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

by Mark Carver

The soldiers were arranged in four rows of ten men each. Instead of wearing combat fatigues, they were dressed as unassuming tourists and sightseers. Several wore khaki hats and their boots had been replaced with sandals or running shoes. Private Chevallais was among them, his wounded hand concealed by a wrist splint. They answered Corporal Baker in unison. “Yes, sir!”

  Corporal Baker, also dressed in civilian clothes, gave them a nod of approval, then turned back to Christine. “We’ll rendezvous in Paris in four days.”

  “Okay,” Christine said. “I will scout the target and give you a full report when we meet again.”

  “Sounds good.” Corporal Baker grinned, and the skin around his eyes creased like paper. “You’re a special gal, Christine. You remind me so much of my daughter. I hope when this is all over and the dust settles, you can join my family in celebrating our freedom.”

  “I’d like that.”

  Corporal Baker nodded and took a step back.

  “Men! Prepare to move out!”

  He gave Christine a salute, which she returned. Then he spun on his heel and marched out through the south exit of the sprawling building. His men followed closely on his heels. Private Chevallais gave her a quick glance, then disappeared with the rest.

  Christine stood in the deep, empty silence. She closed her eyes, as if listening to a distant sound.

  She smiled as she opened her eyes.

  Don’t worry, Papa. I will make them pay.

  I will make them all pay.

  ****

  Patric watched Master Ko draw a key card from the folds of his robe and swipe it through an electronic scanner. The elder glanced over his shoulder, then positioned his body in front of the door, even though it was already unlocked. Patric frowned. Perhaps the old man’s mind wasn’t as sharp as he led on.

  He motioned for Patric to follow him down a dark, clammy corridor that was constructed of rough-hewn stones, in sharp contrast to the precise corners and arches of the hallways outside. The ceiling was low and spotted with dark fungus. It struck Patric as odd that this corridor was in such poor condition considering the modern lock that kept it closed off from the rest of the complex.

  Patric felt goosebumps crawl across his skin as he followed the old man deeper and deeper into the dark bowels of the Vatican. They descended several flights of stairs before coming to a halt in front of a gleaming metallic door.

  Master Ko swiped his key card again, and the door hissed open. Patric’s runaway imagination wondered if he would round a corner and see Natasha frozen in a cryogenic chamber or suspended a vast of organic liquid. But the door just opened to reveal an empty cube. It was an elevator.

  The elder motioned for Patric to step inside, and he obeyed after a moment of hesitation. Master Ko stepped in after him, then pressed a button on the console. There were only two: up and down.

  The elevator started its descent with a jerk. Patric instinctively flattened himself against the wall, prompting a mocking smile from the old man.

  “Do not worry; the Vatican maintenance staff is quite capable.”

  Patric looked away.

  After about ten seconds, the elevator lurched to a halt, and the door opened. Patric peeked out with caution, but he could only see another dimly-lit corridor. He glanced at Master Ko with suspicion and the elder simply bowed.

  “Patience, Monsieur Bourdon. I’m a bit surprised at your haste, considering what she did to you.”

  He turned away before Patric could shoot him a venomous glare. Muttering silent curses, Patric followed the stooped figure down the long, ominous corridor, feeling the claws of dread sink deeper into his soul with each step.

  They walked for several minutes, turning once to the right and twice to the left. Finally, they came to a halt at another stainless steel door. It gleamed like ice against the dismal stone walls.

  Master Ko brought out his key card for a third time. Not a very secure system, Patric thought.

  The door popped open and slid away, and this time Patric saw tendrils of mist curl on the floor before evaporating into the air. His stomach sank even lower than it already had.

  No…they wouldn’t…they couldn’t…

  As if reading his thoughts, Master Ko gave him a sly glance over his shoulder.

  “Prepare yourself, Monsieur Bourdon. This may be a bit of a shock to you.”

  He stepped into a white room that had the look and scent of a sterilized medical facility. Patric stepped in after him, and the door whispered shut. The room was cold, though not freezing. Master Ko motioned for Patric to step forward.

