by Mark Carver
Leaping to his feet, he cocked the weapon and fired both barrels, blowing a grapefruit-sized hole through the intruder’s chest. The man’s body was blasted backwards like a scarecrow being tossed by a gust of wind. Blood spattered on the congregation as the body tumbled down the center aisle.
Father Rothschild brandished the smoking shotgun in front of him as if he were afraid the corpse might rise up from the floor. His eyes were wild and panting breaths erupted from his lungs. The gun blast echoed through the cavernous temple, and the congregation remained still. In the middle of the sanctuary floor, the Delusional’s body poured great gouts of blood across the beautiful marble.
Everyone seemed to be waiting, frozen like mannequins. Their eyes darted back and forth, and their ears strained to detect any sound that might signal another threat. But only silence answered them. Slowly, cautiously, their emotions descended from the precipice of panic, and their runaway heartbeats began to slow.
Then a woman screamed. All eyes suddenly looked up. Father Rothschild’s breath froze in his chest.
The ceiling of the sanctuary was melting. Not cracking or breaking.
Melting.
Molten bits of stone and metal fell directly upon the twisted body of the Delusional intruder, burying the corpse beneath a pile of rubble. The frightened members of the congregation shrank back as they screamed with shock and horror.
Father Rothschild’s eyes were riveted to the arched ceiling.
Impossible...
A brilliant ball of light filled the jagged hole above the sanctuary, and a figure slowly descended, hovering above the awestruck congregation.
It was a woman, with pitch black hair but dressed in clothes so unbelievably white that she seemed to be wearing light itself. Her hair and clothes floated about her as if she were suspended in water, and for a moment, she did not move, remaining fixed in the air high above the pews. Then, like a wind-born seed searching for a resting place, she floated down until her delicate feet reached the sanctuary floor. Her hair and clothes also surrendered to gravity, though she still seemed as light as air.
No one could speak; they could only stare at this radiant being that was certainly not of this world. Although his face was frozen with terror and enchantment, Father Rothschild’s mind was racing furiously.
Was this an angel? Here, in a temple of Satan? What did it want?
And why was it smiling?
Then he remembered the Delusional’s words.
“...the Blessed Virgin in White...”
The radiant figure took a step forward and the congregation reacted with screams. The woman in white changed her smile to a smirk, and she stepped daintily around the buried corpse lying in the middle of the center aisle.
“He was supposed to kill all of you,” she said, her voice soft yet loud enough to fill the sanctuary. She roughly kicked the man’s bloody arm out of her path. “Good help is so hard to find these days.”
Father Rothschild’s knees began clattering together, and he could no longer stand. He knelt down on the ground, the shotgun clattering across the stone floor.
“Have mercy on us,” he stammered as drops of sweat fell from his forehead and landed on his trembling hands.
“Mercy?” The woman in white chuckled. “You must have me confused with someone else. It must be the dress.”
Instantly, the woman’s billowing white gown transformed into a pitch black dress that clung to her body like oil. Her angelic mystique vanished, replaced by a sinister aura that seemed to radiate evil. Her face, too, morphed into a mask of pure hatred, though it retained its striking beauty.
The congregation gasped, and Father Rothschild felt as if a red-hot knife had been plunged into his heart.
“What do you want with us?” he whimpered.
“I don’t want anything,” the woman in black answered casually. She whirled around, her blazing eyes glaring fiercely at the worshipers cowering in their pews. “But my master desires an audience with you.”
Father Rothschild gulped. “Your...your master?”
The woman in black smiled, her lips peeling back to reveal a mouth full of gleaming fangs. She raised her black-sleeved arms high above her head, then threw them down again.
The bomber’s body exploded with terrific force and a great concussion blasted through the sanctuary. With a terrifying roar, the entire church burst into flames. Father Rothschild thrashed wildly as the hungry flames clawed at his robes and began searing his flesh.
“Mercy!” he screamed. “Mercy!”
The woman in black stood in the midst of the devastation, laughing hideously as she watched the wretches burn. The pews, the tapestries, the unholy icons – the entire sanctuary was consumed with hellfire. Charred bodies fell to the ground and became unrecognizable heaps of ash. Father Rothschild collapsed before the altar, stretching his blackened fingers towards the golden pentagram above him. The flames danced upon the metal icon as the priest’s soul burned away.
Surrounded by towering walls of fire, the woman in black looked down at the intruder’s severed hand beside her foot. A bright ring bearing a cross sparkled on its finger.
“Fool,” she spat. She watched the smoke billowing towards the ceiling. For a moment, she could see the stars through the hole she had made.
The sound of sirens could be heard over the roar of the flames and the fading screams. The woman in black took a deep breath. Her work here was finished.
The firefighters burst through the sanctuary door, blasting the flames with powerful streams of water.
They did not notice a curl of smoke, blacker than the rest. It remained for just a moment, then dissolved into the air.
