by Mark Carver
“I didn’t say he was possessed,” Patric said quickly. “I just think that he wasn’t himself when he was carrying out his mission.”
Father DeMarco shook his head in disbelief. “What is happening to the world? Christians are falling under demonic control, perhaps even possession. This shouldn’t be happening...it shouldn’t be possible...”
“Perhaps your God isn’t as strong as you thought.”
Father DeMarco’s eyes flashed. “He’s your God too, Patric, even if you don’t believe it yet.”
Patric smirked. “I believe what I see. And what I see are demons running amok and people pounding nails in my hands and killing each other like during the Crusades. I’m sorry, Father, but I just can’t share your belief that Christianity is better for the world than Satanism. I just want to see it all gone.”
“You mean atheism?”
Patric chuckled mirthlessly. “It’s a little too late for that. We know Satan exists, and logically that means God also exists. I know we could never go back to animism or a simple belief in nothing, but…”
He looked down at his wounded hands.
“I just wish everything would go back to the way it was.”
“Which way is that?”
Patric didn’t answer right away. He just stared at his hands. Something seemed to be lodged in his throat, blocking his words.
“When I had a life,” he finally said. His voice was quiet and unsteady.
Father DeMarco reached out and touched his shoulder. “I can’t imagine what you’ve been through, Patric. These past few weeks have been harder on you than perhaps any other person alive. I won’t pretend to understand what you’re feeling, and any words of comfort I could say might be exactly what you don’t want to hear, but I will say this: you have my complete respect and admiration. I would never imagine saying that to a Satanist and the brother of the man who started this firestorm, but it’s the truth. No matter what you believe or what kind of resolution you’re looking for in all of this, I consider you my friend.”
Patric managed a weak smile, though his stomach seemed to twist and lurch. After a few moments, the emotional hurricane passed, and he looked up at the priest.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Father DeMarco said warmly. “Now how about some food? Forgive my boasting, but the monks at my monastery were the best fed in northern Italy.”
“Food sounds great,” Patric said. As the priest hurried off in search of ingredients, Patric added, “So what are we going to do?”
Father DeMarco rummaged through the boxes and cans the doctor had left piled against the wall.
“For now, we eat. And wait. After two days, we will go to the assembly.”
Patric frowned. “But he said that any church leaders should be prepared to prove their titles. Do you have anything that identifies you as a priest?”
Father DeMarco stood up, cradling an armful of pasta ingredients.
“Oh, don’t worry about that, Patric. I am afraid that we will have no trouble getting in.”
****
Water.
It was all Christine could think about as she stumbled through the trees. Her vision was blurring and she wasn’t sure if she was on the right course anymore. Navigating by the stars was difficult for anyone in the best of conditions; she had just survived a terrifying crash and had been barreling through the forest for nearly an entire day. She knew she had to be close, but a black pit of fear was growing in her stomach. She was lost. And if that was the case, her chances of making it out of here alive were definitely not good.
An unseen branch smacked her across her forehead and she fell to the ground. A parched, irritated groan escaped from her lips as she rolled over in the crackling leaves. For a moment, she considered just lying there and waiting for death. What was she doing here anyway? Did she honestly believe that an American militia force was going to make its way through the French countryside and wait for her at a ruined castle?
Lying on her back, staring up at the stars through branches, Christine prayed.
Help me. Please…
A soft wind stirred the leaves. The breeze felt cool and refreshing against her perspiring skin, and she commanded herself to get to her feet. She was already out here, and it would be suicide to turn back. She would see this through, no matter the outcome.
It was all she could do to ignore the insistent voice inside that chastised her for being a fool.
A fool who was going to die alone in the woods.
Stumbling over roots and wincing as jagged branches stabbed her legs and ribs, she pushed her way through the forest, using the north star as her guide. She was grateful that it was a clear night; she didn’t know what she would have done if it had been overcast.
Then, like a river dropping abruptly over a waterfall, the forest gave way to a wide, grassy clearing. Christine fell forward on her hands, gasping as blades of grass stabbed her face. She looked up and gasped again.
A cluster of ruins stood high on a hill like a group of old men huddling around a fire that had long since died out. Christine closed her eyes and breathed a weary prayer of thanks. The voice of doubt reminded her that there was probably nobody up there, but she didn’t listen. She was just happy to have made it this far.
After glancing around to make sure there was no one around, she crept forward across the field, keeping her body as low as she could without losing her balance. She kept a sharp eye out for lights or anything else that would indicate another person’s presence, but she saw and heard nothing. Even the insects seemed to have ceased their songs. There was only the quiet rustling of the grass as Christine stalked towards the base of the hill.
She could feel the darkness pressing down on her, but she also felt dangerously exposed. Her preservation instinct demanded that she turn around and head back to the relative safety of the woods, but she knew there was no going back. Her father was dead, and so was his murderer. She had nothing left to do but go forward.
When she reached the foot of the hill, she pressed herself against the slope as tightly as she could. She glanced up and was startled to see that half of the stars were gone. A cloud bank was moving in. Her heart quickened as she realized how lucky she had been in finding her way here.
