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

by Mark Carver

  And it scared the hell out of him.

  Now, staring into that simmering red eye suspended in the darkness, he could feel something radiating back at him. He squinted, as if he were trying to see what was giving him such a cold feeling.

  He knew what it was. It was hate. It was coming from behind the camera, from the unseen faces wrapped in the darkness. They all hated him. He could feel it.

  He wasn’t one of them. He was the enemy, even if he had renounced his faith. He would never gain their trust, and he would never trust them. He had been thrown into their midst by sheer chance, and right now, they were the only thing keeping him from the wolves outside. Though there was little to convince him that they were not wolves themselves.

  Inhaling a deep, slow breath, he swallowed once more to lubricate his parched throat, then opened his mouth.

  “I am Patric Bourdon,” he read in a flat, emotionless voice. “I am the half-brother of Tourec Beauchamp, the assassin who killed the Voice of Satan in Paris.”

  The words seemed to hover in the air like a ghost. Patric was suddenly seized with a terrible sense of panic, and he almost vaulted out of the chair to destroy the camera. Something kept him in his seat, and like a marionette under the control of the puppeteer, he lowered his head and peered at the words that seemed to be burned onto the paper.

  “I had nothing to do with the attack and I claim no responsibility for my brother’s actions, but I am compelled now to deliver this message to the Church of Satan.”

  His stomach tumbled like a boulder careening down a mountain, but he continued reading.

  “The righteous judgment of the God of Heaven and Earth will smite the forces of evil from this world. The judgment that befell the blasphemous Voice of Satan was just the beginning. His punishment was a message to the entire Church of Satan, but especially to France.

  “In spite of everything that has happened in recent days and years, the Almighty God has not abandoned our beautiful country. His eye has always been upon France, and we shall witness His power and glory once again. The powers of darkness have no claim upon this nation, and those who try to disrupt the great destiny before us shall suffer greatly.”

  Despite his growing nausea, Patric raised his eyes and stared squarely at the camera lens.

  “I am Patric Bourdon, brother of Tourec Beauchamp. I shall fear no evil, for the Lord is with me.”

  The red light winked out, and Patric heard movement in the shadows. Claude stepped forward as the lights came on. A broad smile split his face.

  “Bravo,” he said, clapping slowly. “That was quite moving. I didn’t think you could pull it off, but you gave a convincing message. Particularly there at the end.”

  Patric smiled weakly, then lurched forward and spewed the contents of his stomach all over the floor. Claude jumped back to avoid getting vomit on his immaculately polished combat boots. He motioned for someone to come and clean up the mess, and he seized Patric’s arm and hauled him out of the chair.

  “Let’s go get you something to help you calm down.”

  A few minutes later, after downing several glasses of water along with some effervescent tablets, Patric and Claude sat before a stainless steel table. Patric’s hands trembled as he cradled a cup of coffee.

  “Why?” he croaked. “Why did you make me read that?”

  Claude returned from absently staring at the wall for several moments and shook his head. “That does not concern you, at least not yet. You may be foolish but I know you are not stupid, so I will not insult you. We have plans, yes, but you do not need to know them right now.”

  “But it was a lie, everything I said.”

  Claude exhaled like a disapproving father. He folded his large arms and leaned back in his seat.

  “Was it?”

  Patric opened his mouth to answer, but something made him hesitate. There had been something, a feeling, a spark, when he had read those words. It was probably just his imagination...

  Claude smiled when he saw the confusion on Patric’s face, but he said nothing. His eyes brightened as Christine entered the room with cautious steps.

  “Come in, my sunbeam. Sit with us.”

  Christine’s hesitant movements betrayed that she rather wouldn’t. “I...I just wanted to tell you that Enrique had some questions for you in the editing room.”

  Claude exhaled again, then rose to his feet. He gave Patric a strong pat on the shoulder. “Get some rest. Tomorrow we have more work to do.”

  Patric sputtered in his coffee. “You’re going to get me killed!”

  He caught a glint in Claude’s eye that said, “Nothing would make me happier.”

  After her father left the room, Christine sat down across from Patric, who was gripping his coffee cup tightly in an attempt to calm his trembling hands. He lifted his eyes for a moment to look at her, then let his gaze fall down to the table.

  Christine stared at him coldly, but she could see that he was distressed, and her heart softened a little.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  Patric took another uneasy sip of his coffee. He stared at the metallic table surface, lost in a swirl of conflicting thoughts. After a few moments, he looked up at her and frowned.

  “I don’t know what’s happening to me,” he said. “My life has completely unraveled in the last few weeks. I feel like I’m in the middle of a hurricane, and I don’t even know what I’m doing here.”

  He felt another surge of sickness rising, but he commanded it to stay down. He took a large gulp of coffee just to be sure.

  “Can I ask you something?” he asked suddenly.

  Christine paused, then nodded slowly.

  Patric swallowed and looked down at his coffee. “Why don’t you hate me?”

  Christine flexed her fingers, clenching and unclenching her fists.

  “Forgiveness is more powerful than hate, Patric.”