****
“Another horrific attack today as the war between the Christian church and the Order of Satan intensifies. The High Temple of Mephistopheles, the seat of the Satanic Church in Vienna, Austria, was firebombed last night during the evening service. Nearly fifty people, including the presiding minister, were killed, and authorities believe that no one survived the inferno. Investigators found explosive residue in the ruins of the temple, as well as human remains bearing Christian markings. No one has come forth to claim responsibility for the blast, but angry mobs have already taken to the streets in Vienna and other cities across Europe to protest this heinous crime.
“This is only the latest in a string of attacks perpetrated by members of the Christian church, who have become emboldened in recent days following the brutal assassination of the Voice of Satan in Paris last week. The Satanic church remains leaderless and the Vatican has yet to release a formal statement addressing the Order’s future. Loyal followers of the Church of Satan are becoming increasingly impatient as they pray for guidance during these uncertain times. Meanwhile, the Christian church has been at the forefront of a surge in violent activity against its bitter enemy, fighting in the name of what many claim to be ‘The Blessed Virgin in White.’ Numerous Christians claim to have been visited by a mysterious figure that they say is an angel or even the incarnation of the Virgin Mary. The Christian church has not issued a formal statement addressing these claims, but several prominent Christians have expressed skepticism, stating that the Virgin Mary would never encourage followers of Christ to engage in violent criminal activity and terrorism.”
The news anchor jerked her head to the left, fixing her attention on something off-camera. She then turned her attention back to the audience, her face stern and her mouth grim.
“We have just received word that authorities have discovered the identity of the assassin responsible for murdering the Voice of Satan. His name is Tourec Beauchamp from Grenoble. Authorities have not revealed much about his history, except that he took part in the battles of Jerusalem in the years following the Manifestation. It was during this conflict that his combat skills here honed, as well as his fanatical religious beliefs. It is not certain if Tourec Beauchamp acted alone or if he had accomplices, but authorities are tracking down all known associates, promising tha
t justice will be swift and severe.
“This announcement coincides with the release of a video statement on the internet by a man claiming to be Tourec Beauchamp’s half-brother. In the video, he claims to share no responsibility for his brother’s actions, but authorities are vigorously searching for Patric Bourdon, who is believed to be in hiding.”
****
Patric stared a small shaft of artificial light seeping through a crack in the wall. The sliver of light indicated that the crack was of substantial size, perhaps big enough to call the stability of the wall into question.
But even though his eyes were directed at the pale beam, he didn’t really see it. He didn’t feel anything, either. He felt completely numb, lifeless as a rag doll.
He didn’t know where he was, not that it mattered anyway. Immediately after his tense conversation with Christine, he had been whisked down a flight of stairs by an escort of scowling military types. This led out into a dark alley where several vans were waiting. Claude and Christine were present as well. Claude had barked some hasty orders to his men, who bundled themselves into the vans. Patric was in too much of a daze to really be aware of what was happening, but something struck him as odd: just before Claude and Christine stepped into a separate van, Claude’s phone rang.
Claude answered in English.
The language switch puzzled Patric for only a moment, since his attention was diverted to figuring out a way to keep from being smothered in the van that was rapidly filling to capacity. Once everyone had been more or less secured in their seats, the vans sped down the grimy Parisian streets.
Patric managed to peek out the window through the tangle of limbs and faces. He could see isolated bright spots on the dark horizon, testament to the fury of one side or the other. It didn’t matter anyway. Both sides were the same now - fanatical, violent, out of control. There was no more righteousness, no more blasphemy.
Considering his own situation, Patric should have been terrified for his life. Somehow he wasn’t, but not because he felt safe. He knew he was in the clutches of a vicious beast that would rend him limb from limb without hesitation. Yet he was being kept alive for a reason, and he wanted to know what it was.
As the van left the city under cover of darkness, Patric found his thoughts fluttering towards Natasha. Where was she now? Who was she with? Was the baby all right?
But then, why should he care about that bastard child? His affection had been based on a lie, and the woman he loved had turned out to be a whore.
Don’t call her that. You were no better.
He jerked his head, as if someone had spoken to him. It had been so long since his conscience had said anything; it sounded like a stranger’s voice.
It was right, though. He couldn’t hate her. He wanted to, with all his heart. But he couldn’t.
The van bounced and lurched over rough roads, and Patric deduced that they were heading into the countryside. He hoped they were nearing the end of the journey, since the overpowering odors of body sweat and moldy car seats were beginning to make him feel nauseous.
It seemed like an eternity had passed when the van eased its way up a snaking driveway. The darkness and overhanging trees shrouded any details of their destination, but Patric was only too thankful to escape from the prison of sweat and rock-hard seats. He leaped out of the van and gasped as the chilly night air invaded his lungs. But after a moment, the cool, crisp air tasted fresh and delicious. It was infinitely better than the stale fumes he had been inhaling for the past few hours.
The other occupants of the van disembarked and Patric was swept towards an array of dim lights nestled deep within a grove of trees. Despite his disorientation, Patric could tell this was a peaceful, even idyllic location. He could hear the soothing sound of crickets chirping their nocturnal songs, and he could smell the dew sparkling on the grass in the feeble moonlight. The air felt heavy and moist, and he was refreshed almost immediately.
