by Mark Carver
Corporal Baker braced her as they made it to the steps. “You think that’s how it’s all going to go down?”
Christine sucked in a painful breath of air as she half-stepped, half-fell down the first step. “Of course. We’re living in the end times, right? The Lord’s return can’t be too far away. He cannot let this go on for much longer.”
“Yeah, well, I suppose you’re right,” Corporal Baker said, a bit uneasily. “Here, less talkin’ and more walkin.’ We need to get you off your feet, pronto.”
Christine gave him a grateful smile and concentrated on not tumbling headlong down the stone steps. She didn’t notice Corporal Baker glance at her with a worried expression.
CHAPTER SIX
Patric felt a wicked smile spread across his face as his fingers pressed deeper and deeper into Tourec’s neck.
“You made your choice, brother,” he growled. He felt gigantic, monstrous. Tourec was just a mouse writhing in his grasp. As his brother’s life faded away, he felt a blast of adrenaline. His muscles tightened, preparing for the final crush.
“Patric.”
The soft voice pierced his heart just before the bullet did. His body jerked and swayed, and he turned around. He stared into the smoking gun barrel, looked down at the delicate white hand holding the gun. His eyes traveled up the arm, over the gently curving shoulder, scaling the elegant neck, and coming to rest on the beautiful face.
Natasha.
He felt a warm wet feeling spread across his chest but there was no pain. He just stared at that face like a man enchanted. His fingers fell away from Tourec’s neck, but his brother didn’t move or try to escape. Perhaps he was dead. Patric didn’t care anyway.
Natasha held the gun with a rock-steady hand. Her face was cold and grim, but there was gentleness in her eyes. Maybe even love…
Then a strange thought invaded Patric’s mind.
If she loves me, why did she shoot me?
A vicious buzzing sound exploded in his ears. He grabbed his head and his eyes bulged with shock.
Natasha’s eyes were black as midnight.
“NO!”
Patric bolted upright in the bed, startling Father DeMarco who was nestled on the sofa.
“Patric? What’s wrong?”
Patric’s chest heaved like a bellows and sweat gushed down his face. His teeth chattered as if he were freezing cold.
“Patric? Patric, look at me.”
Like a zombie, Patric’s head slowly turned and he stared at the priest with distant, glassy eyes.
Father DeMarco looked at him a worried expression. “Patric, you had a nightmare. Just take some deep breaths and try to relax.”
The priest’s words seemed to have no effect for a moment. Then Patric blinked rapidly, as if coming out of a trance.
“I’m sorry, Father,” he stammered, mopping his brow with his sleeve. “I…I don’t usually do that.”
“Cry out in your sleep?”
Patric felt his face grow hot, and he nodded.
Father DeMarco swung his legs over the side of the sofa and sought out his shoes. “I’ll get you something to drink.”
Patric gave a weak smile of thanks and tried to follow the priest’s advice about breathing deeply. When Father DeMarco returned with a glass of water, he was feeling a little better.
Father DeMarco sat down on the sofa again and folded his hands across his knees. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Patric gulped the water greedily, then shook his head.
Father DeMarco shrugged. “All right,” he said as he lay down and pulled the thin wool blanket over him. “Good night.”
Patric exhaled slowly and eased himself back down on the bed. These past two days had been almost as painful as his crucifixion. He and Father DeMarco didn’t dare go outside, which had fortunately become a bit safer than before. The police were restoring order and rounding up rioters and thugs of all faiths, though if the news reports were to be believed, Christian mobs were responsible for a majority of the violence. Patric noticed the pain on Father DeMarco’s face as he watched broadcasted images of ravenous Christian mobs roaming the streets like packs of hungry wolves, launching themselves at police barricades and swarming over opposing Satanist hordes. Graphic videos of these bloody clashes were beamed uncensored into every home with a television. Scholars, politicians, and security experts were at a loss to explain the sudden boldness and aggression that the Christians displayed. It had only been a few weeks ago that many of them were running for their lives, fleeing Europe like rats deserting a sinking ship. Now they swarmed like locusts. No one knew how their numbers grew so fast or what possessed them to lash out with such savagery.
Of course, Father DeMarco claimed to know, though he wouldn’t elaborate. While the talking heads theorized that the new messiah occupying the Vatican had given the Christian faith a jolt, Father DeMarco would watch the broadcasts and mumble angrily to himself. Then he would skulk off to a dark corner of the apartment and bury his nose in his Bible for hours, leaving Patric to watch the horrors unfolding in the world outside.
It was hard for Patric to muster up any strong feelings as he watched the carnage and the chaos. Part of him dismissed it as karmic retribution – the oppressed striking back after being pressed down for so long. He didn’t sympathize with any of them; in his heart of hearts, he thought the world would be better off if they all simply obliterated each other. He had experienced first-hand the evils that the Satanic church was capable of, but watching how the formerly peaceful Christians were lashing out with such fury made him realize that the human heart was savage no matter what faith it claimed. This same pantomime had played out countless times across the eons of history, across every faith, nation, and ethnicity. There was a seed of darkness planted deep in the heart of man and no god could ever draw it out. He hated to admit it, but at least the Church of Satan harbored no illusions about the state of humanity. It was this willingness to embrace one’s inherent depravity that had been so inviting.
