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

by Mark Carver

  He was shocked to find himself rising to his feet and walking towards the telephone on the kitchen counter.

  No, stop! Don’t call her!

  He picked up the phone and dialed the number to the private hospital in Vizille. His heart was pounding.

  After the first ring, a woman’s lethargic voice answered, “Vizille Police Department.”

  Patric looked at the receiver in confusion, then held it up to his ear again.

  “I’m sorry, I must have dialed the wrong number. I’m trying to reach the Hospital of St. Camillus.”

  There was a moment of silence on the other end, and then the woman said, “One moment please.”

  Her tone had softened considerably. Patric thought she sounded worried, almost nervous. He started to get a bad feeling that something was wrong.

  After about a minute, another voice spoke. “I am Lieutenant Marquis. To whom am I speaking?”

  “Uh, Patric Bourdon.”

  “Oui, Mr. Bourdon, you are trying to reach the Hospital of St. Camillus?”

  “Yes. Is everything all right? Why is the police – "

  “I am very sorry to tell you this, Mr. Bourdon, but the hospital burned to the ground almost one week ago. Everyone inside was killed.”

  Patric’s heart stopped.

  “What...what do you mean ‘everyone was killed?’ What happened?”

  Lieutenant Marquis inhaled a slow breath. “There was a terrible fire. All of the patients and most of the staff were killed. From what we gather, it was over very quickly.”

  There was another pause, and the lieutenant spoke with a cautious tone. “Are you...trying to reach a patient at the hospital?”

  Patric’s head was swimming. For a moment, his vision went black, then came back into focus. His legs refused to support his weight and he sank to the floor.

  “Y-yes,” he stammered. “My mother...Caroline Bourdon.”

  Patric heard the sound of pages being flipped, then Lieutenant Marquis came back on the line.

  “Mr. Bourdon, I am so very sorry. Your mother perished in the fire.”

  Patric felt completely paralyzed. He didn’t even feel the warm tears streaming down his face. He lowered the phone and a low groan escaped his lips.

  “Mr. Bourdon?” the phone chirped. “Mr. Bourdon?”

  Patric stared up at the ceiling. His heart felt like it was going to burn through his chest.

  “Mr. Bourdon!” the lieutenant said forcefully.

  Patric weakly held the phone up to his ear again.

  “Yes,” he sniffed.

  “Mr. Bourdon, please, I am so sorry that you had to find out this way. But I am glad that you called, because we have been having difficulty reaching next of kin, since all of the hospital’s records were lost in the fire. We only have only the names of patients and staff from duplicates kept off-site. Mr. Bourdon, I know this is difficult for you, but we have some legal matters to attend to. Would it be possible for you to come down to Vizille and sign some papers? Or, if you would prefer, we could send drafts to your lawyers – "

  “Forget it.”

  Patric ended the call and let the phone receiver clatter across the kitchen floor.

  So that was it, then. After all that she had suffered and endured, her last moments were spent in unspeakable agony. Through his tears, Patric stared up at the ceiling.

  Was that Your idea? She didn’t deserve that... She was a good woman!

  A voice inside him started to say that it was more than a coincidence that his mother perishes right after he comes to visit her in search of Tourec, but he commanded the voice to be silent. He couldn’t bear the guilt right now. Not with a mountain of sorrow crushing down on his shoulders.

  With slow, tired movements, he rose to his feet and walked towards the bedroom.

  CHAPTER 4

  Benito stared out at the bleak, cheerless pasture that meandered towards the horizon and tucked itself over a gentle hill, like a bedsheet stretching over a mattress. The soil was saturated by continuous rain and fog, and the scattered tufts of grass were sickly and gray. The lumbering clouds overhead threatened to tumble down and flatten the desolate landscape. It was as if the world itself was in mourning.

