Apocalypsis I

by Mario Giordano

  Is this you?

  Carefully, Peter began to move his toes, his feet, his legs and then his arms. He took an inventory of his body. But everything was still in its right place. Not too heavy, not too light, just right. He was lying on a hospital bed, covered with a white blanket, and next to the bed stood a small metal nightstand with a bottle of mineral water and a vase with purple asters. The sight of the water bottle reminded him how thirsty he was and so he sat up and emptied half the bottle in one gulp. He noticed that he was wearing nothing but a plain hospital gown. Then he continued his inventory. One question begged to be asked.

  Where are you?

  The question did not alarm him, not for the moment. Pure interest.

  What did you dream?

  He could not remember the dream itself. Only some dark images filled with horror. But the horror had vaporized like the early morning fog in May, and all that was left behind was the profound relief of having narrowly escaped evil. Everything was fine.

  Everything is fine. Everything is fine. Everything is fine.

  He listened to the sound of the blood rushing in his ears, as if his circulation could tell him more about his current condition. Something was irritating him. His skin was itching. Not much, just a bit. Not badly, just persistently. He scratched the itching spot. And the other spot that itched. But every time he scratched, the itching expanded like frostwork on a windowpane. It was not bothersome. Not yet. But it was somewhat unsettling. Peter decided to stop scratching and ignore the itch.

  Focus on something else. On… your name. What is your name? Come on!

  No idea. The name was there but it was stuck, somewhere in the alleyways of his memory. Peter shook his head, sat up straight, and strained to think.

  … Peter. Peter Adam.

  He was relieved and took another sip of his water. Ready for the next step:

  What happened? Why are you here?

  All of a sudden, he could remember his dream. He had dreamed about a nun that he had kissed and about a huge apartment with an amulet. Loretta’s dead body. An island in the middle of the night, a parachute. Monks.

  A huge stone table with pentagrams.

  A symbol.

  Despite the fact that he was still a little wobbly on his feet, Peter climbed on top of the small metal nightstand and looked out of the window. The ocean. The waves were crashing against the rocky cliffs underneath. The walls of the building stretched out on either side of the window.

  The copper island.

  A sound made him spin around. The door at the far side of the room opened and an elderly man in a white coat entered. A friendly face, simple body language that avoided unnecessary moves, and eyes that watched him with interest. On the chest pocket of the coat, Peter recognized a familiar circular symbol.

  »Good morning, Peter. How are you feeling today?«

  Hastily Peter climbed down from the little nightstand and sat on the bed.

  »Good. Thanks. Where are my things?«

  The doctor sat next to him on the bed and seemed to ignore the gymnastic exercise that Peter had performed at the window. »Your clothes are being cleaned. Did you get some sleep?«

  »Yes, I think so. Who are you?«

  »But you know me, Peter, don’t you? I am Doctor Creutzfeldt. We have known each other for an entire year. Since the day you were admitted here.«

  »I’ve been in this room for a year?«

  The doctor by the name of Creutzfeldt gave him a lenient smile.

  »One thing at a time. You’ve been through a lot.«

  »What have I been through?« Peter asked. »What kind of hospital is this?«

  Creutzfeldt looked at Peter with a serious expression on his face. »You are in a psychiatric institution. You need help. Here, take these.«

  Creutzfeldt handed him a small paper cup with two pills inside.

  Peter did not touch the cup with the pills.

  »Why do I need help?«

  Creutzfeldt cleared his throat. »Because you are ill, Peter, very ill. You killed your wife. You were convicted of murder but the court took your mental status into consideration and sent you to us. You don’t need to be worried. Everything is fine.«

  »Everything is fine,« Peter repeated mechanically but without believing it.

  Damn it, nothing is fine!

  »Exactly, Peter. Everything is fine. We have been very worried about you but now everything is fine.«

  »Why have you been worried about me?«

  »We will talk about this soon. Now you should rest. Take your medication.«

  Creutzfeldt rose from the bed but Peter grabbed his arm and held him back.