Patric had a revelation during those agonizing days of waiting. He realized that the religions of the world were not the problem. The problem lay with the people living out those religions and creeds and principles. Satanism said all are free to do as they please. Coupled with man’s basic survival instinct, ideally everyone should pursue peace for mutual benefit and work together to ensure mankind’s continued survival. Christianity said to place one’s trust in Jesus Christ for salvation, a man who preached love, peace, and forgiveness. These are all virtues that are universally effective and cannot help but make the world a better place.
But when Patric turned on the television or looked out the window, he saw exactly the opposite. He saw religious genocide, bloodthirsty mobs claiming or reclaiming sacred places of worship, wanton blasphemy and defilement, vengeance, retribution, and hatred. There was no love in the fists and clubs of angry, vengeful Christians. And the Satanists, while technically free from any moral or doctrinal obligations, ignited this fire twelve years ago when they slaughtered thousands of Christians and appropriated their holy places for their own rites and rituals.
Patric would watch Father DeMarco’s hunched back as the priest prayed and sang hymns and chanted in dead tongues, but he knew it was all for naught. Even if they managed to expose this new messiah as a fraud, what would change? The pendulum would simply swing back in the other direction.
And this caused a disturbing thought to grow in Patric’s mind.
Then why are you helping it?
He recalled his terrifying dream. He remembered the withering horror he felt as he had watched Natasha’s eyes become black as oil. He didn’t know where she was or if she was even alive, but he hoped he could find her one day.
He had a lot he wanted to say to her.
But that wasn’t the reason he was allowing himself to get mixed up in all of this. As he watched the horrific news reports and Father DeMarco waste his breath on useless prayers, Patric knew the answer.
He was tired of the lies. He didn’t care which side won or lost. He didn’t care about either church or which supernatural being ruled the earth. He didn’t care about “religion” at all. He was just tired of the people polluting this planet with their lies and abuses of power. Whatever it took for the truth to come out, he was willing to suffer through it.
But that insistent voice in the back of his mind piped up with another question.
And what will you do when you finally find the truth that you’re looking for?
Patric hung his head and stared at his feet. He didn’t know how to answer just yet.
He jumped when the television chirped loudly, indicating a breaking news update. Patric rubbed his eyes. They felt like they were stuffed with cotton.
He didn’t even know he had fallen asleep. Yawning widely enough to make his jaw pop, he stretched his aching back and shook his hands to send blood to his numb fingers. He was afraid to open the bandages and look, but he had less feeling in his hands today than yesterday. The cold truth washed over him like a wave of icy water.
His hands were dying.
The television chirped again, arresting his attention. He turned and looked at the screen.
The anchorwoman looked like she hadn’t slept in days. She certainly wouldn’t be receiving any votes for the most beautiful newscaster this year.
“After two days of relative calm, the Vatican has broadcasted another message. The man calling himself Julianus Secundus Christi addresses all members of the Christian church who are converging on Rome.”
The news report cut to a still image of a gold crucifix resting on a simple altar. Twin candles flickered on either side, and a heavy black curtain swayed gently in the background.
“Father,” Patric said. “Come see.”
Father DeMarco appeared behind Patric and the two men fixed their eyes on the television screen.
The curtain and the candles undulated with a soft breeze. The small flames were blowing towards the left of the television screen, and the wind that was affecting them seemed to be intensifying. After a few moments, the candle flames were almost at a right angle to the candle sticks and were nearly as long as a woman’s finger.
Julianus Secundus Christi appeared from the right side of the screen, and the candles were instantly blown out. Patric’s eyebrows rose. Probably just a simple trick but the effect was impressive.
He watched keenly as the mysterious man moved to the center of the screen, obscuring the crucifix behind him. A simple red robe was draped over his shoulders and his hands were pressed together in front of his chest, the tips of his fingers touching the heavy gold cross that dangled from a chain around his neck.
His eyes were fierce and mesmerizing. Patric felt a shudder pass through his limbs. Part of him felt indebted to this strange man, since he was the one who had saved him when he was moments away from a fiery death. But as he studied the man’s face, he could feel something dark radiating from the television.
He glanced up at the priest hovering above him, but Father DeMarco’s eyes were riveted to the screen. His eyes had the look of a man who was studying his enemy, trying to discover his weakness.
“People of the world,” Julian began. His voice was low and deep, several octaves below his usual tone. And stronger too, more powerful. Patric narrowed his eyes and leaned forward.
Julian opened his arms. “I am Julianus Secundus Christi, God’s chosen leader for this new age of the one true Church. I do not come to you in anger, contempt, or pity. I come to you simply as God’s voice, to guide His church on the path that He has laid out for us.
“Today at sunset, I will convene the assembly of all church leaders who have made the journey to our humble city. All priests, bishops, cardinals, and clerics are instructed to gather in St. Peter’s Square to await escort into the Vatican. To those who would seek to harm them or disrupt these proceedings, I promise that I will rain down the wrath of God on anyone who dares to raise a finger against them. And to the honored guests that I have summoned, do not be afraid. The hand of God is upon this holy place once more, and He shall protect you.”
