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

by Mark Carver

  The sound of pattering feet grabbed his attention and he glanced to his left. Father Shen screeched to a halt, staring at the mess with disbelief.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  Julian smiled, then lifted his face towards heaven. He closed his eyes as he felt the sunlight wash over him like cleansing fire.

  I am the new messiah.

  And I will set this world free.

  ****

  Patric stared down at his bandaged hands. He wondered what they looked like underneath – wrinkled, shriveled, gnarled, the holes in the centers of his palms eating away the flesh like rings of acid…

  A dozen medically horrific possibilities raced through his mind, but he knew one thing for certain: his hands itched terribly. It was all he could do to keep from tearing the bandages away and raking his palms across the nearest sharp object.

  Before Dr. Rosetta had left with his daughter, he had given Father DeMarco a crash course on how to tend to large puncture wounds. Specifically, wounds caused by massive iron nails driven through the palms of one’s hands during a public crucifixion.

  Patric clenched his eyes shut. That awful moment was burrowed deep into his brain and he knew that he would never get it out. It was rooted in there, along with Natasha’s betrayal, Tourec’s treachery and subsequent death, his mother crying out to him as she burned to death in that fire at the nursing home far away, being captured by mercenaries and then strung up for all the world to see, blood seeping from his hands as he felt his soul pulling away from his body.

  And on top of everything, those damned demons wouldn't leave him alone. The pain of the skull-splitting buzz in St. Nero’s Square was almost worse than the pain caused by the nails in his hands. Where did such a bizarre power come from? And why was he cursed with it?

  He suddenly noticed that the itching was gone, and he quickly glanced around for something to keep his mind occupied for fear that the itching would return. It was like having the hiccups, how they would disappear if one was distracted, but the moment one recognized the distraction, they would return.

  A quiet sigh rippled through the stillness. Patric turned around and glanced over the back of his chair.

  Father DeMarco was standing in front of a window, watching the sun break over the rooftops of Rome. Tendrils of smoke still trailed across the sky, but the sounds of violence had largely faded.

  It won’t last, the priest thought to himself as he stared at the magnificent dome of St. Peter’s Basilica. He knew this was just the sleeping giant taking a deep breath before it awoke and wreaked havoc. His eyes narrowed and his lips moved with silent Latin prayers. Somewhere inside that sacred compound was a madman in league with the devil. If it had only been the sight of demons encircling the square, he might have blamed his fears on poor eyesight or exhaustion. But when he saw that man whip the mob into a bloodthirsty frenzy, his spirit trembled. He knew that this man was not of God, despite his words. A man of God would never indulge in such wanton destruction, even if it resulted in the overthrow of their oppressors.

  Father DeMarco sighed again and turned away from the window. How could so many lose their way so easily? Persecution was supposed to make believers stronger, their faith bold and hardened, not transform them into a mob of maniacs who turn to violence and murder at the drop of a hat. Had the world truly gone mad?

  “Father.”

  He looked up and saw Patric peeking at him over the back of his chair.

  “Are you all right, Father?”

  The priest stared at him for a few moments, then forced a smile.

  “I’m all right, Patric,” he said, unable to completely disguise the weariness in his voice. “My heart is heavy, that’s all.”

  Patric nodded. “So…what happens now?”

  Father DeMarco looked out the window again.

  “I will join the leaders of the church for the assembly at the Vatican. I am still a high-ranking member of the clergy, even though I have no church and my monastery is in ruins.”

  Patric stared vacantly at the wood grain patterns on the chair. He hesitated to ask his next question but he didn’t want any more surprises.

  “Are you sure they will let you in?”

  Father DeMarco looked at him in confusion.

  “I mean,” Patric went on after clearing his throat, “you publicly denounced that man as being an agent of Satan. He blacked out the sun in response to your accusations. I don’t think you’ll be welcome there.”

  “Oh I’m sure of that,” Father DeMarco answered as he walked into the room and took a seat across from Patric. “But they will let me in for two reasons. One: he will want to meet me face-to-face, because he knows I speak the truth. He cannot proclaim me a heretic and have me thrown out like a drunken party-goer. I have many friends whom I fully expect to be there, and he will not risk their disfavor with such a heavy-handed action.”

  “And what’s the second reason?”

  The priest grinned. “You will come with me.”

  Patric bolted from his seat. “Me? Father, I can’t!”

  “Why not? You have nothing to fear from them. To the Satanists, you’re an enemy, but to the Christians, you’re a hero. Satan does not reign in the Vatican anymore, at least not overtly. And as much as I hate to admit it, this blasphemer is the only reason you’re still alive.”

  He reached out and gently took Patric’s wounded hands. “You almost died a martyr’s death for a faith that is not your own. But God kept you alive for a reason. Let’s find out what that reason is.”

  Patric took a deep breath and drew his mouth into a tight line.

  “All right Father. I’m putting my life in your hands, though. These are not my people.”

  Father DeMarco rose to his feet and patted Patric’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, my boy. Just think about the story of Daniel and the lions.”

  Patric frowned. “Who?”

