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

by Mark Carver

Patric’s raw knuckles bled as he gripped the armrests of his seat, and his heart thundered louder than the grating wheels beneath the floor. He was frozen, staring at the woman’s flickering face, which remained still and quiet in peaceful slumber.

  Patric felt his fingers reach instinctively for the pentagram that hung from his neck. His fingers clasped empty air. He sucked in a frightened breath, then jumped to his feet. His head felt like it was going to explode. As he slipped out into the aisle, he kept his eyes glued to the sleeping woman’s face that vanished in and out of existence with each passing strobe.

  Clutching his chest, Patric stumbled down the aisle, using the flashing lights to guide his path over feet and legs trailing out of passenger seats. He finally emerged from the obstacle course and found the door that led to the smoking compartment at the rear of the car.

  He slid the door open and quickly slammed it shut behind him.

  Trembling, he fell back against the metal wall, feeling the vibrations coursing through his spine. Cold beads of sweat glistened in the flashing lights, and his fingertips seemed to be tingling with some kind of electric energy.

  He reached into his pockets, searching for a cigarette to calm his nerves. He found the crumpled pack and put a cigarette to his lips, then fumbled around in his pockets for his lighter.

  After a few moments of searching, he looked down in surprise. His lighter was gone. Where…?

  Patric ripped the cigarette out of his mouth and flung it to the ground. He slowly slid down the wall until he reached the cold, dirty floor, and he stared at the ceiling like a man dying of thirst.

  Then the tears began to flow.

  Alone on the floor of a metal box reeking of smoke, Patric wept until he felt like his heart had bled dry. He looked down at his hands which were gleaming with his tears, and his naked soul cried out in desperation.

  I can’t do this anymore… Please, just leave me alone. I am nothing, I am worthless, I’m no good to anyone. Stop torturing me…please…

  The train wheels clicked and clacked against the tracks. Patric searched the darkness, hoping for an answer, yet also terrified of one.

  Nothing.

  His exhausted shoulders dropped and he lowered his head. He spotted the cigarette where he had thrown it down, and he watched it roll across the floor as the train car swung and lilted. The paper cylinder rolled against the door, and Patric looked up.

  There was a bright flash of light.

  A white face peered down through the window, watching him with lifeless black eyes.

  Patric opened his mouth to scream.

  The train burst through the darkness of the tunnel into the grim night air. Patric stared at the window in the door.

  The face was gone.

  Patric kept his eyes fixed on the door until the sun rose.

  ****

  Julian nestled in the shadow of the bushes and peeked around the corner of the temple. He watched the hooded priest approach the inconspicuous door nestled behind the south transept of the Temple of the Legion, oblivious to his stalker’s keen eyes boring into his back. The priest placed his thumb against the finger pad and the door unlocked with a soft click. He cleared his throat with a hoarse cough and shuffled into the darkness.

  Sucking in a quick breath, Julian sprang forward like a cat, whisking around the building in the blink of an eye. He caught the door with his finger just before it closed. Like a wisp of smoke, he slipped silently inside and let the door close behind him. The priest didn’t notice the delay in the door’s closing, and Julian watched him from behind a blasphemous shrine, studying the man’s slow, ambling steps, his hunched shoulders, his unintelligible mumblings to himself.

  Julian’s mouth curled in a sneer, and his eyes flashed with murder.

  He knew who that old man was. Everyone in Rome knew.

  Father Antonelli Herodonti was the most bloodthirsty priest of the Church of Satan in Rome. In the days of the siege of Vatican City, he had been quite instrumental in stirring the mob into a violent tempest that had exploded against the gates of Vatican City and defiled St. Peter’s throne.

  But there was something else that burned in the fire of Julian’s hatred. Something that most people did not know about Father Herodonti.

  The temple was not empty. They seldom were these days – crowded at all hours of the day with fearful followers, their trembling hearts thrown into dismay by the ruthless and cowardly murder of their beloved pontiff. They cried out for Satan’s retribution to rain down upon his enemies, and for demons and plague to swarm over the land and remind this indifferent world of the power of the Prince of Darkness.

