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

by Mark Carver

  She slipped past him, a few stray strands of glossy black hair streaming across his face. Patric watched her turn the knob and open the door, suddenly wishing for her to stay. He opened his mouth and Christine paused, waiting for his words.

  Patric tried to speak, but nothing came out. He finally managed to sputter, “What happens…what now?”

  Christine regarded him for a moment.

  “Get some rest,” she said. “I’ll be back soon.”

  She paused, then added, “You’re not a prisoner here, Patric.”

  “Am I free to leave?”

  Christine smiled as if he had told a joke.

  “No.”

  She left the room and closed the door behind her. Patric trudged back towards the bed. He reached out his hand absentmindedly and smoothed the wrinkled sheets where Christine had been sitting.

  He knew one thing: he wasn’t fighting in anyone’s war.

  ****

  Julian sat upon Vatican Hill, his fierce eyes sweeping the city of Rome beneath him. He had been secluded up here for more than a day, eating and drinking nothing, hardly moving at all.

  But his mind was racing.

  The mysterious priest had said something to him in the chapel that night, and he couldn’t get it out of his head.

  Have you considered the possibility that you could be the man that God has chosen to lead His church?

  Father Shen’s words burned in his brain like a scalding brand. The priest had said many things, but this singular sentence echoed in his skull.

  He looked down at the city of glass and stone, fixing his gaze on the cluster of domes and spires.

  Vatican City.

  Although the Voice of Satan had been cast down, it was still the seat of the devil on earth. And soon the Circle of Elders would elect another mouthpiece to the throne, and the blasphemous words of Lucifer would once again ring across seas and mountains.

  Unless…

  Father’s Shen’s voice in his head.

  …You could be the man that God has chosen to lead His church…

  Julian stared hard at Vatican City. It was small, but majestic.

  And immensely powerful.

  His eyes darkened.

  Once they chose a new Voice, nothing would change…

  Unless a servant of God sat upon the throne.

  He cocked his head to the right, as if listening to a whispered voice.

  No. No, it was impossible.

  A silent voice floated through the air, whispering in his ears.

  Like flames eating away at a paper mask, a cold smile spread across Julian’s face. A warmth began to grow inside his soul, comforting yet invigorating.

  He was going to do it.

  He was going to take back Vatican City in the name of God.

  And he would gather an army of the saints to help him.

  Giant adrenaline-fueled breaths filled his lungs.

  This was it. This was his mission. Father Shen was right.

  He was going to lead the church, but not into the sanctuary.

  Into battle.

  CHAPTER 8

  “We need to stop for fuel,” Lorenzo announced.

  Father DeMarco leaned forward, peering through the misty windshield. “Where are we?”

  “I’m not sure. We’ve been driving for nearly four hours.”

  Donatella glanced at Lorenzo and placed her hand on his arm. “I feel very badly about this.”

  Lorenzo’s mouth tightened but he displayed no other sign of his agreement. His eyes flitted up to the rear view mirror. Benito was asleep in the seat next to the priest.

  Suddenly, the young man’s eyes snapped open, instantly locking with Lorenzo’s gaze in the mirror. Lorenzo felt a strange rush of fear race through his veins. He caught his breath and looked away.

  “We have no choice. We’ll run out of petrol if we don’t refuel soon.”

  Father DeMarco grunted his reluctance. “See if you can find something on the outskirts of the town. We don’t know where the police might be.”

  “It doesn’t matter where they are,” Benito interjected, his voice flat and cold. “God has covered us with His hand and we shall pass unseen until we reach Rome.”

  “Listen, monello,” Lorenzo snapped, whirling around and jabbing a finger in Benito’s face, “you don’t get to say anything. It’s because of you that we had to run away like frightened children, and now you’re leading us into the lion’s den. God knows why we’re listening to you…”

  Father DeMarco reached out and placed a gentle yet firm hand on his shoulder. “Peace, brother. I too believe we should go to Rome. If you can’t accept Benito’s faith, accept mine.”

  Benito looked gratefully at Father DeMarco, but the priest returned his glance with cold, almost fierce eyes. Benito frowned in confusion and shrank back in his seat.

  After hearing Father DeMarco’s words, Lorenzo took a few quick breaths, then looked at Donatella. She remained silent, but her eyes pleaded with him to calm down. She was clearly uncomfortable with their present plan, but she knew that any further division would only hurt their chances for survival, and that was what mattered most right now.

  “Very well,” Lorenzo muttered, devoting his attention back to the road, scanning the dismal, darkened fields for any signs indicating a petrol station nearby.

  For a few minutes, the van was silent, its occupants all lost in their own thoughts. They passed seemingly lifeless farmhouses flanked by grim, pale trees. Occasionally a church would drift past, surrounded by gravestones like a mother with her children. Lorenzo became increasingly worried as the petrol gauge hovered on empty, trembling and twitching as if doubting its accuracy.

  “There!”

  Lorenzo jolted at Donatella’s outburst, but he followed her finger and saw that she was right. A faint gathering of lights glowed on the horizon like clustered embers.

  Lorenzo glanced in the mirror once more. Benito’s white eyes stared back at him.