  Benito thrust his hands in his pockets as he kicked a muddy rock free from the soil. He turned his gaze towards the line of trees standing atop the crest of the hill. Dry, withered leaves clung feebly to the angular branches, and several broke free with each chilly gust of wind.

  Benito searched his memory and thought of a time when this place was vibrant with pastoral beauty. There had been horses galloping through the grass, pausing for a few moments beneath the majestic oak tree before scampering off again. He loved coming here as a boy. He didn’t remember who the farm belonged to, but he could recall a round, friendly female face.

  What had happened to that old woman?

  Benito’s eyes swept the dreary field.

  The same thing that happens to everyone eventually…

  It was here, so many years ago, that Benito first felt the presence of God. It had been more than just a feeling; it had been truth. A truth that he didn’t need to convince anyone of. He knew it in his head, and in his heart, and that was all.

  He looked up at the heavy clouds, squinting his eyes as if he could pierce the gray wall.

  Are You still there?

  He gasped, wincing at his own weakness. For some strange reason, he half-expected the sky to crack open and a vengeful bolt of lightning to strike at his feet. He chuckled inwardly at his childish fancies, but his eyes swept the pasture for a sign. Anything. There had to be something…

  Even the wind had stopped. The world was completely still.

  Benito ground his teeth as he often did when he was frustrated.

  Of course there’s no answer, he chastised himself. Why should He answer any of our prayers? I wouldn’t if I were Him.

  We’re an embarrassment.

  Benito didn’t realize that he was walking towards the oak tree.

  Why can’t the others see that? Where is all that supposed ‘wisdom’ that comes with old age? This isn’t the time to retreat or regroup – this is the time to fight!

  A rustling sound startled him. Benito jumped back and looked up, frowning as he stared at the frail clusters of leaves clinging desperately to the branches. He turned and looked back over the field.

  How had he…?

  He jumped as a raven squawked loudly above him. The oil-black bird peered down at him with red eyes, then emitted another shrill squawk before taking flight. Benito watched the bird soar through the gray sky, and then he turned around.

  A woman stood before him.

  Her skin and dress were white, but her eyes and hair were the darkest black.

  Benito’s heart froze.

  ****

  A clanking noise yanked Patric out of his restless slumber. He rubbed his bleary eyes and stared through the dim twilight glow that seeped into the bedroom.

  She’s gone, Patric.

  Exhaling slowly, Patric sat up in the bed. The crumpled sheets surrounded him like wrinkled mist. The irritating clanking sound outside was growing faint, but Patric immediately recognized the sounds of protest. The entire country was in a state of panic, and here he was at the center of it all.

  He felt it growing inside of him, dark and heavy.

  Hatred. Hatred for everyone and everything. Hatred for a God that had let his mother burn to death. Hatred for Satan that did nothing for his children.

  Then, quick as lightning, a thought flashed through his mind.

  Your mother is dead. Your brother was a murderer. Your fiancée is a lying slut. She saved your life, but she is still a lying slut. Your master in hell hates your guts and you are just now figuring this out.

  The room seemed much darker than it had been a few moments ago.

  So are you just going to lay in bed feeling sorry for yourself, or are you going to get out there and help send this world to the hell it dese
rves?

  Patric glanced towards the window, and he hung his head. He focused his hate, concentrating on the person who had hurt him the most.

  Natasha...

  He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth.

  I hope I die before you, you filthy whore, so I can wait for you in hell, and when you get there, I’m going to choke the life out of you.

  The air in the room seemed very thick and heavy. Patric's eyes instinctively glanced towards the window, half-expecting a ghastly face with black eyes to be staring at him.

  There was nothing but a starless sky and the muffled sounds of the protesters marching past. Fighting every urge to lie down again, Patric hoisted himself out of the bed and shuffled towards the bureau. He opened the drawers in search of a fresh shirt, but he stopped when his eyes fell upon some of Natasha’s clothes.