A quick glance up the hill revealed no stairs, railings, or other means of easy ascension. Even though it would be tricky scrambling up the dew-slick hill, she knew that it meant that the ruins up top were probably deserted.
Unless there was a broad, well-lit stairway on the other side of the hill...
All this doubt and uncertainty was making her head hurt. She growled with frustration and started scurrying up the hill. She prayed that there would be nobody hostile up there waiting for her, but she prepared herself to fight to the death if there was.
She grunted like an animal as she clawed her way up the slope. The night dew made the grass almost as slippery as ice and Christine had to dig her fingers into the soil to keep from sliding down. She didn’t know why her father had chosen this place as an emergency rendezvous point, but at least it would deter casual visitors. Still, she couldn’t shake the dreadful feeling that just on the other side of the hill, a lazy path of rough-hewn stairs meandered up to the ruins.
After what felt like hours, Christine finally made it over the crest of the hill and fell on her back, oblivious to the cold tickling sensation of wet blades of grass against her skin. She gulped delicious breaths of cool night air, then jumped up.
What am I doing?
She was completely exposed. Like an escaped prisoner realizing that the hounds were on her scent, she hurled herself into the shadows of the ruins and pressed herself against the cold mossy stones. She glanced up at the dark sky, watching as the stars winked out one by one.
Without warning, like a sudden summer shower, she began to weep. She wanted to scream, to curse, to beat her hands against the stones until blood flowed. But instead she hugged her knees to her chest and cried into the
fabric of her trousers to muffle the sound.
The tears felt good but there never seemed to be enough. The pain seemed to go deeper than she could reach, and she couldn’t draw it out completely. Her father, her hero, was gone, and he was never coming back. She was all alone now. Even the stars were abandoning her.
A sharp click behind her ear made her freeze.
“Don’t move.”
Christine obeyed, but her eyes grew wide. The voice had spoken in French, but the accent sounded...
American?
“What is your name?” the voice asked.
“Christine Jeraque,” she answered in a steady voice.
There was silence for a few moments, then the sound of a gun being uncocked.
“Stand up,” the voice commanded.
Christine rose to her feet, wishing that she felt as steady as her voice had sounded, but she needed to brace herself against the wall.
A tall man stood before her. The darkness hid his face and his clothes, but she could tell that he had the bearing of a soldier.
“Is your father Claude Jeraque?” the man asked.
Christine swallowed her sorrow. “He was,” she said quietly. “He’s dead.”
“Dead?” the man said in English. In French, he asked, “How did he die?”
Christine wiped her eyes as she said, “We were captured by mercenaries hired by the Satanic Church. Their leader killed him before my eyes.”
She sniffed angrily. “But he paid for his crime.”
The dark figure shuffled uncomfortably. “Do you speak English?”
Christine nodded. The man didn’t say anything, and Christine realized that he probably couldn’t see her action clearly, so she said, “Yes.”
“Good,” the man answered in a relaxed Southern drawl. “I’m Corporal Max Baker of the 21st Battalion of the American Christian Militia.”
He stuck out his hand. After a moment of hesitation, Christine shook it cautiously.
“Are you alone?” she asked.
“At the moment, yes. The rest of my men are holed up outside of Gien waiting for me to get back.”
He cleared his throat with difficulty. “I’ve been waiting here for almost half a day. I was about ready to head back when I heard you crying. That’s when I knew something was wrong.”
He exhaled slowly and placed his hands on his hips.
“So Captain Jeraque is dead...” He pondered this thought for a moment, then his head snapped back around to look at Christine.
“Oh, miss, I’m...I’m sorry. I can’t imagine what you’re feeling right now. It’s just that...well, this really throws a wet blanket on the fire.”
“Wet blanket?”
“Uh, it’s an American...It means that our grand plans have all gone to pieces. Me and my boys were expecting to join forces with a well-trained and well-armed platoon of French fighters, but now you’re all that’s left. And a wounded soldier, Private Chevallais.”
Christine brightened at the mention of the man’s name. “I know Private Chevallais. I’m glad he’s still alive.”
Corporal Baker’s grim expression didn’t change. “Well that still doesn’t help us none. So now me and my boys are out here, itchin’ for a fight, but we’ve got no target. Your daddy’s dream was to carve out a chunk of France to create a Christian homeland, but I don’t see how that’s going to happen now. Truth be told, I’m beginning to regret even coming here, what with the insanity in Rome and everything.”
“I heard something about that. Christians now control the Vatican and there’s even a new pope? And he can do miracles?”
“Well that’s the short version, yes. The crazy thing is what started it all. They were going to stage a public execution in St. Peter’s Square. They call it St. Nero’s Square, but that’s just downright blasphemous. Anyway, they nailed that poor kid to a cross and hoisted him up for everyone to see.”
“Who? Who was the poor kid?”
“The brother or cousin or something-or-other of that assassin who killed the Voice of Satan.”
Christine’s hands flew to her mouth. “Patric? They crucified Patric?”
“You know him?”
“He saved my life,” Christine said, her eyes still wide with horror. “Oh dear God, Patric...”
