by Hunter Shea
Cain, too, drove to the mayor’s home. He threw his briefcase across the floor, a mere prop, as he marched through the doors. The air inside the mansion was pungent, with just a hint of rotting meat.
“Daddy’s home!” he shouted.
All was still as a tomb, which is exactly what he had transformed the mansion into the night before. Reaching into the refrigerator for a cold beer (satiating all of the pleasures of the flesh was orgasmic to him), Cain casually ignored the five severed heads of the domestics on the top shelf, just in front of the green bottles of Heineken.
With the flick of his thumb, he popped the cap off the bottle and guzzled every ounce in one long pull. He grabbed three more, stuffed them in his coat pockets and headed to the master bedroom. The wall along the stairs was filled with portraits of the Spinelli family. Too bad neither of the mayor’s children lived at home. Both were at boarding school, safe, for now. He would have loved to torture them, especially the girl. She had tits that gave men sleepless nights. He thought of calling her home, perhaps on the premise of some vague family emergency. Yes, that would be splendid. He’d fuck her until her pussy literally exploded.
Tiptoeing into the bedroom, Cain stripped off his clothes and drank another Heineken.
A still figure lay under the covers of the sleigh bed. He gently sat on the edge of the bed and stroked the rounded curves hidden just beneath the maroon satin sheets.
“It’s been a long day, honey. A mayor’s work is never done,” he said just above a whisper. “But now I’m home and I want to play.”
Cain threw back the sheet to reveal the bloated, bruised corpse of Susan Spinelli. The horror of her death was still etched upon her face. Pools of blood had settled on her side, rendering it the color of cancer.
His cock raged at the sight of the cadaver, swelling to the size of a man’s forearm until it split in two, with both ends capped by angry mushroom heads dripping with anticipation.
“I know you used to fantasize about having two men at once,” he hissed. “Don’t say I never gave you anything.”
Father Michael blocked out the raging squall around him and gripped the remnant of Jesus’s labor. Things were getting more difficult with each passing century. The world had become too crowded, the crush of humanity bearing down on the walls he had created to keep it at bay. It was why he lurked in the shadows of the Vatican, avoiding all human contact until it was necessary. The less interaction, the easier it was to cast aside all emotions, wrap them in lead and bury them in the pit of fading memories of his life before death. Now, with cities that housed millions of souls, it was becoming harder and harder to keep what shred of humanity was left to him at bay. To feel was a weakness and any form of fragility at this time was unacceptable.
And now there was his Ailis, nestled unknowingly in the body of Aimee.
A clap of thunder reverberated through the stone beneath his feet.
It was time.
“Bless me,” he whispered.
He drove the golden shard into his chest, piercing his heart. The swarming winds of the blizzard drowned out his cries of pain. His back arched to the point of breaking from the searing hot agony of the now-glowing dagger in his chest as he raised his hands to the heavens.
He shouted again, a sonic boom of suffering. The windows of nearby buildings rattled in their frames. Within the church’s catacombs, the bones of cardinals past danced in their sarcophagi as the knife’s edge between life and death pierced deeply into Father Michael.
His body shook once as if electrified. Tears cascaded down his face while his mouth worked, open, closed, in a silent scream until he slumped forward and fell into silence.
Aimee lashed out, all legs and arms, kicking and thrusting in a spastic frenzy, startling Shane from a fitful sleep. He ignored the pain of being kicked in his side and threw his arms around her. Aimee’s eyes flew open and for a moment she looked at him with no recognition, a feral child forced into a corner.
“Aimee, it’s me, Shane. I’ve got you. You’re safe.” He whispered the words into her ear, smoothing her matted hair from her face. Slowly, she settled down. The bedsheets were a gnarled mess, gathered mostly around one of her ankles.
She shivered uncontrollably, overcome with a swirl of emotions so dizzying it was hard to pinpoint any central cause for her sudden ascent from the world of dreams. The reality of her surroundings came to her like a slap in the face.
“You okay?” Shane asked, reaching out to touch her arm. It was slick with sweat, yet cold to the touch.
Aimee brought her knees up to her chest and tried to control the chattering of her teeth. She had fallen asleep naked after making love to Shane. Shane was quick to wrap her in the comforter. He rocked her in his arms, saying, “You’re all right, baby. I’m here. It was just a dream,” over and over again.
Gradually, she settled down and warmed up beneath the comforter and Shane’s embrace. Her heart stopped pounding in her chest and the chills quickly dissipated.
“What the hell was that?” she said.
“That’s what I was going to ask you.”
Suddenly, Aimee was overcome with the feeling that she was being watched. She jumped out of bed and ran to the window. Seeing nothing but a snow-blanketed street, her gaze darted around the room, searching for the person or thing she was sure was in the room with them. Shane scrambled to her side but she moved away from him, padding into the living room.
For the briefest of moments, so slight that she would never be able to confirm if what she saw was real, she caught a glimpse of a man with long hair, dressed in what looked like ancient peasant clothes. In that fraction of a moment, she was both frightened and enthralled by the vision of the man in her room. Fear, love, anger, confusion, pain, sadness, they all blasted her at once like the violent touchdown of a tornado, leaving her breathless.