  He obeyed, clenching his muscles in anticipation. He didn’t know what he would see, but he had certainly been surprised to find a laboratory underneath the Vatican. A thousand wild thoughts raced through his mind. Was she lying eviscerated on an examination table? Were they doing experiments on her?

  He came up to a solid white wall. There were no windows or doors of any kind. He turned to Master Ko, waiting for an explanation.

  The elder smiled broadly, then pressed a button on his left. Patric jumped back as the wall rumbled upwards, revealing a floor-to-ceiling window.

  Patric pressed his hands against the glass.

  “What…?”

  Natasha was lying on a small cot, apparently asleep. She wore a simple white gown and her hair spread beautifully around her face in golden ringlets. Tubes sprouted from her arms and connected to several machines crowded around her like watchful doctors.

  But she wasn’t alone.

  There were at least a dozen other women lying on beds, all asleep, all bristling with tubes and wires.

  And they were all pregnant.

  Natasha’s belly looked swollen almost to bursting, but her face was perfectly tranquil, and her lips seemed to be curled in a faint smile. She seemed to be in no discomfort whatsoever.

  Patric’s fingernails clawed at the glass.

  “Natasha!” he cried out. “Natasha!”

  Master Ko chuckled behind him. “Save your breath. She can’t hear you.”

  Patric whirled around, arms outstretched, ready to choke the life out of the wretched worm.

  “Uh-uh-uhhh,” the elder said, waving a scolding finger. “Touch me and she dies, and so will you.”

  Patric threw his arms down in frustration. “What is going on here? Why is she like this?”

  Master Ko stepped up to the glass and peered at the row of supine young women. “She is a vessel.”

  “A vessel for what?”

  “We don’t know yet. Maybe nothing. Maybe…”

  It took every ounce of Patric’s self-control to restrain his fists. “What are you talking about?”

  The elder turned and faced him with infuriating calmness. “I only recently found out about this place myself. Apparently your beloved is a candidate. Or rather, her child is.”

  “Candidate? Candidate for what?”

  Master Ko smiled again. “You really should read the Bible, Monsieur Bourdon. Despite your conflicting faith, there are many insights to be found in its pages.”

  “What have you done to her?” Patric roared. Hot tears streamed down his face.

  “I didn’t do anything. If you have any complaints with how your beloved is being treated, you should take it up with my superior. But she is occupied with more important matters at the moment, I’m afraid.”

  The elder took a menacing step forward. “So in the meantime, you will do as I say, or her candidacy will be terminated.”

  Patric struggled with the fury boiling inside him, but he knew he was helpless. It struck him as odd, though, that the old man would bring him down here and reveal this secret that he knew would infuriate him. Why not just keep him locked in his room? Why show his hand so early?

  But he knew it would be dangerous to underestimate the old man. He looked again at Natasha sleeping so peacefully amongst the machines and tubes, and he felt his heart crumbling in his chest. Every emotion she had ever caused him to feel crashed down on him, and h
is knees gave way. He fell to the floor, his breath spurting from his lips.

  Master Ko knelt down slowly, still wearing a smug smile. “So do we understand each other?”

  Patric looked up at him, thinking of how wonderful it would feel to shatter that ancient skull with a heavy stone. “Yes,” he said, his throat feeling like sandpaper. “We do.”

  “Good.” Master Ko stood up and extended his hand to Patric, who ignored the offer and rose to his feet by himself. The elder folded his hands into his robe and shifted his feet. “I know this is difficult to take in, but I’m afraid you have no choice. As long as you stay silent and remain in your room until summoned, no harm will come to her or to you.”

  “And when the baby comes?”

  Master Ko’s smile disappeared. “That is not for me to decide. But as I said, you have no choice. Even I do not know what the future holds, Monsieur Bourdon.”

  He gestured towards the door.

  “Don’t worry, Monsieur Bourdon,” he said as he stepped up to the door and opened it with his key card, “she will be under the finest care possible.”