  “That’s garbage,” Patric responded flatly.

  “Oh?”

  Patric placed the coffee cup on the table and leaned back, looking like an disobedient child being asked to explain his behavior. “Hate always wins. Hate is the most powerful force in the universe.”

  Christine’s jaw hung slack. “You really believe that?”

  Patric shrugged. “Think about it. The most unbelievable, history-changing events were motivated by hate, not by love. People will do things for hate that even love couldn’t make them do.”

  Christine slumped in her seat. She wanted to refute his outrageous argument, but for a moment, she couldn’t think of anything to say. She simply stared at Patric with unblinking eyes.

  “That’s only true if people want it to be. I choose to let love give me strength, not hate. If I let hate drive me, then...”

  Her voice trailed away, but Patric knew exactly what she said in her silence.

  “What about you?” she asked, her voice wavering a bit.

  Patric shrugged again. “I have nothing. My life before all of this, my...the people in my life, everything…all gone. Now I’m a prisoner in this place, and I’ve just signed my death warrant with that video statement.”

  He took a sip of coffee. It was lukewarm, almost cold, and he smiled wryly.

  “What’s so funny?” Christine asked, frowning.

  “You know, I should have known something like this was going to happen to me...”

  “Why?”

  Patric didn’t answer. He just stared at the table.

  “Why?” Christine repeated as she leaned forward. She was genuinely curious now.

  Patric exhaled and his eyes darted left and right, as if he were sweeping the room for eavesdroppers.

  “I’ve never told anyone this.”

  Christine waited.

  Patric cleared his throat. “I can hear them. When they are close.”

  “Hear who?”

  “Demons.”

  Christine’s eyes grew wide. “What do mean, you can hear demons?”

  “I hear them
here, in my head.” He tapped his temple. “It sounds like a bee buzzing in my brain, or like audio feedback from a microphone. I don’t know...it just happens sometimes. But it always means that a demon is nearby.”

  Christine’s mouth hung open, and her eyes were fixed on Patric. Neither of them moved for a minute or so, and the space between them seemed to inflate with the awkward silence. Patric decided he should make the first move, and he gulped down the last of his cold coffee, setting the mug on the table with a clatter.

  Christine jolted at the noise, but her eyes didn’t move. “That’s crazy.”

  Patric drew his lips tight across his face and nodded. “I don’t know why it happens, and it only started recently.”

  “Can you see them too?”

  Patric shook his head. This wasn’t true, but he could tell that he had already alarmed her, and he didn’t want her to run away in fright.

  “So what do you do?” she asked.

  “What can I do? It hurts; I can tell you that much.”

  “What do the demons do?”

  Patric shifted in his chair. Though she looked shocked and a bit repulsed, he could see an inquisitive gleam sparkling in her eyes.

  “Look, I don’t know. They’re just around. This is Satan’s world, after all.”

  Christine stood up. “You’re wrong,” she stated firmly, then marched out of the room.

  He wasn’t aware of it until then, but Patric realized that his heart was beating furiously. He stared at the door for a moment, then looked down at his empty coffee cup.

  These people were insane.

  CHAPTER 7

  Vienna, Austria

  Father Rothschild scanned the sanctuary. His heart fluttered, and he frowned.

  Was that nervousness?

  He had been the minister at the Temple of Mephistopheles for more than ten years, almost immediately after the Manifestation, and he had never once had butterflies in his stomach.

  So why now?

  He looked down at his hands that gripped the edges of pulpit. His knuckles were bloodless and the tendons stood out on the back of his hands like furrows in a freshly-plowed field. He raised his eyes and studied the faces gazing up at him in expectation.

  He did not see boldness, confidence, and serenity. He saw doubt, fear, and confusion.

  How was this possible? How could the fortress be crumbling so quickly? Yes, the leader of their church was dead, murdered in his own temple by a Delusional fanatic. Shouldn’t the forces of Satan be up in arms, rather than trembling in their temples, praying that the roving Delusional mobs would spare their sanctuary in search of more enticing prey?

  “Look at us,” he began, his voice stern and raw. “We, the church of our Great Lord, the Prince of this world, cowering in fear before a barking dog that has just awoken from its slumber. This is our world! We took it from them! We are immeasurably stronger than that pathetic rabble roaming the streets like depraved witch hunters. But who retreats to their sanctuaries in fear? Who murmurs fearful prayers at the altar? It is not the Delusionals. They have no sanctuaries anymore. They have nothing. But they continue to fight! Their madness is infinite. And we, we who have grown fat and lazy in our opulence and tranquility, have suddenly been thrown into the midst of the storm, and we are lost!

  “This isn’t the Church of Satan! This is the church of sheep! I am ashamed…I am ashamed to be a minister of this church. I look around here today, and I do not see strength. I see fear and weakness. Our master does not accept fear and weakness. He is lord of the strong, and he mortifies the weak! The meek shall inherit nothing, and right now, we are the meek! The Delusionals storm our temples, slaughter us in the pews, and what do we do? We pray. We stretch our pleading hands towards the Vatican, begging for guidance.”