“Well I'm not sure he's dead.”
“What? Why not?”
Corporal Baker shifted his footing. “I can’t rightly say for sure on account of I wasn’t there, so all I know is from the news reports. But it looks like this fellow, this new pope, showed up in the middle of the crowd and made the sun go dark just by pointing at it. People are saying the Virgin Mary herself came down from heaven with a posse of angels and blessed this fellow in front of everybody. Then he jumps up, yells bloody murder, and the whole square goes nuts. Christians and Satanists going at it and hacking each other to pieces like barbarians. The Christians won the battle in the square, then they charge into Vatican City like the Cowboys just won the Superbowl.”
Noticing Christine’s confused expression, he added, “See, I’m from Texas, and we’ve got a football team called...”
He cleared his throat again. “Never mind. Point is, they storm into the place and destroy everything and kill everyone inside. Now this guy goes on TV and proclaims himself the new pope. No, more than the pope. I think he called himself ‘the new messiah.’ I don’t rightly recall since I just caught the news at the train station on the way here. But it looks like the devil isn’t in charge anymore. Whether or not it’s actually God that’s taken his place, it’s hard to say.”
Christine’s jaw hung slack. She tried to imagine Patric screaming in pain as massive nails were driven through his hands. She hoped he was still alive, but a black fist of fear clutched her heart.
She caught Corporal Baker’s nervous glance. “What is it?”
The soldier clasped his hands behind his back and spoke with a frank tone. “Miss, since your father is gone, I reckon there isn’t much we can do for one another. But I am letting you make that call. My men and I risked a lot to get here and it would be a shame to go home empty-handed. On the other hand, it would be wonderful to go home alive. So I’m going to let you decide, and if there’s a chance that we can make a difference somehow, then we’ll see it through, come hell or high water.”
Christine didn’t know how to answer. She looked at the ground and kicked away a rounded stone. It probably belonged to the crumbling wall behind her, a wall that had once been part of a strong and proud villa frequented by a king, but was now just a neglected ruin.
Her shoulder rose and fell with a silent, weary sigh. “I don’t know, Corporal Baker. I just lost my father, and I can barely stand up right now. I need to rest, if that’s all right.”
Corporal Baker didn’t seem satisfied with this answer but his face expressed his understanding.
“Sure, Miss Jeraque. If you don’t mind a little late night stroll, we can make it to my hotel in town.”
Christine’s eyes were wide. “You’re staying in a hotel?”
Corporal Baker gave her a sidelong smile as he put a strong arm around her. “I’m a visiting professor on sabbatical,” he said as he helped her hobble through the ruins. “Couldn’t exactly show up in fatigues with my sidearm and tell them I’d like a room with a view. Come on, we need to get you looked at.”
Christine was very confused, but she knew she would get answers soon. She leaned on Corporal Baker as she limped across the grass, suddenly painfully aware of all her injuries.
Then she groaned.
“What?” Corporal Baker asked with concern.
“Stairs,” she muttered angrily.
Corporal Baker looked at the granite steps stretching beneath them to the bottom of the hill. Then it dawned on him.
“You mean you climbed… Well spin my skillet, miss. That’s almost a sixty degree slope!”
“I know,” she moaned, then winced as she accidentally put her weight on the wrong foot.
Corp
oral Baker caught her before she collapsed. “Come on, let’s get you into bed. I think you’ll need to do some mending before we hit the road again.”
“What about your men?”
“They’ll be fine. You could dress them up like gorillas and throw them out in the snow and they’d still find a way to hide.”
When he noticed Christine’s baffled expression, he just smiled. “They’ll be fine, don’t worry. We just need to find a way to get you ship-shape again.”
“I’ll be okay. Just need to get some sleep.”
“That can be easily arranged.”
Then he paused.
“One thing though. I checked into the hotel alone. If anyone sees me bringing a young lady back with me, you know what they’ll think.”
Christine tossed an irritating strand of sweat-soaked hair out of her eyes. “Let them think whatever they want. They’re probably using the hotel for the same purpose.”
Corporal Baker exhaled a long slow sigh. “I know things are different here in Europe, but I’ll never get used to the flagrant sin people indulge in. This isn’t the world I want my kids to grow up in.”
“You have kids?”
“Two. A boy and a girl. Twins, probably about five years younger than you.” His face brightened for a moment, then grew serious again. “I tried to convince myself that the devil and all his shenanigans would stay over here on this side of the Atlantic, but the truth is, it’s getting worse over there too. We’ve tried to keep America a Christian nation but the sickness creeps in no matter what we do. That’s why I answered your father’s call for help – because I knew if there was ever going to be a chance for the next generation, it would have to be a worldwide effort. My family didn’t like the idea of me coming over here and risking my neck for a piece of land they’d never see, but if I can plant the seeds for a God-fearing future, then I’ll trek out to the Amazon if I have to.”
“And so would I. Making a new home for us wasn’t just my father’s dream; it was mine too. I realized very quickly that this world was lost, and that our only hope was to separate ourselves from everything terrible around us and wait for God’s return.”
