drove the car into the barren parking lot and stepped out.

  Keeping his head low, he surveyed his surroundings. When his parents had brought him to Paris as a child, he had stared in shock and horror at some of the ghettoes they had passed, but this was worse than anything he had seen before. He couldn’t believe that he was even in Paris.

  The only movement on the streets came from aimlessly shuffling drunks or drug addicts lurching towards their next score. No one seemed to notice Tourec, but he didn’t lower his defenses. He cast a wary glance at the abandoned building behind him, then stalked across the weed-populated lot and into the shadow of the shattered doorway.

  As soon as he ducked under the shelter, the rain began to fall again, sending the ghosts on the street scurrying for cover. Tourec thanked God for the added protection, then turned his attention to the door. It was made of safety glass that had long since been shattered, and the entrance was now covered with cracked but solid wooden planks that had been placed over the door after the fire.

  Tourec searched around his feet for any object he could use for prying, and he spotted a rusted length of rebar. He rammed the iron bar between the board and the door frame and heaved with all of his strength. His injured ribs cried out, as did his shattered hand, but he ignored the pain and exerted all of his force on the rebar. After a few moments of resistance, the board cracked, then split open. Tourec was able to get a firm grip on the planks and rip them off the door one by one.

  He was immediately hit by a blast of mildew and the stench of smoke, and he muffled his nose with his arm. Inside was pitch black, except for a few streams of light that fought through the boarded windows.

  “Hello?” he called out. “Is anyone there?”

  Silence answered. Tourec proceeded forward with caution, his feet crunching on the charred remnants of what looked like tools and hardware accessories.

  There’s nothing here, he chided himself, feeling like a fool to follow the directions of what was likely an addict strung out into delusion. He spun on his heel and took a step towards the door.

  Something creaked and groaned behind him. He turned just as a rickety shelf collapsed, sending up a cloud of ash and dust. He immediately crouched down, smothering his mouth with his sleeve and shutting his eyes tight. After a couple of minutes, he cracked his eyes open, straining to peer through the haze of dust. In the midst of the scattered rubble, he saw something, a familiar shape.

  He crept forward, keeping a wary eye out for other potential falling objects. Squinting in the feeble light, he knelt down and began sweeping away the rubble.

  Suddenly, he jumped back. A blackened skull grinned up at him from the ashes, its wide, toothy smile seeming to mock Tourec for his curiosity. Tourec took a few deep breaths to compose himself, then continued excavating the corpse. He knew it was a long shot, but perhaps the body contained money that might have miraculously survived the fire. He was surprised to discover, as he cleared the wreckage off of the body, that the corpse’s torso and legs seemed to have suffered less damage than its face. He figured that the man had been buried by falling debris, leaving only his neck and face exposed to the flames. Tourec shook his head in sympathy, reflecting on what unimaginable horrors this poor soul must have suffered before he died.

  Having cleared away most of the rubble, he looked down at the scorched body. The man’s shirt was almost completely burned away, but the jeans, which looked to be heavy and sturdy, were nearly intact. Taking a deep breath to steel his nerves, he hoisted the body up and rolled it over onto its stomach. With a sickening crack, the charred head broke away from the neck and rolled across the floor.

  Tourec shut his eyes against the cloud of ash that rose up around the dead body, and he was grateful that the stench of charred rubble partially covered the smell of decay that emanated from the corpse. Turning the bo
dy had made a bit of noise, and Tourec glanced around anxiously, but saw no one. He looked down at the corpse and gasped with surprise.

  Tucked into the dead man’s belt was a silver handgun, a Beretta 92. Petrified with wonder and confusion, Tourec stared at the weapon that gleamed like a diamond in the midst of coal. He reached out and touched the cold metal, then clutched the pistol grip and pulled the weapon out of the blackened belt. The polished chrome barrel shone even in the faint light, and he couldn’t help but utter a whistle in amazement. It had apparently been shielded from the flames by the dead man’s buried body, but it was indeed a miracle to find it in such pristine condition.

  Gripping the gun tightly, Tourec glanced around again, unable to believe that finding this weapon was sheer luck. In fact, he knew it wasn’t, since the phantom on the street had directed him here to this very place.