  ****

  Christine couldn’t take her eyes off the gun holstered to the man’s belt. She looked up at her guardian’s surly face, but he didn’t notice. Her eyes migrated back down to the gleaming weapon only inches away, and her fingers twitched. It would only take a moment to –

  The man’s rough hands seized her face, squeezing her cheeks like an egg about to crack. “Try it,” he snarled quietly.

  Tears flooded Christine’s eyes and she twisted out of his vise-like grip. Panting, she wiped her face and sunk back in her seat like a dejected child.

  Commander Deyron laughed from the front seat. “Be gentle with her, Gregoire. She’s been through a lot lately.”

  “Where are you taking me?” Christine spat, wanting nothing more than to reach across the back of the seat and strangle the smug smile right off the commandant’s face.

  “Patience, my girl. You will see.”

  Christine felt a river of lava surge beneath her skin. She wanted to scream, to scratch, to claw and tear and murder everyone in this reeking vehicle.

  But right now, all she could do was close her eyes and think of her father. She tried to concentrate on his smile, on his broad shoulders, on his gentle eyes and happy mouth as he said her name, but these images faded like a fog blown by the wind. In their place, she saw his crumpled body lying in a heap as a dark pool of blood spread across the floor. Fresh tears shimmered in her eyes and she bit her lip to keep from sobbing.

  This was the end. She knew it in her heart. There would be no holy war, no homeland for the faithful. The American fighters would realize there was no cause to fight for, and they would go home disappointed.

  Unless…

  Everyone in the vehicle jostled and swayed as the Humvee bounded over bad roads, but no one paid her any extra attention. She cowered lower, as if she were afraid that someone would hear her thoughts.

  She remembered her father telling her about an emergency rendezvous point in central France. A small picturesque town called Loches. Upon a hill a few kilometers from the town, there were the ruins of a grand villa that Kin
g Louis XIII had built for his favorite mistress, though it was officially his vacation home. It was one of the worst-kept secrets of Louis’ court but the king didn’t care, since he was so in love. It was a strange place for a rendezvous, but maybe that made it the perfect place.

  Christine hadn’t given any thought to the emergency rendezvous plan since she and her father had been enjoying Commander Deyron’s unique hospitality. But now that her father was gone and she was outside again, perhaps this was her chance.

  Her only chance.

  She leaned forward and cleared her throat. “Commandant, I know why you’re doing this.”

  “Because you follow a dead God and I serve the true master of this world?” the commandant said without turning around.

  Christine shook her head. “I know it’s not about us. It’s about the Americans.”

  Commander Deyron shifted in his seat and glared back at her. “I don’t care about the Americans. I only care about protecting my country from Delusional scum like you. And if the Americans are here, I will treat them the same way.”

  “You’re afraid. France has always been afraid of American firepower.”

  “I am not fighting for France,” Commander Deyron said through clenched teeth. “I fight for the Great Lord. I would fight anyone who threatens Satan’s empire, American or French.”

  “Do you know why my father called on them? Why he didn’t think we were up to the task by ourselves?”

  “Why should I care?”

  “Because he knew the Americans would fight for God with more passion than we ever could. France is cursed. This is where the devil, your Great Lord, chose to reveal himself to the world.”

  “And that is why I fight to protect it,” Commander Deyron answered, weary anger apparent in his voice. “You say France is cursed; I say France is chosen. It was no accident that he chose our country to make his appearance. Now shut up or I’ll let Gregoire silence you in his own way.”

  “So who do you fight for, really?” Christine persisted. “France or Satan?”

  “Both!” Commander Deyron bellowed. “I fight for France because I am French, and I fight for Satan because he is the true master of this Earth! Now be quiet or I will put a bullet through your eye!”

  Christine sat back, shaking her head like a disappointed teacher. “I don’t believe you. If you really fought for France, you would contact the French army and let them find the Americans. And if you really fought for the Great Lord, you would be heading to Rome to take back the Vatican.”

  Commander Deyron whirled around. He didn’t say anything but she would see the question in his eyes: How did you know that?

  A knowing smile passed across Christine’s lips. “I have ears. And your men talk too loudly.”

  The commandant’s face darkened as his eyes darted to the men seated in the vehicle, as if interrogating them to find out who let the information slip.

  Then he waved his hand impatiently. “It doesn’t matter what you know, or what you think about me. I know where my loyalties lie.”

  “Yes, with yourself. You want all the glory and recognition, even if it hurts France or your precious Great Lord.”

  Commander Deyron lunged at her, growling like a dog. “You little bi – “

  Christine pressed the gleaming handgun beneath his chin and fired. The top of his skull exploded in a volcano of red that covered the roof of the Humvee. Gregoire barely had time to gasp before Christine shot him in the chest, then she quickly turned the gun on the man seated to her left. She shot him right through the eye, then sprang forward and rammed the hot barrel against the driver’s temple.

  “You have one chance to live,” she growled, blinking away the blood streaking down her face.

  The driver, a young man barely older than she was, gulped and nodded.

  Christine dug the gun into his skull. “Take me to Loches.”

  The young man glanced at the slumped body of his commander, then lurched forward and threw up all over the steering wheel and dash console.