His eyes seemed to glow like embers.
“Today at sunset. I will be waiting.”
The broadcast ceased abruptly and for a moment, the screen was black and silent. Patric and Father DeMarco exchanged wary glances. Patric’s stomach tightened and began to churn with worry.
He looked outside the window. The sky was lightening with the bloom of dawn but to Patric, it looked like the light was already fading. Sunset was only half a day away.
He remembered what Father DeMarco had said about Daniel and the lion’s den. He sincerely hoped that Daniel had made it out alive.
****
It was easy to see why Claude Jeraque had valued Corporal Baker’s friendship. In addition to being quite adept at patching up Christine’s wounds, he had a way of making her relaxed, even comfortable. Perhaps it was the gruff yet endearing American charm she had seen romanticized in the movies, but she knew it was more than that. The man was a leader. His faith was strong, but so was his confidence in himself and his methods. Christine tried to imagine the importance of having such a friend by one’s side in the heat of battle or in the clutches of a hopeless cause.
She couldn’t appreciate Corporal Baker’s aid without being reminded that her own father was no longer with her. It hurt far worse than any of her bruises and scratches. This kind man was here because her father had asked him to come, her father who had given his life for his mission and his dream. For his God.
He is your God too, she reminded herself. Remember whom you serve, who guides your path. It is not you, nor your earthly father.
Christine searched her soul and found a yawning black pit that she longed to fill with something, anything. She almost regretted killing Commander Deyron. If he were still alive, she could have a driving purpose. She knew it was wrong to seek vengeance but she could feel the need burning inside her like acid.
That was her dilemma. She had already found vengeance, but she felt like it wasn’t enough. There had to be more.
More what? More people to kill? More bodies to pay for your father’s death?
Christine hung her head in shame, though she knew no one was watching. Corporal Baker had gone out in search of breakfast, leaving her alone with her turbulent conscience. She hoped he came back soon. The voice inside was starting to become irritating.
A clattering sound at the door made her jump. A moment later, the door opened and Corporal Baker stepped in, holding up paper deli bags.
“Even in France, you can find a sub sandwich.”
Christine blinked in confusion, then made the connection. “You mean ‘sub’ like ‘submarine.’”
“Ten points for the little lady.” He set the bags on the nightstand and dug into one. “I know it’s not what you folks are used to in terms of breakfast around here, but we’ve got a busy day ahead of us and it helps to hit all the major food groups in one shot. By the way, I hope you like onions, ‘cause I sure do.”
Christine nodded and gingerly opened one of the bags. A pleasant blend of aromas greeted her nose and her stomach growled. She couldn’t remember the last time she had eaten, and she suddenly felt ravenous. She had never had a submarine sandwich before, but she had a feeling this was going to be one of the best meals of her life.
After wolfing down a foot-long and a six-inch sub, she lay down on the bed and groaned. Her ribs were still quite sore and her expanding stomach pressed against them. Corporal Baker chuckled as he crumpled the paper bag and tossed it in the wastebasket.
“You all right, miss?”
Christine inhaled a long, slow breath and stared at the ceiling. “Yeah. I think so.”
For several moments, the room was silent. Then Corporal Baker slapped his knees and stood up.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to catch the news before we get moving.”
“Okay.”
Corporal Baker grabb
ed the remote from under a pile of napkins and aimed it at the ancient television set. It awoke very slowly with a sharp electronic hum. He flipped rapidly through the channels, racing past programs that would have been banned outright before the Manifestation for their graphic and explicit content. Now no one batted an eye.
He located the local news station and set the remote down. It was clear from the anchorman’s tone that the news was not good.
“– at sunset tonight. The bishops and priests that have been pouring into the city have been assured that no harm will come to them, but city officials have little hope for a peaceful gathering. Meanwhile, Italian leaders are at a loss with how to deal with the fanatical yet undeniably powerful man who now occupies Vatican City in the name of the Christian church. Roman police are hesitant to stage an outright assault for fear it may provoke another horrific response like the inexplicable event that took place two nights ago. The so-called ‘Fire from Heaven’ solidified the reputation of Julianus Secundus Christi as a man who wields unearthly power, and this makes those in positions of power understandably very nervous. As preparations begin –“
Corporal Baker switched off the television, though he stared at it as if the broadcast was still going on. Christine watched a dark shadow pass over his eyes.
“Secundus Christi,” he said quietly. “Does that mean what I think it does?”
Christine nodded.
Corporal Baker chewed on his lower lip. He looked deep in thought.
“I’m not sure if I like his guy,” he declared. “It’s pretty obvious that he’s more than meets the eye but anyone who calls themselves the second Christ is pushing the boundaries in my opinion.”
Christine hoisted herself into a sitting position and looked at him directly.
“But isn’t that what you came here to do? Push the boundaries, fight the evil without fear? There are many who would say that my father was insane, even a heretic, for taking up the sword against the enemies of God. Many people say that peace is the only way to bring God’s kingdom to this world, but my father disagreed, as do I. And I believe you disagree too.”