  Julian couldn’t help but think back to the days just after the Manifestation, when the followers of God, Buddha, Allah, and countless other deities filled the sky with their prayers, and they did not even receive a gust of wind in reply. So many lost their faith in those early days. Perhaps that was going to happen again, except it would be hell, not heaven, that would see its numbers drain away.

  Julian clenched his fists. He could feel the blood pumping through his fingers.

  Tonight, hell was going to welcome a new arrival.

  He crept along the wall, hidden in the shadows of chapels and shrines, out of sight of the penitent congregation. Father Herodonti stepped in front of the altar, which blazed brightly with the light of dozens of candles. Before the cluster of fire and wax, a terrifying depiction of the Great Dragon snarled down at the worshipers cluttering the pews. The glimmering golden statue seemed to mock their prayers, which is what the Great Dragon had really been doing all along.

  His children were just too stupid to realize it.

  Father Herodonti stood before the altar with his back to the pews and raised his hands in worship. Several members of the congregation moved towards the front of the sanctuary, apparently wishing to speak with their priest but unwilling to interrupt his supplication. They waited awkwardly around the perimeter of the open expanse before the altar, shifting uncomfortably.

  The priest was either unaware of or indifferent to the cares of his flock, and he kept his back turned to them as he whispered eerie incantations. This continued for several minutes, then without another word, he dropped his hands to his side and quickly shuffled towards the north transept.

  The people who were waiting to speak with him exchanged puzzled glances, and a few took a step or two forward, but the priest’s rapid retreat made the point very clear: he wasn’t interested in speaking to anyone.

  Julian’s brow furrowed above his sparkling gray eyes. It was time for his private audience.

  He melted into the shadows as he stole along the temple wall, slipping behind the choir and slinking along the curved apse at the rear of the sanctuary. The concave walls echoed the prayers, whispers, and murmurs that filled the nave, and something stirred in Julian’s heart. This temple had once been the Cathedral of Saint Michael, and the unholy sounds that reached his ears had once been songs of joy and peace, and prayers spoken in the name of Jesus Christ. What fools were these to pray to a being that delights in the slaughter of mankind? Did they not see the folly in that?

  Did they not realize how much Satan, their lord and master, loathed them?

  The reverent worshipers in the pews were entirely unaware of Julian’s presence as he followed Father Herodonti to a small door tucked away in a nook behind a shrine to an obscure pagan deity. The priest had already slipped through the door and disappeared down the stone stairs.

  Julian dashed to the door and opened it, stepping inside without a sound. If anyone in the congregation had been watching, they would have only seen the faintest movement of shadow.

  Descending the stairs with silent footsteps, Julian listened very carefully. He could hear the priest moving ahead of him, but he couldn’t see him. The stairs and corridor were lit by brand-new electric lights, which contrasted sharply with the ancient walls and fading frescoes that adorned the stones.

  Julian carried no weapon in his hands. Instea
d, he placed his fingers gently against the wall with each step, as if he was stabilizing himself. In fact, he was doing just that – preparing to spring in any direction if need be. He had always been a tightly-wound, fidgety person, and until he had discovered his talent for ending lives, he had been an uncontrollable swirl of nervous energy. Now, every ounce of his concentration was focused on stalking his prey.

  The thrill was exhilarating.

  The priest’s footsteps turned towards the right, and Julian began making a mental map in his head. They were descending deeper and deeper into the temple undercroft, and Julian guessed that they must be near the medieval crypt that was rumored to have once held the remains of Thaddeus, a disciple of Christ.

  His suspicions were right. An ancient wooden door creaked open, then closed loudly.

  Julian winced. He knew he couldn’t open that door again without alerting his prey to his presence. The good news was that they were now deep in the crypt, which was far enough below ground that any cries or shouting would not reach the ears of those in the sanctuary.