  Christine jerked back. “Pull yourself toget –“

  Without warning, the driver wrenched the steering wheel to the left. The Humvee skidded off the road and careened down a small embankment, sending dirt and clumps of grass flying through the air. Christine screamed and the pistol flew from her grip as the Humvee rolled again and again, each impact shattering glass, twisting metal, and sending bloody corpses bouncing around the seats.

  It seemed like hours before the pulverized vehicle finally rolled to a halt in an empty farm field. It had landed on its exploded tires and the military-grade steel frame had not completely crumpled, but the vehicle was a total wreck.

  Desperate kicks battered the door until the hinges gave way and the door fell to the grass. The young man fell out of the driver’s seat, spitting gouts of blood and gasping for breath. His hands clutched his chest, feeling the jagged seams of broken ribs where he had slammed against the unforgiving steering wheel. His head spun like a top and he scrambled across the grass like a wounded dog. He had to get away from that crazy –

  He froze as he felt hard steel press against the back of his head. Blood dribbled from his lips as he closed his eyes.

  “Kill me,” he whispered.

  The gun slammed against his skull and he collapsed to the ground. Small yet strong hands flipped him on his back and he felt a heavy weight press against his shattered ribs. Stars flashed in his eyes as he cried out in agony. He could barely see her shape as she leaned over him.

  “Kill me,” he said again, but this time it sounded like a desperate plea.

  Christine pointed the gun at his face. Her expression was grim and cold as death.

  “No.”

  The gun barrel slammed into his temple and his world went black.

  When he awoke, he was stripped down to his underwear. The Humvee was engulfed in a roaring orange fire.

  Christine was gone.

  PART II.

  “In the inner heart of every person, the voice of God and the insidious voice

  of the Evil One can be heard.”

  - Pope John Paul II

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Julian didn’t know how long he knelt before the altar, his head bowed in prayer, his limbs trembling after his divine encounter. But when he finally rose to his feet, the sunlight that streamed through the elevated windows was dwindling and tinted with red.

  Rubbing his eyes, Julian looked at the crooked crucifix leaning in the goblet, and he reached out to touch it. As if repelled by a magnet, the crucifix shifted in the cup, away from his fingers. Julian gasped, then grabbed the icon like it was a small animal trying to escape.

  He clutched it in his hands and pressed it against his chest. Where are you? he prayed to the vaulted ceiling.

  For several moments, he remained like this, gripping the crucifix tightly with both hands, rocking back and forth like a mother soothing her child. Then with a weary smile, he placed the crucifix back in the goblet and exited the chapel.

  As he opened the doors, his mouth dropped open.

  He was no longer alone.

  The halls were swarming with people, mostly laborers by the looks of their clothes. Dozens of hands were sweeping, polishing, mending, and flurries of feet rushed to and fro on important errands.

  Julian stepped out of the chapel into their midst. No one seemed to notice him, their faces turned to their work or to the ground. Julian stood in the whirlwind of activity, curious, amazed, and a bit afraid. These had to be the people that Father Shen promised he would gather but to assemble this many people so quickly was a miracle.

  Rocking hesitantly on the balls of his feet, he raised his fist to his mouth and coughed.

  Immediately, all activity ceased abruptly, and everyone fell to their knees and bowed their heads. Julian’s eyes grew wide, though his heart glowed with pride.

  Immediately his soul chastised his sinful mind.

  You are not a king; you are their messiah. A messiah sa
ves; he is not served.

  “Your Holiness!”

  Julian turned to see Master Ko threading his way through the bodies, his arms outstretched like a father greeting his long-lost son.

  The elder embraced Julian gently and kissed him on both cheeks, then bowed low before him.

  “Your Holiness,” he repeated.

  “Up, up...get up!” Julian said with nervous impatience as he motioned with his hand. He could tolerate strangers kneeling before him but he would not be pandered to by the priest who was responsible for him being here.

  Master Ko raised his head, and his face wore a very satisfied smile.

  “Father,” Julian whispered as he leaned close, “who are all these people?”

  “I told you,” Master Ko said, sweeping the hall with his eyes, “that I would bring you helpers and staff. I am a man of my word, am I not?”

  “Yes, yes, of course, but where did they come from?”

  Master Ko’s smile twitched, but just for a moment. “My connections run far and deep, Your Holiness…”

  “But how did you get them in here? We’re surrounded by an enemy force that I’m assuming has regrouped after yesterday’s massacre, and the whole city of Rome is in an uproar!”

  Master Ko shifted his footing. He felt like he was being interrogated. He knew he had to tread carefully.

  “Your Holiness, since you are master of the Vatican now, you should know its secrets. There are many passageways that lead under the city and beyond the Vatican borders. Storefronts, cafes, even farmhouses conceal the entrances to these passageways. The faithful have been gathering outside the city for days, and all it took was a simple message to spread the word, and humble hearts and willing hands answered the call.”

  Julian looked around at the prone shapes surrounding him. He felt like he was standing in the midst rounded gravestones.

  “You mean you don’t know them?” he demanded as he turned back to the priest. “How do we know we can trust them? What if one or more of them is a Satanist? What if they are spies? What if they plan to murder us all?”