by Mike Duran
If there was no God, no purpose, then such an end mattered little. I took consolation in that. Weaker life forms must be subsumed by the stronger. Perhaps somewhere the truly faithful remained to fight such monsters. But for now, it was the monster I had never slain that stayed my hand.
My running had finally ceased. When she touched me, I yielded. In the face of such a wonder, how could I not?
She rose and towered over me, elongating, a hideous flower, opening to fullness. Her petals and tusks. What terrible majesty. What glory! Molten in her gaze, as pitiless as the sun. Robed in cascading prisms; icy particles of cosmic dust were her skin. Hallelujah! The gods of yore were no match for her. She was greater. Far greater. My mind careened, blinded by this revelation. Was I kneeling? If not, I should. No wonder the others couldn't resist. Who would ever want to? She had been worshiped by the pagans, shrines erected and wetted in blood just for her. Like a portal into an ancient night sky she blazed, becoming a vast canopy over me, radiating nuclear heat. Fingers went out, searching, searching, searching for my synapses, for corridors in which to burrow.
Reverse stigmata. She bled into me.
Greetings my love!
My very cells and marrow quivered with delight. Legions came with her. As did primordial life, something of the stars and their fall. She bore the wound of the universe. Yea, she was its inflictor.
And now I, with her.
2.0
I drew my first breath. How long had it been since my last? In the chambers, the dark moist places, ages were without measure. Not so in the world of men. Here, the mortal coil suffered the sands of time.
He was still squirming, still fighting to retain control. That wouldn't last. It never did. Yet Aguste was surprisingly stronger than I’d anticipated. That was good. It showed vigor. However, in the end, the spirit was willing, but the flesh was weak. It always was.
I inhaled again, oxygenating my body—our body.
Ah, the flesh. That moist tabernacle. Endorphins, dopamine, and the neural highway. Wonders! A bridge to the world. A chalice for the divine. It was what separated us from them. Autonomy notwithstanding. For all its limitations, the flesh was our grail; embodiment was our thirst. If they only knew what they possessed.
If they only knew it was us who envied them.
I looked at my hands, squeezed them into fists until the veins bulged blue. I could almost hear the blood rushing through this body. And my heart—it was strong, resilient. At least, for now.
“My queen,” someone said. “Shall we make the army ready?”
I raised my eyes. The lost unit was there. Requiem 4. Paladins of my youth. They bowed to me. We had rescued them, granted them purpose beyond their comprehension. The great despair had passed from them. And for this, they offered obeisance.
The army. I stared out into the borderland. Even with his eyes I could see them. A vast horde, ever vigilante, waiting for the second coming. Waiting for our word.
“Others will arrive soon.” My voice sounded odd in my hearing. Small. Without weight. “More of them. Larger units. Perhaps a company or battalion. They will never surrender. Their creed does not permit it. That will be their downfall, their undoing.”
The unit looked on. Born to allegiance. Cauterized with a single primal passion.
“Go,” I said. “Tell them to prepare.”
As they went into the gray borderland, one turned.
“My queen?” they asked. “Shall we call you Naomi?”
“No.” I inhaled deeply. “For now, I am Aguste. Father Aguste Lax.”
They looked at me. “Aguste. Of course.”
And they followed their brethren, disappearing into the long cold expanse.
In Babylon, there were those who defied us. Prophets, they said, of the Most High. Yes, those were the days. The days when the war was real. They would rather be torn to shreds by lions than bow the knee to us. Whether angels or devils, it mattered not to them. Only allegiance to their God. The taste of courage, of faith unspoiled—we admire that. Alas, those men of old are no more. Now they were born spineless and conditioned to believe lies. Primed for incubation.
For even in the twilight of their making, they offered their flesh for respite.
Perhaps the days would return, the age of warriors. But for now, the faithful lacked all conviction.
And the lost were always found.
THE END
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If you liked, REQUIEM 4, you may enjoy SUBTERRANEA: NINE TALES OF DREAD AND WONDER, which is an anthology of my short fiction that stylistically ranges from literary to pulp. Also available is my paranoir series which starts with THE GHOST BOX, a Publishers Weekly starred review item, followed in the series by SAINT DEATH: A Reagan Moon Novel. It is available in ebook or in print. CHRISTIAN HORROR: ON THE COMPATIBILITY OF A BIBLICAL WORLDVIEW AND THE HORROR GENRE is a non-fiction exploration of religious themes in horror, evangelical readers’ objections to the genre, and a brief apologetic for the genre’s compatibility with a biblical worldview. I have several other “long shorts”— WICKERS BOG: A Tale of Southern Gothic Horror and WINTERLAND, a novella. You can find links to some of my other articles, essays, and short stories at my website, as well as links to my other social media hangouts. That link is www.mikeduran.com. Once again, thanks so much for reading!
Mike Duran