  The creaking van approached the tiny town that by all appearances was asleep. Per Father DeMarco’s request, Lorenzo didn’t drive into the town directly, but kept to the poorly paved road circling the town like a ring. They passed two petrol stations but both were closed.

  “We’re running out of options,” Lorenzo said. He hunched over the steering wheel, anxiously scanning the lifeless town that was dark except for scattered streetlamps.

  “There must be something…” Father DeMarco said, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice.

  The van lurched forward in response and began sputtering weakly.

  “Oh no…no, no, no…”

  Despite Lorenzo’s pleas, the van belched its last breath of sour fumes, then died. Lorenzo stared at the steering wheel in disbelief.

  “Well that’s that,” he declared.

  He turned and looked at Father DeMarco and Benito. He didn’t say anything. His face said it all.

  Father DeMarco felt the familiar sting strengthening at the base of his skull.

  Please, God, not now…

  He craned his neck to look outside, but all he could see was darkness. He jumped with surprise as Benito’s hand reached forward and slid open the van door.

  “After you, Father,” he said.

  Father DeMarco looked at him for a moment, then stepped out of the van. He sucked in his breath as his skin prickled with the cold night air. The others got out after him and they clustered together, scanning their surroundings like a flock of lost birds.

  They were still on the outskirts of the town. On one side lay a vast expanse of darkness, most likely farm fields. On the other side lay a stretch of low-lying buildings grouped close together. There were a few buildings that boasted more noble architecture, which were probably government offices. A tall, stark church also rose high above the trees, though it was unclear whether it was still used as a place to worship God or if the servants of Satan had claimed it as their own.

  Huddling together, wringing their ha
nds for warmth, the stranded fugitives glanced anxiously at one another. Donatella finally vocalized what everyone was thinking.

  “What do we do now?”

  Father DeMarco looked up at the starless sky.

  “I don’t know…” he whispered.

  Benito’s eyes flashed as he looked up towards the church.

  “There,” he said, pointing to the towering steeple.

  “Why?” Lorenzo demanded.

  Benito turned towards him. “It is the house of God.”

  “How do we know it’s safe?” Lorenzo demanded.

  “Benito’s right,” Father DeMarco said.

  Lorenzo whirled, his eyes blazing.

  “Why do you agree with everything Benito says? He’s the reason we’re stuck out here!”

  Father DeMarco looked at him with a cool gaze. “Do you have any better ideas?”

  Lorenzo clenched his teeth but made no response. Donatella stepped close to him, gently touching his arm.

  “Let’s go to the church,” she said quietly. “Maybe there are still believers here.”

  Mist spurted from his mouth like smoke, but Lorenzo knew it was futile to object. Every cell in his body warned him that this was foolishness, though keeping the group together was more important than finding fuel.

  The veins in his neck popped out as he spoke with barely-contained fury. “All right. We’ll go to the church. But if I get the slightest feeling that something is wrong, we’re going into the city to look for petrol.”

  The others nodded their agreement, their eyes wide like frightened rabbits. In the distance, lightning trickled through the midnight clouds, followed a few seconds later by deep thunderous grumbles. A cold wind danced around their feet.

  Father DeMarco grimaced and clenched his eyes tight as another wave of pain and nausea ripped through his skull. Donatella rushed to his side.

  “Are you all right, Father?”

  He nodded and exhaled forcefully. “Let’s head to the church.”

  The soaring steeple rose a few hundred meters away, faintly illuminated by scattered rays of light cast from empty windows or streetlamps. There was no way to determine if it was still a Christian church or a Satanic temple. For a moment, Father DeMarco’s thoughts pierced through his pain to complain about the Satanists’ lack of initiative to build their own temples. Why did they have to steal holy places and pervert them for their own blasphemy?

  He realized the answer immediately.

  Because there’s nothing Satan enjoys more than corrupting something that gives glory to God…

  Lorenzo grunted with agitation, nervously scanning the deserted streets.

  “Where is everyone?” he grumbled. “The lights are on, but there’s no one here.”

  “I’m frightened,” Donatella whimpered, hugging herself tightly against the chilling wind.

  Father DeMarco’s worry-creased face was illuminated by a flicker of lightning.

  “Let’s get to the church as quickly as we can.”

  The group quickened their pace, eager to reach shelter but equally worried about what they might find there.

  The church was built on a hill, tucked away from the road so that as a visitor approached, the church would gradually reveal itself, like a ship approaching on the horizon. Benito led the group up the road like a bloodhound on a scent. His face wore a peculiar expression but his steps didn’t hesitate.

  “There are lights on,” he reported, his voice beaming with excitement.

  Lorenzo threw a protective arm around Donatella, who in turn looped her arm through Father DeMarco’s, and the three of them followed Benito up the hill.

  As they approached the church, Father DeMarco stopped dead in his tracks. Ahead of them, Benito was frozen as well.

  The priest felt his heart leap into his throat.

  “Benito!” he cried out.

  The boy slowly turned around, his face white with terror.

  Lorenzo leaned forward, studying the fence that surrounded the church. There was something odd. The fence seemed…thicker than it should have been.