  Before he could stop it, a beautiful picture of her wearing one of those soft, thin shirts and nothing else blazed through his mind. The anger and hatred he had felt before melted away. He just wanted to hold her, to feel her softness.

  He looked down again at the clothes in the drawer, and he moved the clothes aside, revealing crumpled wads of black and pink lace.

  His heart began pounding and his nerves tingled. He remembered when she had…

  With a furious snarl, he flung the drawer closed again. He grabbed a faded black T-shirt that lay across a chair and threw it over his head. Then he pulled on his shoes and snatched his coat before heading out the door, slamming it loudly behind him.

  ****

  The news anchor swallowed with difficulty as she fixed her eyes on the camera. Her gaze wavered for a moment, then she cleared her throat and spoke.

  “The turbulent Satanic community in Rome has been dealt another shocking blow. Last night at the Temple of the Legion, while worshipers were waiting for the evening service to begin, an unknown person clothed in black robes emerged from the temple’s crypt, followed by almost two dozen Christians. All were naked, dirty, and starving, and had been apparently imprisoned in the crypt for an unknown period of time. The congregation was horrified as the hooded figure led the procession down the center aisle of the sanctuary, and witnesses confirmed that they were all singing Christian hymns. No one dared approach them, and they walked through the west doors of the sanctuary, where witnesses say the hooded figure who was leading them simply vanished without a trace.

  “Once outside, the Christians were taken into police custody and were given treatment at local hospitals for a wide range of injuries and ailments. When authorities investigated the crypt where the Christians were allegedly being held prisoner, they discovered the body of Father Antonelli Herodonti, high priest of the Temple of the Legion, who was scheduled to deliver mass that evening. Police have named the unidentified man leading the Christians as the prime suspect in the murder, since authorities do not believe that the priest was killed by the prisoners.

  “We will continue to follow this story and will bring you breaking developments as they become available.

  “While the Vatican remains silent in the wake of His Worship’s brutal assassination, anti-Satanic protests have gained strength as Christians, Muslims, Jews, and other opponents of Satanism have taken to the streets and the airwaves to voice their hatred of the Satanic church and to give support for the unidentified assassin who carried out the attack in Paris. French President Nicholas Merdans’ sudden and horrific death on live television just one day after the attack has shaken the world and thrown fuel on an already-raging inferno, with both sides of the religious spectrum claiming that the French president suffered the wrath of either God or Lucifer. The President of the Senate has temporarily assumed the powers of the presidential office, but has remained silent on his predecessor’s sudden passing.

  “Only one thing is certain: the turmoil that has paralyzed Europe will only grow stronger and the once-peaceful stalemate between the cross and the pentagram is all but over.

  ****

  Father DeMarco’s knuckles were white as he gripped the back of the chair for support.

  Something was wrong. He could feel it deep in his soul.

  Commanding his legs to stop trembling, he took a tentative step towards the door, then another. He could hear sounds of life just outside of his room, and he moved forward with frustrating slowness. He wanted to run, to sprint, but his feet seemed to be moving through tar.

  A voice inside told him to curse the bastards that did this to him, to call damnation and hellfire down upon their heathen heads. They were cowards, worms who were unfit to lick the dust from his feet.

  With a grimace of pain, he banished these thoughts from his mind. This wasn’t the time for emotional self-indulgence.

  He pushed the door open, and everyone in the kitchen looked up from their dinner preparations.

  Donatella slapped her hand towel down on the counter with obvious annoyance.

  “Father! If you don’t march back into that room right now, I will fetch some leather straps and – "

  “Is everyone here?”

  The room was silent for a moment. Then Lorenzo spoke up.

  “What do you mean, Father?”

  “Is everyone here?”

  Father DeMarco’s eyes darted frantically across the kitchen, scanning each face.

  One was missing.

  “Benito,” he whispered.

  Lorenzo glanced at Donatella. “Y-yes, Benito went out this morning. He still seemed a bit troubled after last night, and he said he wanted to be alone today. I’m sure he’ll be back any minute. That boy never misses dinner.”