He didn’t have time to enjoy these pleasant sensations as he was hurried inside and pushed up a set of wooden stairs, then through a steel door that quickly dissipated his sense of pastoral comfort. As he followed the group through twisting, featureless corridors, he guessed that they were in some sort of compound, probably built for military purposes.
He felt someone grab his arm and thrust him towards an open door. He stumbled into the room and heard the door close behind him. He whirled around to scowl at the door, then he turned and surveyed the room.
It was furnished with a steel bed that looked as hard as a rock, a metal desk, matching chair, and a dresser with a cutting edge-television that contrasted sharply with the rest of the drab decor. Patric heaved a sigh, a weary mixture of exasperation, sleep deprivation, and hopelessness. He scooted the metal chair away from the desk. The legs made a painful scraping sound across the cold cement floor. He slumped in the chair and stared aimlessly about him. He hoped to spy something edible, but there was nothing.
Now, as he sat motionless, staring at the crack in the wall, his brain tried to formulate coherent thoughts, but it was impossible. He felt…un-alive. Not dead, just…nothing. Like a puppet that becomes a lifeless tangle of wood and string after the show is over.
The knock on the door jerked him awake. He looked around in confusion. Had he been asleep? And when did he migrate from the chair to the bed?
The insistent knocking rapped again, and Patric shuffled across the room, suddenly feeling painfully hungry. He opened the door and was surprised to see Christine’s smoldering eyes peering at him.
“May I come in?” she asked with a commanding tone that somehow still seemed gentle.
Patric didn’t move. He was mesmerized by her eyes that seemed to shimmer despite the dim light.
“Patric?”
With a jolt, he swung the door open wide.
“Please,” he replied with a cough.
Christine smiled politely and stepped into the room. Patric closed the door behind her and stood in front of it like a sentry.
Her eyebrows rose in amusement at his formal stance, but she made no comment. She glanced around the room.
“Are you comfortable here?”
Patric coughed again and stepped over towards the desk. “Um, yeah, sure. Though I don’t know where ‘here’ is.”
“That’s not really important now.”
Patric glared at her. “So what is important?”
Christine opened her mouth, then closed it again. She walked over to the bed and sat down, grimacing slightly as she discovered how hard the mattress was. She folded her hands on her lap and looked up at Patric.
“Please sit.”
Patric obeyed, never taking his eyes off of her.
She seemed nervous, twisting her fingers like a child with a confession to make. Patric watched her keenly, though he was feeling strangely nervous as well. He was aware of a sticky film of sweat forming on his neck.
“My father doesn’t know I’m here,” she said.
“Would he be angry if he knew?”
“He’s my father.”
Patric swallowed uncomfortably. “So…what did you want to talk about?”
A look of hesitation flashed across Christine’s face, and Patric found himself surprised by how beautiful she looked in that moment of vulnerability. She caught him staring, and a small smile stole across her lips. Patric frowned in confusion, then his eyes fell to the floor. His face flushed red with embarrassment, prompting Christine’s smile to widen.
What’s wrong with you? he chastised himself.
Christine mercifully spared him further embarrassment by speaking up. “I wanted to tell you how things work around here. I know you have a lot of questions. Some I can answer, some I cannot, but I can tell you that you are a part of something great and powerful, and I hope you will help us.”
“Help?” Patric’s tone was scornful, fueled in part by contempt for his own display of boyish vulnerability. “Why would I help you? I’m a prisoner here.”
“That’s not true,” Christine replied.
“Then what am I?”
“You…you are a tool of God.”
“I don’t even follow your God.”
“I know. But He can still use you.”
Patric snorted in disbelief. “Look, I only read those words because your father forced me to. I’m beginning to think it’s better for me out there on my own, taking my chances.”
Christine leaned forward, her expression serious. “Do you know what is happening out there, Patric?”
Patric was silent for a moment, then he shrugged. “Not really. I’ve been…my life has been pretty chaotic lately, and honestly, I don’t really care what the rest of the world is doing.”
He looked down at his hands.
“I just want to be left alone.”
“Well I’m afraid that’s not how things work,” Christine said. “Like it or not, you are much more important than you realize and we aren’t going to let you waste your potential.”
“My potential? You sound like a high school teacher.”
“Not potential for yourself, Patric. Potential to help change the world.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Christine exhaled heavily. “What kind of man do you think my father is? The men who follow him?”
“Well, it’s pretty obvious that they’re soldiers.”
“Right. And what do soldiers do?”
“They fight.”
Christine said nothing in reply.
Patric’s eyes widened.
“Is…is your father planning some kind of war?”
Christine remained silent, but her eyes flashed.
Patric stood up and pushed the chair away.
“This…this is…are you insane?”
Christine’s face tightened for a moment, then her expression became soft, even sympathetic.
“No, Patric. Insane is squandering what God has given us. We have no illusions of fighting a righteous war, Armageddon to cleanse the world, any of that. We don’t even want to fight, but we know we will have to.”
“Fight for what?”
Christine rose to her feet and took a step towards him. “You will know soon. And when you see the plan that you are a part of, I believe that you will be glad to be on our side.”