The softly glowing man shimmered and disappeared a moment before Aimee passed out.
Father Michael’s soul ripped free from its flesh-and-bone shell and was dragged into the place between here and there. He looked below at his fallen body, covered in snow and still glowing with a faint purple light where the golden shard was buried in his chest.
Free from pain, Father Michael, who in this place was once again Liam, stretched his spirit out to the ends of the earth and felt the rush of other incorporeal shadows as they flitted between what mortal men would call dimensions. Some were lost, others sure of their destinations, while still many moved about contentedly filled with the joy of infinity. It was easy to succumb to the pleasures that freedom from mortality offered, especially for one who had entered this realm a half-dozen times, only to be returned to the hulking mass that was Father Michael. Only here could he be his true self, twist back through wormholes and feel the hot iron in his smithy, smell the damp earth that embraced his home most days in spring, taste the musk of his Ailis, hear the laughter of his son, Kerwynn, and kiss them both good night.
He longed for the day to return to his home in Ireland, his heaven.
Find the souls.
A voice, his own, from somewhere beyond the fields of Limerick, reverberated in this space of vast emptiness, yet full to bursting with the core essence of life.
The souls.
Liam reluctantly released the dream, tearfully watched it ripple apart into darkness. Oh, to be back in his Ireland, with his family. His lament could be felt to the ends of the universe.
Concentrating, he focused on New York, present day, searching for the cries of the wretched, the shattered ghosts of Cain’s folly. There were so many souls, millions, captivated by this small area on Earth. Searching for meaning, or forever content with reliving a life in a place that no longer resembled the shadows of memory.
Cain’s victims would be different—tortured beyond rational thought, life forces that had known utter defeat and helplessness.
Liam swam through a throng of souls, so many reaching out to touch him because they sensed he was different than they, t
hat perhaps he could help them find their way. They were beyond number, so much so that it became like walking through waist-high mud. The unburdening of their souls threatened to crush his own.
He struggled on, ignored their pleas and cast aside their clutching vapors.
Then he saw her.
At least, what had once been a woman.
Her soul had erupted into billions of tiny red flares, each tendril of soul fire pregnant with misery. Liam experienced her pain and learned she had been called Muriel Clarke before Cain had murdered her essence.
Muriel. Muriel Clarke. I have come for you.
The red pinpricks of Muriel’s spirit flashed once, twice, then began to swirl, faster and faster, until it resembled a massive eddy of stars rotating at the edge of a black hole. Even in this place, her screams were deafening.
Be calm, Muriel. I will show you the way.
There is no way for me!
I promise you, there is.
You were sent to destroy me!
You have already been destroyed. I have come to seek your assistance, and in turn, to help you.
Why do you call me that name? I don’t know any Muriel.
Because you were Muriel Clarke. You have been robbed of all your soul had ever attained. I will give it back to you.
Muriel’s spirit wailed and the whorl of red stopped, now forming a solid mass no bigger than the palm of a man’s hand.
I am lost. I am no one.
Liam’s nucleus reached out and caressed the compressed red glow. It immediately burst into an otherworldly fireworks display, cascading around Liam. His soul smiled.
I am Muriel. I was Muriel.
You are infinite. You learned much as Muriel. I have merely given back what was lost to you.
The fireworks display subsided. Her soul shifted to silver, contorted into dozens of shapes, broke apart, re-formed, and pulsed like a strobe light. It was easy to lose time here, because there was no time, just an endless procession of past, present and future. Liam concentrated, trying not to relinquish himself to the warmth that was growing in Muriel’s soul.
I…I feel…everything.
The silver shadow that was Muriel burst into white light as she relived every single moment of her previous life—the love, hate, pleasure, pain, loss and gain all swirled through her like a cosmic hurricane, carrying her to every height and depth she could bear. When she settled, her light had faded to a sickly yellow and hung limply by Liam’s side.
I was touched by him.
Yes.
He has just begun. I was one of what will be millions. So much hate. So much pain.
I need you to help me save those millions. Show me, Muriel. Show me your end.
Please…unburden me.
The yellow light merged with Liam and he was jolted by unimaginable torment and despair. He felt her death at Cain’s hands, saw the carnage that ensued.
Most of all, Cain’s plan was revealed. Liam, too, felt despair, for he knew only sadness and confusion was to come. The time of man and his sciences, of order and rationality, was about to end.
He separated from Muriel.
Thank you.
I want to cry…but I don’t know how.
Your time for tears is over. It is time for you to return…home.
Home?
Yes. Follow.
Liam swept past the jaundiced glow and stopped before a small golden dot on the horizon of lost souls.
Follow and you will be home.
But the others? Why aren’t they also going there?
Because it is not for everyone to see.
I miss my children.
Liam paused as she started to drift onto the path.
We are all children.
And Muriel was gone.