  Lightning flashed.

  Donatella screamed.

  Dozens of dead bodies were lashed to the wrought iron fence, bound at their legs, arms, and neck. Their heads were pulled back and their sightless eyes stared at the black sky. An image of a cross had been branded into the forehead of each corpse.

  Benito dropped to his knees, his chest heaving. Donatella buried her face in Lorenzo’s shoulder, her eyes gushing tears. Father DeMarco felt his legs buckle and he toppled forward, clutching his ears in pain. Lorenzo and Donatella knelt down beside him, cradling him in their arms, and they all stared at the gruesome scene in wordless horror.

  A sound behind them made them jump.

  A bolt of lightning washed the crowd of townspeople with blinding brightness. There were dozens of them, standing at the foot of the hill.

  Silent. Motionless.

  “…Benito…” Father DeMarco croaked.

  The young man leaped to his feet, his eyes flashing with fury.

  “Monsters!” he bellowed. “You will all burn in hell!”

  In the darkness, a shape separated itself from the crowd and glided towards the frightened believers. The feeble light from the church illuminated her face. She was young and quite beautiful, but her eyes were vacant and harsh.

  She stopped a few yards away from them. She stared at them one by one, her gaze lingering longest on Benito.

  “She told us you would come,” the woman said.

  Donatella shuddered.

  “Who told you?” she demanded, unable to keep her voice from trembling.

  The young woman smiled and looked up at the sky. “She did.”

  “Why did you kill them?” Father DeMarco growled through his agony.

  “She spoke to us, and we obeyed.”

  Fear burned like acid in the priest’s stomach. He knew who the young woman spoke of. He looked over his shoulder at Benito, who was white as a ghost and quivering like a leaf.

  Lorenzo squared his shoulders defiantly. “Are you going to kill us too?”

  “No,” she answered.

  They waited, but nothing more was said. Finally Lorenzo clenched his teeth in exasperation.

  “Well, what then?”

  The young woman looked at him. Her smile disappeared.

  ****

  Claude’s heavy fist banged on the steel door.

  “Patric! Open up!”

  He waited as the echoes of his booming voice disappeared down the corridor, then he hammered on the door again.

  “Patric! Don’t test me, son.”

  There was no response. Claude stifled a curse and snatched a ring of keys from his belt. He rammed the key into the lock and flung open the door. Ready for anything, he launched himself into the room in a half-crouch. All he saw was Patric sitting silently on a chair in the middle of the floor.

  Patric stared into the large man’s eyes without blinking. Claude felt strangely unnerved by the intensity of Patric’s gaze, but he squared his jaw and took a menacing step forward.

  “Up,” he grunted. “Get up. We have work to do.”

  Patric remained where he was, though his hands curled imperceptibly around the seat of the chair.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he stated flatly.

  Claude raised an eyebrow.

  “Is that so?” he asked indignantly.

  Patric nodded. “I don’t care what’s going on here. I know you’re planning on starting some kind of war, and I won’t be a part of it. No matter what you say or do to me. You might as well kill me now.”

  A mocking laugh sounded deep within Claude’s throat. “Well, look who’s grown a pair of couilles. You are in no position to give orders, Mr. Bourdon.”

  “I know. But I can refuse yours.”

  Claude lashed out and seized him by the throat.

  “Listen, boy,” he snarled, yanking Patric to his feet. “There is nothing I would enjoy
more than watching you die. After what you... You are scum, you know that? But our Heavenly Father, in His sometimes foolish mercy, has delivered you into our hands, and we are not going to waste this opportunity.”

  He hurled Patric back into the chair, towering over him as he coughed and gagged on painful gulps of air.

  “Your first address caused quite a sensation out there,” he continued as he began his habitual pacing. “The authorities are offering a considerable award for your arrest, and your name is growing into a rallying cry for the believers.”

  He turned his back to Patric and stared at the empty black doorway.

  “I feel a change in the tide, flowing back toward us. After so many years...”

  He paused and tilted his head. Something didn’t feel right. His hip, the right side...

  It felt lighter.

  He heard the gun cock behind him, and his heart sank like a stone.

  “Patric?”

  “Turn around.”

  Claude obeyed, turning slowly and staring into the black void of the gun barrel.

  “Take it easy,” he said, trying to keep the seething rage out of his voice. “Put the gun down.”

  Patric held the gun with surprising steadiness. His brow was dark and his eyes flashed with hatred.

  “No. You listen to me, old man.”

  Claude blinked.

  “Sit down,” Patric commanded, stepping to the side.

  Claude did as he said, keeping his eyes trained on the gun.

  “You have my attention, son,” he said as he crossed his legs. “Speak your mind.”

  Patric’s face twisted into an exhausted mask of anger and sorrow, and he was surprised to find tears welling in his eyes.

  “I don’t belong here,” he said quietly through clenched teeth. “I don’t believe what you believe. Those things you made me say, they were all lies. I don’t know what your plan is, but I won’t lie for you, and I won’t help you.”

  Claude leaned forward. “You know what waits for you outside these walls, don’t you?”

  “I don’t care. I’d rather take my chances out there than be your trained monkey in here.”