  »What happened? Why am I here? What’s this symbol on your coat?«

  Creutzfeldt sighed as he continued to look at Peter with a serious expression on his face.

  »It is just the logo of our facility. I must admit, though, that you were extremely afraid of it.«

  »Why?«

  »Peter, last year, when you were admitted, you were suffering from severe delusions and hallucinations. You were convinced that you were possessed by demons that were allegedly forcing you to destroy the Catholic Church. Instead, you murdered your wife.«

  »Ellen.«

  »Yes, Ellen. Do you remember your wife?«

  »We were in Turkmenistan. Edward Kelly killed her.«

  »No, Peter. You killed her. The demons commanded you to kill her. Just as they commanded you to kill your colleague, Loretta Hooper.«

  The strange itching returned and blended with a feeling of unease to form a crust that began to cover his entire body, gradually cutting off his breath. An image flashed before his mind’s eye, the image of Loretta’s dead body, Loretta lying there in her own blood.

  »Wait a minute. This… this doesn’t make any sense. Ellen died a year ago, and Loretta died only a few days ago. How can that be, if you claim that I have already been here for a year?«

  »We will talk about this soon. Now you should take your medication.«

  »I won’t take anything. I want an answer. Now!«

  Creutzfeldt looked towards the door as if someone were waiting for him on the other side. Then he planted himself in front of Peter and handed him the paper cup with the pills again. Now he had a fixed expression on his face.

  »Take your medication, and afterwards you will get your answer.«

  Peter gave it a brief thought and then he reached for the little cup, poured the two pills into his mouth and washed them down with some water.

  Creutzfeldt seemed satisfied and nodded.

  »Let me be honest with you: our standard treatment proved ineffective in your case. Of course, we could have kept you under constant medication but that is not a life, and it does not comply with our ethics. But you really didn’t make it easy on us. You attacked other patients. Yes, don’t look at me like that, Peter. In any case, we decided to risk an experiment to help you. For two weeks, we chaperoned you in your old environment.«

  »Who is ›we‹?«

  »My staff and I. Physicians, nurses, you know each and every one of them. We stayed at a hotel in Rome together. I thought this might help you return to reality. But unfortunately, something happened that nobody could have anticipated: the Pope resigned. This threw you completely off track. You began to exhibit an extreme hyperactivity and secluded yourself in your hotel room, writing for days on end and coming up with the wildest conspiracy theories. And then one night, you were gone. You had given us the slip. The following day, when we were lucky enough to find you by the Vatican wall, you claimed to have broken into the Pope’s apartment and stolen something there. Something which, in your words, posed ›a great danger to mankind.‹ But you absolutely refused to tell us what this was. You suffered another psychotic episode, Peter. You were thoroughly confused and talked again about being possessed by demons. You also claimed to have killed your colleague Loretta Hooper. Don’t worry, fortunately she is fine. I can be frank with you and tell you all this because yo
u have already taken your medication. Unfortunately, we are back to square one, Peter.«

  His memory slowly returned, painfully slowly. He remembered the island in the middle of the night and a jump with a parachute, and he remembered a hall where monks were celebrating an occult ritual.

  Kelly.

  Suddenly he remembered the filthy and insane man whom they had led into the hall like an animal and who had spoken in a strange language. In a language which had been strangely familiar to Peter.

  »I don’t believe a single word you say,« Peter said. »What kind of psychiatric facility is this? You are holding me prisoner on an island where people practice occult rituals. I saw it with my own eyes, yesterday, after landing here with my parachute.«

  Creutzfeldt gave Peter a compassionate look. »As I said, we are back to square one. You did not land here with a parachute, nor is this a place where people practice occult rituals. It is true, though, that this facility is on an island. To be precise, on the Ile de Cuivre off the French Mediterranean coast. But you don’t need to be worried about that.«

  »Where is Kelly? I want to talk to him.«

  »This would not be a good idea. Mr. Kelly is afraid of you, Peter, and I cannot blame him. You have repeatedly tried to kill him.« With that, Creutzfeldt turned away. »Try to get some rest. I will be back to check up on you later.«

  The doctor was already at the door when he stopped and turned around.