  Patric didn’t dare ask what he meant. He followed the elder in silence, and when the door hissed shut behind him, he swore to himself that he would be back.

  And that he wouldn’t leave without her.

  ****

  Father DeMarco’s eyelids felt like they weighed a hundred pounds. When he finally pried them open, he winced instinctively. Every morning since the attack in Susa had been accompanied by a searing headache and his first waking thought was always to prepare for the crashing wave of pain.

  But not today. He held his breath, hardly daring to hope. When nothing happened, he slowly let his body relax, and a quiet sigh escaped his lips.

  Thank You.

  He knew it wasn’t by God’s power that he was healed, but it was by God’s power that his healing had endured. He wouldn’t have been surprised if the pain had returned the moment he had spoken out against Julian.

  He stretched his stiff joints with mild success, then looked around to survey his surroundings.

  The first thing he noticed was the smell. It was very familiar, stirring both warm and painful memories.

  The scent of wine.

  He reflexively licked his lips, remembering the all-too-familiar taste of Tuscan pride. As a priest, wine had often touched his lips during communion rites. As a father wracked with grief at the loss of his beloved daughter, he had sought comfort in bottle after bottle, but to no avail.

  Silently slipping out of bed, he donned his cassock and crept towards the door. The phantoms that had spirited him away seemed to be his allies, but he wasn’t going to blindly trust anyone again.

  The ceiling was low and vaulted, like the inside of a barrel, and the wooden door looked like it would shatter with only a gentle kick. The tiny cavern reminded Father DeMarco of the cellar where he had ministered to his dwindling congregation.

  And where he had met Tourec for the first time in more than a decade.

  He shook his head to clear these thoughts from his mind. The past was the past. Today was a new day, and a new threat was looming…

  He pushed open the door and gasped.

  “Lorenzo!”

  The bearded man turned and a broad grin split his woolly face. He rushed forward and embraced the priest in a crushing bear hug.

  “Father,” he said happily. “We never thought we’d see you again.”

  Tears blurred Father DeMarco’s vision, but he couldn’t mistake the two figures rushing to embrace him.

  “Benito!” he cried. “Donatella!”

  The woman and young man wrapped their arms around him. Donatella’s fragile emotional dam burst and tears streamed down her face.

  “Lorenzo’s right,” she said as she hastily wiped her ample cheeks. “We thought you were dead.”

  “And I thought you were dead,” he said, searching their faces as if he was looking for evidence that they were imposters wearing masks. “How are you here?”

  Lorenzo gestured towards the small crowd behind him. “Our brave and vigilant brothers and sisters. They feared something might happen at the Vatican so they waited outside the square after the clerics went inside for the assembly. Fortunately, the church in Italy is very closely connected.”

  Father DeMarco felt his legs wobble, and he motioned for Benito to bring him a chair. “But…how did you…?”

  “Get away from that insane place?” Lorenzo finished. He shook his head and exchanged a glance with Donatella. “After they took you away, they put us down in the crypt again. We didn’t know what they wanted to do with us, but we didn’t wait to find out. There were only a few of them left to guard us, since the rest left with you, I assume. That evening, when they came down to bring us our bread, we attacked them. I managed to grab one of them and I had to strangle him with my chain. When the other came to help his friend, Benito brought him down with a very well-aimed rock to the head. We took their keys, freed ourselves, and ran out as quickly as we could. We had to steal a car, but that town was like a cemetery. I don’t know what happened there, but we could practically smell the evil around us. We came to Rome as quickly as we could and took refuge with these good people here. We don’t want to be up there fighting in the streets, but we feel guilty hiding down here like rats.”

  Every eye was on the priest. Father DeMarco read their expressions quite plainly. He had seen it many times before on many faces.

  They were sheep without a shepherd.