  He rose to his feet, hefting the weapon in his hands. It felt so comfortable, so familiar. He ejected the magazine and was even more amazed to find a full clip of bullets. Looking down at the now-headless corpse, Tourec breathed a prayer for the dead man’s soul, then turned towards the door. He emerged into the open air, taking a deep, grateful breath. He brushed the ash and dust away from the hem of his robe and chuckled to himself. He had forgotten he was wearing a Christian monk’s habiliments, which was certainly a bizarre sight in this city.

  Tourec frowned thoughtfully as he reached beneath the folds of his robe and tucked the gun into his waistband. Perhaps his outfit could be useful after all. Paris was a city that swore allegiance to the Great Dragon, but with the arrival of the Voice, there were bound to be many Christian laymen and clergy who would descend upon the city to protest the ceremony, albeit at their own peril. If he could mingle with the crowd, he might have the slightest chance....

  The rain continued to fall in a steady, somber rhythm. Tourec looked up at the sorrowful clouds that seemed to be mourning the corruption of what was once a glorious city. He felt the weight of the gun beneath his robes, and he thanked God for His providence. Tourec’s head was still reeling from his miraculous discovery, but he wasn’t going to waste time calculating the unbelievable odds. His eyes swept the street for the mysterious figure that had led him to the gun, but he couldn’t see anyone.

  He raised his hood over his head and made his way to the car. Once inside, he closed his eyes and wiped the water from his sooty face.

  This was it. This was happening right now.

  Tourec closed his eyes and touched the crucifix around his neck.

  If she were here, what would she say?

  He stared at his soot-streaked face in the rearview mirror. He had given up trying to recognize himself long ago.

  She probably wouldn’t even recognize him now either.

  Tourec put the key into the ignition, paused for a moment, then started the car. It didn’t matter now — who he was, what she would think, all of it. He was here, and he had a job to do. The discovery of the gun only confirmed the righteousness of the path he walked.

  He exhaled a sigh of relief. It was a cleansing feeling, to be purged of doubt.

  It had been a long time since he had felt this way.

  ****

  As Patric’s feet pounded the rain-slicked asphalt, he cursed everyone he could think of with each step. Cursed his brother, cursed his mother, cursed God, even cursed himself. He stopped short of cursing Satan but he was the one Patric wanted to curse most of all. Though his lips did not speak out against his master, he secretly resolved to spend the rest of his days profaning the name of the Great Dragon if any harm came to Natasha and his unborn child.

  With each breath exploding in his chest, he stumbled into the parking lot of a roadside restaurant. He saw an ancient black van ambling out of its parking space and steer towards him. Throwing aside his hesitation, Patric waved for the van to stop, which it did. The passenger window creaked downwards and a torrent of marijuana smoke gushed out of the van. The occupants inside stared at him as if he were an extraterrestrial.

  “Are you all right?” the woman in the front seat asked, rapidly blinking her eyes which were swathed in heavy black makeup.

  Patric savored the fumes wafting from the van. “Are you going to the ceremony?” he asked, sounding quite pathetic.

  “Certainly,” the driver replied proudly, peering at Patric through a curtain of hair.

  “Do you have room for one more?”

  The driver and passenger exchanged glances, and then the driver gestured towards the door, which slid open before Patric could reach it. An even greater blast of smoke spilled out of the van like children escaping from school, and four additional pairs of eyes peeked out through the haze. Patric climbed inside and shut the door, and the van sped off down the road.

  “Merci beaucoup,” he said, reaching out to accept a blunt that was offered to him by an incredibly thin blonde-haired girl.

  “What were you doing out there?” the driver asked loudly as the van began rattling down the road.

  Patric coughed harshly, then took another toke. “My car broke down at the petrol station down the road.”

  The driver nodded his sympathies. “This is going to be one hell of a night, eh?”

  Patric stared at the glowing blunt in his hand. “Sure is.”

  The black van soon found itself drowning in a sea of traffic, which became agonizingly slow as soon as they entered the Latin Quarter of Paris. Patric glanced out the window at the stagnant ocean of cars.