  »Just out of curiosity, Peter… what did you find in the papal apartment?«

  Peter looked into Creutzfeldt’s face.

  »Nothing,« he said.

  Creutzfeldt seemed to have expected this answer. He nodded and left the room. Peter heard the door being locked. At the same moment, he jumped out of his bed, stepped in front of the sink, and shoved his index finger down his throat. His stomach revolted and he threw up, and then he examined his vomit and was relieved when he found the two pills, which looked almost intact. Then he emptied his water bottle, positioned himself in the middle of the room, and began to exercise a bit. After a couple of minutes, he was drenched in sweat and exhausted, but he was feeling better. More alert. It was time for him to find out where he was. And why.

  Maria.

  Her image arose before his mind’s eye. Maria in her nun’s habit. Maria in blue jeans. Maria holding in her hand the amulet that he had kept a secret from Creutzfeldt. Maria and Don Luigi. Maria in the library of Montpellier. The Pan statue in front of the library.

  The freaking Pan.

  Along with the image of Maria returned the memory of the warmth of her lips. More real and more palpable than his own body. An uneasy feeling crept over him. The feeling that he might not have much time until Creutzfeldt would be back to ask him again about the amulet. At the same time, though, there was a thought that entrenched itself into his brain.

  What if Creutzfeldt is right? What if I really am insane? Am I just a paranoid murderer?

  Peter was desperate as he hunkered down on his bed, trying to collect his thoughts. Not an easy task. The thoughts were slipping away from him before he could grab and examine them like small laboratory animals. So he limited the process to the simple question of whether he trusted this Creutzfeldt guy he had never seen before.

  No.

  Even if it was true and all the images that he thought were real memories were in fact just products of his paranoid mind, even then these images should have included a physician by the name of Creutzfeldt. But there was not a single memory in his mind, not a single one of the nightmarish images which tormented him, that was labeled with this name.

  This led to a series of conclusions.

  One: You are not crazy.

  Two: All your memories are true and real.

  Three: You are in danger. They are holding you prisoner here and pumping you up with drugs, for some reason.

  Four: You need to flee. As soon as possible.

  Five: But before you flee, you need to find Edward Kelly.

  LIV

  May 15, 2011, Poveglia, Venetian Lagoon

  Leonie! My God, Leonie!«

  She did not seem to recognize him; she just stared at him in horror. Leonie, his little sister. There were only a handful of people in Bühler’s life who actually knew that he had a sister, eight years younger than him, the baby of the family. And she had always stayed little, almost tiny. Tiny and in need of protection because forty years earlier one minor chromosomal abnormality had decided her fate. Despite her Trisomy 21, Leonie had always been a cheerful person who did not give the impression that she suffered from her condition. After their parents died, Bühler had wanted her to live with him in Rome, but Leonie had stubbornly refused to leave Switzerland. So it was with a heavy heart that he bent to her will and placed her into an assisted living facility, which was known for being the best in the region, even though it cost him half his salary. When it came to Leonie, nothing was too much for him. For the last ten years, he had been spending every vacation with her. He called her every week and talked at length with her. With his little sister Leonie, who was now sitting hunched up next to a bloodstained stone table, trembling from fear.

  »It’s okay, Leonie! Shhh! It’s okay! Don’t you see? It’s me, Urs! Shhh!«

  Without being able to think of anything else, Bühler scooped his little sister into his arms and tried carefully to untie her shackles. She still wasn’t moving. Bühler brushed the blood soaked hair from her forehead and moaned as he found more bruises on her face. Carefully, he lifted her up and carried her out of the basement.