  Father Rothschild slammed his fist onto the wooden pulpit.

  “Our lord Satan does not hear your prayers! The Vatican is more than one thousand kilometers away! Who will you turn to when death comes to your door? Who will deliver you from your oppressors?”

  His blazing eyes darted across the sanctuary. He raised a finger of condemnation in the air.

  “No one! Your life is in your hands! You are not bound by any morality, any religion, any code. There is only one rule that we live by, and that is to survive, and thrive, by any means necessary! Now more than ever! The Delusionals think they have us pinned down, vulnerable, leaderless. Our Great Lord said it himself: you shall swear allegiance to no one save your own desires. Let your instincts guide you, and decimate those who oppose you!”

  He paused for a moment to catch his breath. Sweat poured down his face, soaking his black collar and shawl. He scanned the sea of faces; each one was pale with fright. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the boiling current of anger simmer and seethe.

  As he opened his mouth to speak, the doors of the sanctuary burst open, and a solitary figure strode boldly down the center aisle.

  “In the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, and by the power of the Blessed Virgin in White, I command you to cease your blasphemous ranting at once!”

  In the blink of an eye, more than two dozen handguns were aimed at the intruder. Father Rothschild immediately threw up his hands.

  “Stop!” he cried, astonished at the display of weaponry. It appeared he was wrong about his congregation’s lack of boldness.

  The disruptive figure looked up at the priest and smiled. Father Rothschild’s eyes darkened, and he almost gave the command to execute this impudent fool, but something held him back.

  “Let him speak,” he said.

  A clatter of clicking sounds indicated that the guns were being uncocked, but the weapons remained leveled at the bold intruder.

  “Who are you?” Father Rothschild asked as he stepped down from the pulpit.

  “I am a servant of the living God,” the man declared with the pomp and authority of a royal herald.

  “Indeed,” the priest answered wryly. “And what gives you cause to barge in here and disrupt our service?”

  “This temple and this gathering are an abomination to the Lord God. I demand that you relinquish this building into the hands of the true Church, and that you repent of your sins and beg our Heavenly Father for His forgiveness.”

  Father Rothschild began walking down the altar steps. “And why would we do that?”

  The intruder ripped open his shirt to reveal a corset of explosives wrapped around his ribcage. Several gasps could be heard from the crowd, and several guns were cocked again.

  Father Rothschild frozen and he held up his hands. The intruder also held up his hand. In his grasp was a detonator.

  “This is a dead man switch,” he announced. “Kill me, and everyone in this accursed temple shall perish.”

  “So that’s how it is?” Father Rothschild accused. “Terrorism? ‘Convert to our faith or die?’ Is that what your religion has deteriorated into?”

  The bomber drew himself up to his full height. “No. I am not an Inquisitor, nor a Crusader. I just want to get your attention.”

  Father Rothschild made a sweeping gesture. “Well, you have it.”

  The man looked around, staring at the gun barrels pointed at his face. His eyes were cold, but his expression was gentle, almost benevolent. He lowered the detonator but kept his grip firm.

  “I come here at the behest of the Blessed Virgin in White,” he announced. “She does not wish for this bloodshed to continue. She has interceded on your behalf to our Lord God, and He has agreed to spare your souls.”

  Father Rothschild’s eyebrows raised in amusement, despite the imminent danger. “And what does your God ask in return?”

  “You must renounce your blasphemous religion, surrender this and all sacred properties under your control, and publicly denounce your dark master.”

  Father Rothschild saw several mocking smiles in the congregation and his heart swelled with pride. However, no one seemed to be preparing any kind of counterattack, so for the moment, the terrorist ha
d the upper hand.

  The priest rubbed his brow, which was slick with sweat. “Do you think we are afraid of you? You are nothing but a small deluded fool with a bomb strapped to his chest. You have no power over us. You can kill all of us here, but you will change nothing. Satan will always rule this world. Go ahead. Do it. Release that trigger.”

  The members of the congregation stirred uneasily, and several pairs of eyes looked pleadingly up at Father Rothschild. They may have come here prepared to kill, but they were not ready to die.

  The intruder smiled again, and he held the detonator high. Gasps issued from the congregation. Even Father Rothschild took a step back.

  “My power does not come from the weapons of man,” the bomber said loudly. “I have come to deliver a message, nothing more. Take care, for your souls teeter on the brink of hell.”

  He opened his fist.

  The congregation shrieked and everyone crouched down low. With a whirl of his black robes, Father Rothschild threw himself on the cold stone floor.

  There was no explosion. There was nothing.

  The bomber looked at the detonator in confusion.

  One, then two, then many heads raised up cautiously, eyes wide with disbelief, then dark with anger. The intruder stood in their midst like a sheepish child, frantically clicking the detonator switch.

  Father Rothschild looked up from the folds of his robe. White-hot fury pulsed through his veins. With a snarl of rage, he reached behind the altar piled high with candles and drew out an ancient double-barrel shotgun.