  “Are you okay, my friend?” one of the passengers asked. “You seem a little nervous.”

  Patric forced himself to stop fidgeting, though he was growing more uncomfortable by the minute. “No, no, I'm fine. The weed’s making me a bit paranoid, that’s all.”

  The young man smirked with understanding and nodded slowly. “Relax, my friend. We are all family today.”

  “Hail Satan!” the driver suddenly shouted.

  “Hail Satan!” everyone echoed.

  Patric was about to join in the chant, but he stopped, the blunt almost to his lips.

  There it was. He was hearing it again.

  An icy bead of sweat slid down his temple like a cold finger.

  Why now?

  Patric looked from face to face, feeling panic clutch his nerves as he stared in horror at their gaping mouths and their blazing eyes. His breath caught in his throat, and his trembling fingers dropped the joint.

  “Hey, careful!” Several hands and feet quickly stomped out the sparks and someone scooped up the extinguished joint. Black eyes peered at him from pale faces.

  Patric couldn’t breathe. He felt someone’s fingers on his neck. With a yelp, he flung open the sliding door and leaped out into traffic.

  “Don’t go…!” the emaciated girl cried feebly. Patric ignored her pleas and the car horns blaring in irritation. He weaved his way through the unmoving vehicles, then scaled a rusted chain-link fence. Panting furiously, he fell back against the cement barrier that bordered the freeway and sank to the ground. He didn’t know why, but he started to cry. The tears gushed like a fountain, and he didn’t try to stop them. A thousand sorrows tumbled over him like an avalanche, and his soul felt like an infinite abyss.

  “Help me,” he sobbed, burying his face in his hands.

  At that moment, a great peal of bells rang out. Patric looked up, and just over the roofs of once-charming buildings arose a black pentagram that seemed to hover in the mist. He stood up slowly on shaking legs, keeping his eyes fixed on the towering symbol. He scanned the surrounding area and saw the shattered skeleton of a pedestrian overpass that had long been demolished, leaving only the remnants of stairs. Patric jogged over to the staircase and scrambled up the crumbling steps, unconcerned with the integrity of the structure. He looked out over the city from his elevated perch and beheld a sight that made his limbs tremble.

  Like a mighty black mountain, the rebuilt Temple of the Dragon dominated the center of Paris. The design of the new temple was similar to th
e decimated cathedral upon whose ruins it now rested, a monstrous Gothic apocalypse boasting mammoth twin towers and a soaring spire where the transepts collided with the nave. Yet despite the similarity with its predecessor, there were also several key differences between the feeble Cathedral of Notre Dame and the colossal Temple of the Dragon.

  The new temple was nearly twice as large as the former cathedral, and the structure swallowed up almost the entire square that had surrounded the old church. The temple was sheathed in a skin of black obsidian that glinted even in the dismal weather that smothered Paris like an unshakable depression. As the bells in its identical towers crashed and bellowed, Patric felt the ground tremble beneath him.

  While the former cathedral had been a monument to the glory of God, the Temple of the Dragon was a blasphemous stone symphony. The serrated spire which stabbed the sky rose nearly three hundred meters into the air and was capped by an enormous pentagram which was visible from all parts of the city. The gargoyle rain spouts had been replaced with sculptures of Christian saints and Jewish and Muslim prophets, water pouring from their gaping mouths like vomit. Grotesque demons and specters haunted the countless nooks and filled the blind arcades, and the elaborate portals in the western facade were decorated with every conceivable nightmare for the enemies of the Great Lord Satan.

  The western facade of the previous cathedral had been graced with a majestic rose window. Now a giant iron pentagram stretched across the circular window, nearly thirty meters across. When darkness fell over the city each night, the iron would be heated with internal heating coils and the entire symbol would blaze red hot, burning the emblem of hell into the eyes of all who turned their faces towards Satan’s throne room.

  Raindrops mingled with Patric’s tears as he gazed upon this fearsome spectacle. A cold fist clutched his heart, and he knew that he was in the presence of a power too awesome, too terrible to describe. Perched atop the unsteady staircase like a bird huddling in the rain, Patric suddenly came to his senses and began looking around frantically.