  He smiled to himself. It was an incredible feeling, knowing that the man he was following would never set foot above ground again.

  He reached the door and pressed his ear to the moldy wood. He jumped back.

  Voices.

  Many voices, tortured and mournful. Pleading for help, for mercy.

  And for water.

  Julian’s heart was pounding. This wasn’t a crypt.

  It was a dungeon.

  Julian tilted his head towards heaven and closed his eyes. His lips quivered with a silent prayer, then he gazed at the door as if it were a mighty adversary. He reached into the deep pockets of his coat and withdrew a garrote and a crucifix dangling from a silver chain. He slipped the necklace over his head and gripped the wire tightly.

  With a dog-like snarl, he flung open the door and burst into the dark room.

  His heart leaped into his throat.

  Scattered through the room, sitting among the skulls and bones of saints, were almost two dozen dirty, naked wretches. They were bleeding and starving. In their midst, like an eagle surrounded by trembling mice, stood Father Herodonti.

  He spun around to face Julian, his black robe whirling like thick smoke. His eyes grew wide and he pointed to the gleaming cross hanging from Julian’s neck.

  “Lies!” he bellowed.

  Julian leaped through the air like a spider, crashing into the frail priest and sending him sprawling on the ground. The frightened prisoners scurried away like insects, too terrified to cry out.

  “Lies?” Julian roared, hauling the priest up by his collar. “You pledge your soul to Lucifer and you accuse my god of lies?”

  With one lightning-fast motion, Julian uncoiled the sharp piano wire and twisted it around the priest’s ash-white neck. He pulled the wire tighter and tighter, taking care not to use too much force or pull too quickly.

  “But we both know you weren’t always like this, were you Father?” he hissed as Father Herodonti gasped and sputtered, clawing at Julian with weak, trembling hands.

  “In fact,” he continued, “you once spoke out against the darkness, did you not? I remember, when I was a boy, hearing about a priest with great faith from a small parish in the countryside. He had the power to cast out demons…”

  The wire began slicing into Father Herodonti’s skin and blood started to seep out through the wound. The priest gurgled as his last desperate breaths were strangled in his throat. His wide eyes stared up at Julian with terror and disbelief.

  The frightened prisoners watched from the corners of the room, cowering among the dust and bones. None of them moved a muscle.

  Julian’s arms quivered as he applied more strength. “I saw you once, back then. I saw the light of God in your face.”

  The priest shuddered violently.

  Julian leaned forward and spoke with venom in his voice.

  “I see nothing now.”

  He gave the garrote one powerful yank and Father Herodonti’s windpipe collapsed. A sickening gurgle bubbled in his crumpled throat, and his eyes went gray like glass. Julian bared his teeth in a dog-like smile.

  Then, quick as a flash, Father Herodonti’s eyes became black, as if they were filled with ink. The priest lifted his head slowly, the cartilage in his trachea snapping and crunching. He looked up at Julian and an alien voice, lucid and clear, came out of the priest’s gaping mouth.

  “You!” he moaned, leaning forward as if to get a better view of Julian through those coal-black eyes. “Yes... You!”

  The priest’s head fell back, and Julian felt the man’s soul depart from his body. Recoiling in horror, he let the corpse fall to the ground in a heap.

  He looked down at his hands. They were trembling.

  What was that? His mind raced and spun, trying to process what had just happened. Whose voice was that?

  And what did it mean when it said “You?”

  As if...

  As if it had made a decision.

  Julian dropped the red piano wire and looked up, meeting the eyes of the prisoners pressed against the walls. They looked like emaciated refugees from a concentration camp. Their wide, desperate eyes seemed to glow in the dim light of the crypt.

  Julian looked down at the body of the priest.

  Monster!

  He kicked the corpse in the ribs, cracking the bones. Righteous fury burning in his blood, Julian approached the captives, ignoring the stench of blood and waste. He seized one of them by the arm and hauled him to his feet. The terrified man was too surprised to resist, but he did not fall after Julian released him. He looked around at his fellow prisoners, as if he was shocked to be able to stand.