  Father DeMarco grabbed Lorenzo’s shirt collar.

  “We must find him!”

  ****

  Benito stared up at the Temple of Set.

  It was not a temple. It was a house of God.

  A house of God that had been defiled and profaned for almost a decade.

  The reign of blasphemy was ending today. The hour of purgation had come.

  Benito looked around at the soldiers who stood with him. Men, women, young and old. All had come, heeding the call of God’s messenger to cleanse his church.

  The messenger was the angelic woman in white.

  She stood on the temple steps, looking out at the menacing mob. In their hands, they clutched machetes, pitchforks, hammers and clubs. Every one of them was poised to attack, held back as if by invisible chains leashed around their necks.

  The woman smiled. She raised her hands towards heaven, and the temple doors burst open.

  With a war cry, the mob surged forward, and the woman in white vanished like smoke in the wind. No one paused to marvel at this miracle. They knew of her heavenly origin, and they knew that angels can easily defy nature’s laws.

  The frail priest had just finished lighting the last candle on the altar when the sanctuary doors exploded and the rabid mob swarmed through the aisles.

  The priest was only the assistant minister and had reluctantly assumed leadership after Father Costanza had been brutally murdered within this very sanctuary. But when he saw the ferocious intruders speeding through his temple, he felt a sudden surge of courage and indignation blazing in his veins.

  He lifted a rock-steady finger and pointed it at the attackers like a gun.

  “Get OUT!”

  Benito launched himself through the air and brought the ball peen hammer down with all his force. The priest’s skull caved in, then popped with a bloody crack. His body crumpled to the floor.

  Benito stared down at the corpse for a long, breathless moment. His eyes flickered in the candlelight. He raised his eyes and scanned the sanctuary.

  His comrades attacked the temple with blinding fury. Statues were pulled down. Mosaics were shattered, and windows pulverized.

  Benito looked up. He locked eyes with the Dragon himself, coiled menacingly above the flickering altar.

  Benito’s fist clenched around the hammer’s wooden handle. Blood dripped down in great red drops onto the cold marble fl
oor.

  He saw movement to his right, and glanced towards the rear of the sanctuary. He saw her, standing in the doorway. Radiant. Divine.

  His eyes locked with hers, and he could hear her whispering to his spirit.

  “Drive the devil out!” he suddenly cried with unbridled rage.

  He hurled the hammer straight at the Dragon’s teeth.

  ****

  The heavy wooden doors creaked open. Patric poked his head inside. Immediately, a flood of memories came rushing back through his mind.

  Late-night mass. Consecration services. Lamb’s blood. Incantations.

  Natasha.

  Patric pushed the doors open wider and crept inside. As he stepped into the grand, ominous temple sanctuary, a strange sensation washed over him.

  Guilt.

  It was Tourec! his conscience cried out. I didn’t do anything. I tried to stop him!

  A dark voice answered.

  But you failed.

  Patric stood still, staring at the floor as he wrestled with the voice of accusation.

  He made his choices. It was nothing to do with me.

  He was your brother, the voice answered.

  Patric wrinkled his brow. So that makes me guilty by family relation?

  No. But I don’t think they would be so understanding.

  Patric raised his eyes and looked at the bowed heads of worshipers sitting in the pews. An old man turned and looked at him with an unreadable expression. Patric stared back, and the guilt that was clutching his heart squeezed even harder.

  Does he know? Do they all know?

  A woman looked up, then whirled around, her eyes glaring at Patric. He gasped, then slipped out through the door. He closed it behind him and leaned back against the heavy wood. His heart was pounding and panting breaths exploded from his lips.

  They know.

  He stared out at the dark, angular Limoges skyline. His hand intercepted a bead of sweat that was streaking towards his eye.

  Another voice spoke up inside of him

  Don’t be a fool. You’re being paranoid.