Apocrypha Sequence: Divinity

by Shane Jiraiya Cummings

  Does the world really need an Antichrist? It's doing a fine enough job killing itself without some supernatural power twisting the knife.

  I couldn't do it—the pill thing, I mean. Not with Abigail watching. Not with Max and Rex carrying on. As I was taking the pills back to the bathroom, Lucia caught me with them and gave me one hell of a thrashing. I think she drew blood. I can look forward to another night lying on my stomach and side. Bitch. Definitely a lake of fire for her. Or something with maggots. Everyone hates maggots.

  May 29

  A girl was waiting in my room when I came home from school today. Sexy-looking private school type. Long dark hair. She said her name was Abigail and that she was my half-sister. We talked all night and Aunt Lucia didn't barge in on me once. Hooray for small mercies.

  June 1

  Abigail (the girl, not the bird) visited again tonight. She was waiting for me after dinner, perched on the window sill. The window was permanently open because of the glass thing.

  We talked for a bit, but then, oh my god (should I say "oh my god"?), the things we did! Tonight has been the best night of my life! She didn't even bruise when we touched!

  I don't care if she's a bird, or my sister, or whatever. She's mine.

  June 4

  The way she moves is like magic. The starlight shimmers in her hair. We walked the gardens tonight and the crows circled above. I thought it was a bit creepy at first, but it was kind of romantic.

  If the world is going to Hell, at least I'll have her here with me.

  June 5 - 6.06pm

  It's my birthday at midnight. The end of days. The big A. I'm not a bad person. I don't want to be. But the world is a sick place. It's in my blood like a disease. It needs to be cleansed. I need to be cleansed. I feel like I'm dying.

  If I'm a deadbeat like my Dad, remember it's in my nature.

  I hope the world forgives me. What will be left of it, anyway. It's all pre-destined, right? It has to go down this way? I'm not a monster, but if I turn into one, I'll always remember the few good things about life.

  I hope people remember the good things about me.

  June 5 - 11.53pm

  This will probably be my last entry for a while. Abigail is waiting down stairs with Max and Rex. Lucia's there too, with a whole bunch of those robed loonies.

  Maybe I can use them to practice on? The thought's only crossed my mind a million times since all this shit was laid on me. Finally, I think there might be some justice in the world!

  If there's work to be done, then I guess I'll have to step up to the plate, right? I figure the first wave will be the horror movie monsters. Freddy. Jason. Pinhead. The dude from Chainsaw Massacre—Leatherface? They'll spread the message, good and proper. Then comes the zombies, not those wack-job sprinting ones but the shambling kind. Then there's the maggots. Maybe zombies with maggots for eyes? Everyone hates maggots.

  Midnight approaches. I can feel it.

  The crows are gathering.

  * * *

  Blasphemy on Eight Wheels

  The convoy rumbled through the city in the dead of night, heedless of the storm raging overhead. Leading the way, two Humvees straddled the road, forcing stray motorists aside. Edgy soldiers in black balaclavas camped atop the vehicles. Their swivel-mounted machine guns silenced all protests as the truck sped past.

  Another three Humvees trailed the modified eight-wheel troop transport. Their heavy calibre guns were poised for any signs of hostility.

  The constant thunder, the lightning, and the lashing wind chafed everyone's nerves. The soldiers felt it, felt the pressure building. Something restless stirred in the air.

  "The transfer at the airport went smoothly, sir," Corporal Ricks mumbled, careful not to antagonise the Major.

  The truck's cabin was filled with tension. The epicentre of tense. And Ricks was right in the middle of it, stuck behind the wheel.

  "Major?" Ricks interrupted some internal monologue raging within his CO.

  "Yes?" The Major continued to stare out the window.

  The streets blurred by in a haze of glare and lightning. The reinforced glass of the windshield distorted the flickering light, twisted it into sharp, ugly shapes. Fortunately, the rain held off, saving Ricks from dealing with smudged, ugly shapes.