  Julian reached down and grabbed a whimpering woman by the wrists, hauling her to her feet despite her silent pleas. Another, and another... Julian helped each captive to their feet, and soon he was thronged by a circle of dirty, naked men and women who just moments ago had been hopeless captives. Now the thrill of freedom surged through their shriveled muscles and frail bones.

  Panting hard, Julian looked at each of them in turn, then clasped his hands together in front of his chest. Immediately, the others did the same.

  Julian’s voice filled the deathly room like a ghost.

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

  ****

  Patric slowly shuffled through the city of Limoges, oblivious to the crackling tension on the air. That tension was manifesting itself all over the city, with clusters of Christians, Satanists, anarchists, and even environmentalists setting up camps on street corners and blaring their message to the world. The violence and looting had been kept to a minimum, due to a massive police presence. City leaders had learned their lesson quickly after the first wave of outrage had washed through the streets.

  Patric could feel something hovering over him. A black cloud of shame.

  He kept his head low so no one would recognize him and he quickened his steps. This had been a bad decision. Why did he come back here?

  Because he had nowhere else to go.

  He risked a darting glance around him, quickly surveying the picturesque medieval town on the Vienne River. Although the city’s Christian heritage had taken quite a beating since the Manifestation, the charming enchantment of tranquil French decadence had always blanketed the city like a warm summer mist.

  All of that was gone now. The buildings still retained their Gothic features, the storefronts were still adorned with hand-painted signs, but the fear…the fear was real. He could taste it in the air. Patric glanced cautiously at the faces of the citizens he passed. All of them were drawn and lean. Not one smile.

  He suddenly found himself in an open square. He looked up, staring at the gaping black corpse of what had once been the crown of Limoges, the Cathedral of St. Etienne. He remembered huddling in his bedroom with Natasha when the explosion went off. Even now, he could still feel the trembling in his bones.

  The western f
acade was ripped open like a disemboweled abdomen. The smoke and flames had gone out long ago, but no one had made any effort to clean up the debris. Pieces of pulverized stone that had littered the plaza had been collected into several piles, but the towering ruins had been completely ignored. People passing by took no notice of the decimated church, and Patric couldn’t find any reason to linger more than a few seconds.

  As he drew closer to his flat, he felt a creeping sense of dread slowly shivering through his nerves. By the time he rounded the corner where the untouched ancient church stood watch, his heart was pounding with panic. Gasping for breath, he looked up at his dreary apartment block, then leaped into the stairwell.

  He vaulted up the steps as fast as his feet could carry him. His sweat-soaked hair clung together in sharp dagger-like strands that jabbed his eyes with each bounce. His breath exploded from his lips and his leg muscles burned.

  He stumbled to the door, fumbling with his keys, then dropping them, then fumbling some more. After finally finding the right one and ramming it into the lock, he barreled through the door as he unlocked the deadbolt. With a desperate cry, he slammed the door shut, then whirled around.

  The apartment was the same as he had left it. But something felt different.

  She was gone. They both were. And they were never coming back.

  Patric fell back against the door and slid slowly to the floor. A weary, mournful sigh escaped his lips.

  He was alone. Totally, completely alone.

  It wasn’t freedom, and it wasn’t peace and quiet. It was emptiness.

  Patric stared at his shoes. He didn’t cry, or curse, or grit his teeth. He felt nothing, because he had nothing. No family, no friends, no faith.

  Except...

  He swallowed roughly.

  His mother.

  He looked at the phone sitting on the counter. It would be so simple to pick up the receiver and dial the number to the hospital in Vizille.

  And tell her that he was responsible for her eldest son’s death.

  Patric exhaled slowly. He felt something trembling inside of him, fearful, even terrified.

  No, he decided. He knew he wouldn’t be able to bear the sound of her voice. Perhaps he would never speak to her again...