  Father DeMarco looked at them for a moment, then stood up and cleared his throat. “As God is my witness, I swear to you all that the man who now sits upon St. Peter’s throne is a fraud and a blasphemer. He wields great power but it is the devil, not our heavenly Father, that gives it to him. The enemy is planning something, something terrible, and he has only one goal: to destroy our church. He is attacking us from the inside as well as the outside. I confronted this false prophet and he cast me out, excommunicating me from the church. But I do not recognize his authority, and though he may deceive my esteemed brothers of the cloth, I will never bow to him.”

  The group of believers murmured to one another, but their expressions said that they believed him. Father DeMarco paused to catch his breath before continuing.

  “He has made promises to the priests and cardinals who remain, claiming that he will restore their titles and positions if they swear allegiance to him. He also advocates an open war with the Satanists, encouraging violence to take back the holy places that the enemy now controls. His doctrine is based solely on bloodshed and power. I see no trace of God’s light in him. But I fear that the church will fall at his feet, enchanted by his miracles.”

  He touched the back of his head, then looked at Donatella for a moment. “He healed me of the terrible pain that had afflicted me after I was attacked outside my monastery weeks ago. He did this not for my benefit, but to impress the clergymen who were assembled. And it worked. He even healed the young man who was crucified in St. Peter’s Square.”

  “The Satanist?” Lorenzo spat. “The brother of that heretic who started this mess?”

  “Yes,” Father DeMarco answered with a firm voice. “Though his soul has begun to waver between the light and the darkness, and I feel God’s hand upon him.”

  “Why is he not with you?” Donatella asked.

  Father DeMarco looked at the ground. “He…he decided to stay in the Vatican.”

  Lorenzo threw up his hands. “Well, it looks like he’s made his choice.”

  “Perhaps,” Father DeMarco said quietly, “but this is bigger than just him. This is about the survival of our church family.”

  He looked into the eyes of each person gathered in that cellar. “I do not follow this new leader, the man who calls himself ‘the second Christ.’ If you stand with me, you will stand against a terrible and powerful force. We may face persecution from our own brethren, and perhaps even worse. But for the sake of our immortal souls, we must
never give in.”

  A moment hung suspended in the air. The priest raised his right hand.

  “Who will stand with me?”

  Immediately, Lorenzo’s hand shot up, along with Benito’s and Donatella’s. A moment later, the others raised their hands. All of them.

  Fresh tears shone in Father DeMarco’s eyes. He nodded his thanks and couldn’t hold back a grateful smile.

  Lorenzo looked at those standing around him before turning back to the priest.

  “So what do we do now?”

  Father DeMarco looked at the simple wooden cross hanging above the door.

  “First, we pray.”

  ****

  “Amen.”

  Julian looked up from his clasped hands, searching the face of Christ. He didn’t know where Father Shen or his mysterious helpers had found the meter-high crucifix, but he was grateful to have the image of a person to pray to, rather than just crosses.

  He genuflected with smooth, graceful motions and rose to his feet. It was such a relief to unburden himself before God. The transformation that had altered his life forever was a heavy weight to bear, but with each passing day, he grew more appreciative that he had been chosen for such a sacred task.

  And he was certainly starting to love the power that came with it.

  The awe, the admiration…the fear in their eyes… It was like wine for his soul. He glanced again at the mournful expression on his savior’s face, and he cracked a sly smile.

  Is this what it felt like?

  When he stood before those trembling children who called themselves “men of the cloth,” he felt like a man among ants. He also felt a small degree of empathy for them; they had been battered and persecuted and thrown out onto the streets for the last twelve years, and that would wear down even the strongest man. But now true strength walked among them, and it was to their credit that they recognized their salvation.

  His thoughts flitted briefly to the impudent priest who had dared to accuse him of consorting with the devil.

  The devil… Not sorcery or witchcraft or even demonic power. He thinks I’m in league with Public Enemy Number One!

  It was too ludicrous to warrant a second thought. How could anyone be so foolish as to mistake the Holy Mother herself for a demon? Heaven’s blessing couldn’t be more clear; had the priest expected the clouds to part and God himself to proclaim Julian as the chosen one?