  »Hold on to me, Leonie. Can you do that? Hold on to me! I am taking you home.«

  »Ursli?« she whispered when he lifted her up.

  »Yes, it is me, Ursli. I am here, my sun.«

  »I am the sun,« she cried.

  »Yes, you are. You are the sun.«

  »The men hurt me.«

  Bühler fought back the despair and the tears as he listened to the faint voice of his abused sister. When he looked at her swollen face and at the cuts on her body, he began to moan so much that it almost took his breath away. And his strength. But he knew he had to think straight. Whatever had happened here, it was not over yet. Bühler held Leonie with his left arm. He used his free hand to draw his gun from the holster and release the safety catch. For whoever had done this to Leonie, he would be waiting for them upstairs.

  With Leonie on his arm, he left the horrible sacrificial room and walked through the passage with the shelves before carefully trudging up the stairs. There was still no sound except for Leonie’s soft whimpering.

  »Shhh, my sun. It’s okay. You have to be quiet now, completely quiet.«

  He knew that he could not move fast enough with Leonie on his arm. If it came to the worst, he would have to drop her onto the floor to be able to fire. Filled with determination and holding his gun, ready to shoot, Bühler left the basement and entered the ground floor of the building.

  No one in sight.

  In complete silence, Bühler walked through the kitchen and reached the adjacent lounge. He laid Leonie down on a divan by the window and reached for his cell phone.

  »Welcome to the Temple of Equinox, Mister Bühler.«

  Bühler spun around and saw three figures that had silently entered the lounge. They were wearing monk’s cowls with hoods and their faces were not visible. Two of the figures were pointing guns at him.

  Without any hesitation, Bühler aimed his gun at the three men. Unbound hatred washed over him.

  »Don’t even think about it, Mister Bühler,« said the only one of the three men who was not armed. »Or your sister will die here and now, right before your eyes.«

  One of the monks pointed his gun at Leonie. When Leonie saw the three monks, she doubled over in fear and began whimpering again.

  »Who are you?« Bühler gasped. »Why did you do this to my sister?«

  »From now on, nothing will happen to her as long as you are cooperative. Put your gun away and then I will explain
to you what we expect from you.«

  »Shut your hole!« Bühler yelled without lowering his gun, positioning himself protectively in front of Leonie. »Don’t move or I will blow your brains out.«

  With all the calmness in the world, the third monk sat down in one of the armchairs and signaled to the other two, who then took their positions in the room. Bühler tried in vain to recognize the face of the third man, but he was wearing some sort of mask.

  »Do you really think you have a chance, Colonel Bühler?« the man in the armchair continued, completely unfazed. »After all, we have been expecting you.«

  Two more armed monks stepped through the door at the far side of the lounge and began to approach Bühler and his sister slowly. It was getting tight.

  »Stop! I’m telling you, don’t come any closer.«

  The man in the armchair waved his hand and the two monks stopped. Bühler continued to point his gun at the man. »Perhaps I won’t get out of here alive. But I will take you with me to hell.«

  »I’m sure you would do that. I like your hatred. We will put it to good use. But who will protect Leonie when you are gone?«

  The man did not show any fear.

  »Who the hell are you?«

  »Just call me Seth. And now, put your gun away.«

  Bühler was a soldier. He was willing to give his life for the Pope and he was prepared to sacrifice himself for Leonie. But he was experienced enough to know when the game was over. He cast a last glance at Leonie on the divan and then he slowly lowered his gun, engaged the safety and placed it onto the tiled floor.

  »Push it over to me with your foot.«

  Bühler complied and the SIG slid across the tiles towards the man who called himself Seth, as he made an almost imperceptible sign with one of his fingers. Immediately, one of the monks picked the gun up from the floor and stepped back into his position.

  »Have a seat, Colonel Bühler.«

  Bühler sat down on the divan next to Leonie, wrapping her protectively in his arms. »It’s okay, little sun,« he whispered into her ear. »Ursli is here with you.«