Chapter Seventeen
The representative from South Africa had only been gone for several minutes when Pope Pius XIII called for Cardinal Gianncarlo to come to his office. Just moments before, his spacious working quarters had been filled with various members of the South African government, photographers and several reporters. Elated at having met the pontiff, they had been escorted out through the Sala Clementina by a pair of Swiss Guards. Now that he had a moment of silence, a rare moment for the pontiff, he wanted to reveal Father Michael’s message to his oldest and most trusted ally.
Cardinal Gianncarlo entered wearing a smile.
“How was your meeting?”
“Very much like all the others. A lot of handshaking, some discussion and a plea for me to visit their country, then the incessant flashing of those cameras. I can barely see through the spots before my eyes.”
The cardinal nodded his head. “It’s not like it used to be, is it? You have to be a leader of the church and a movie star to boot.”
Despite the gravity of the situation that weighed on him, the pope laughed.
“Many changes, my friend, many changes. And still more to come.” He reached into a drawer and pulled out a neatly folded note which he then passed along the desk to the cardinal.
“What is this?”
“A message from Father Michael in the States. I received it two days ago when you were indisposed. I wanted to share it with you immediately, but my schedule hasn’t allowed it until now. Please, read it.”
The cardinal reluctantly unfolded the note. The message was brief but shocking. When he finished, his face was ashen.
“He’s not coming back?”
“It appears he is not.”
They both sat in silence for a long while, neither anxious to share what they felt this latest message could mean.
Finally, the pope said, “Father Michael has always returned to the Vatican after a calling.” His voice trailed off and his eyes wandered to the desk drawer that contained the book that only he knew about. There were sections of it that he would need to review and reflect deeply upon later. Portents that had once seemed so vague now gained clarity in his mind, especially the final pages, not bound within the book, but clipped to the back cover, an addendum inserted centuries later. The childlike scrawl written in a language he had made himself learn when he’d become pope, so none of the meaning was lost to him, never ceased to give him the shivers.
Cardinal Gianncarlo sank heavily into a chair and sighed, rousing the pope from his musing. “Could the end-times be real? I’ve always wondered about his true purpose, why God would create such a being. What other reason could he have for remaining in the outside world?”
“I thought that at first, also. But then why, I asked myself, has Father Michael promised to send someone else in his place? Who is this person? A messenger? Another like Father Michael? There are many things in motion that reflect echoes of the past, but others that lead me to doubt.”
“Is there something we can do? Some way to find out what he…it, has planned?”
The pope scratched at the small, gray bristles on his chin. “The message came from a Monsignor Stanton in Saint Luke’s Church in Manhattan. He and Father Michael worked together forty years ago. The monsignor has informed me that he will keep us abreast of the situation. I also asked him to pass along a message to Father Michael. I’ve given him my blessing to remain outside the Vatican and, if it is God’s will, he will return.”
The cardinal scrunched his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. He tried hard to quell the nausea that was rising up in his stomach. “This could become the greatest catastrophe the church has ever faced.”
The pope rose and walked behind the cardinal’s chair. He placed both hands on his shoulders and squeezed. “We must have faith in Father Michael and, above all, in God. One or both of them will pull us through.”
Shane woke up late, exhausted from his and Aimee’s marathon lovemaking session that night, as well as the two hours it had taken to settle her down after her nightmare. When she had passed out, he carried her back to bed, assuming she had actually never really been awake. She had been known to sleepwalk from time to time, especially when she was
stressed.
Weird night. Even weirder week. A dull throb started at the back of his right eye when he thought about the hyper-strangeness about to come. “Shake it off,” he croaked, staring at his bare feet on the hardwood floor.
He was sore yet extremely satisfied, at least physically and emotionally. Plodding into the bathroom, he winced when he saw his mohawk was matted down to one side of his head. He looked like a man who’d been plowed over by a runaway lawn mower.
The creeping fear that he had kept at bay by devouring every part of Aimee’s body last night started to grapple for purchase as his mind cleared and the dawning of a new day made itself known to him. He splashed some water on his face and went in search of breakfast.
Aimee, bless her, had made bacon and coffee. Her laptop was plugged in on the kitchen table.
“Morning, baby,” he said as he kissed the top of her head.
“Hey, honey. You want me to make toast for you?” she said without taking her eyes off the screen.
“I think I can manage. Now, when I get the bread out of the bag, where do I put it?” He held a slice of bread in each hand and waited for a laugh, a chuckle, anything from Aimee. She continued to stare at her laptop.
“Okay, tough room.” Shane poured a cup of coffee, buttered his toast when it was ready and dropped three pieces of bacon on each slice. He folded the bread up and devoured the first slice in two bites. Assuming Aimee was working, which she seemed to do most of the time, he quietly drank his coffee and finished the other slice, this time in three bites. He considered reading the paper but the last thing he needed to subject himself to was the harsh reality of life. He had enough on his mind without reading about who was murdered in the Bronx and what countries were on the brink of war today. Nothing in that paper was as grave as the news he had heard yesterday.