  Beads of sweat formed along his hairline as he studied Major Douglas from the corner of his eye. The Major was fidgeting and distant, intent on something outside that only he could see. This was the first time Ricks had served under Douglas and he knew little about his new CO. Drowning in this tense silence didn't help.

  "How many of these runs have you done, sir?" He tried to take the edge off the tension.

  "More 'an I care to remember, Corporal," Major Douglas removed his hat and smoothed greasy strands of hair. "It's Rooks, isn't?"

  "Ricks, sir."

  "Whatever," the Major said, appraising him.

  The spell was broken, the tension relieved, even if by just a fraction.

  "You're new here," the Major went on. "So I'll cut ya some slack. How many rigs like this you jockeyed, son?"

  "Two years in the Engineering Corps driving these rigs, sir. Another six months in East Africa. Humanitarian drops mostly," Ricks answered. "You learn how to handle one of these babies pulling ten tons of grain across a minefield at speed, that's for sure," he added, cracking a grin.

  "How many convoys like this?" The Major appeared nonplussed.

  "This is my third, sir. Pulled two loads through Detroit before they transferred me here."

  "Two, huh? You must think you're some kinda hotshot."

  "No, sir." Ricks fixed his eyes on the road. This was his fourth posting in as many years. He knew a power play when he saw one. He'd learned fast to keep his head down and play the runt. There were too many Major Douglases in the world, but at least they were predictable.

  The dashboard nav computer lit up again, with a helpful arrow on screen reminding him to take the next right. He had to hand it to technology. A compact LCD display hooked up to a microprocessor with satellite feed made the job of driving through a strange city, at night, in a storm, too damn easy.

  The computer was programmed with the Nuke Route. With a payload this important, this deadly, you couldn't rely on following your point man. The consequences could be catastrophic if he was compromised or simply took the wrong turn. No, the Nuke Route was carefully planned and pre-programmed into the truck's little black box. Anonymous men in suits had stalked the streets days and weeks earlier, calculating every potential risk long before the cargo was even considered for moving.

  Every city he'd been stationed in had a Nuke Route. The surest, safest way to get nuclear and other hazardous materials through the city without arousing suspicion.

  Following the Humvees into the turn, a tingle buried itself into the back of his neck. As he steadily wrenched the oversized wheel to the right, the hairs rose on his arms.

  "You know what we've got in back, Ricks?" The Major snatched his attention away from properly finishing the turn. It took years of trained reflex and a psychological leaning toward composure to keep the truck steady enough to escape the CO's ire.

  A gust of wind buffeted the truck as more lightning bolts flashed across the sky.

  "No, sir, not exactly." He was careful to remove any edge to his voice. The driving lapse flooded his body with adrenalin.

  "You can feel it, can't you?"

  He noticed the Major was smoothing the hairs on his arm in short, sharp motions, like a man cleansing a violation.

  "Yes," he paused, "yes sir."

  The tingle fluctuated, but as he concentrated on the intangible pressure at the base of his skull, he swore he heard the faint crackle of electricity. His whole skeleton, from skull to toe, was alive with unwelcome latent energy—surging through his flesh.

  "I feel like a friggin' battery." The Major echoed his thoughts while scratching at himself.

  "I agree, sir." Unable to free his hands long enough to sat
isfy the rising itch all over his body, Ricks shifted in his seat. He tried focused instead on the dark roads ahead.

  The office blocks lining the road had given way to the low rises of the inner suburbs. Wind swirled through the empty nocturnal streets. The ominous boom of thunder overshadowed the heavy machinery noise of the convoy speeding from street to street.

  "Well, Ricks, I'll tell you a little secret." Major Douglas smoothed his hair once more.

  Both men now dripped with unwanted sweat despite the coolness outside. The cloying stench of body odour and the Major's failing Brut deodorant filled the cabin. Steam fogged the corners of the windshield.

  "We've got the biggest damn payload there is. The grand daddy of 'em all."

  Ricks gulped, despite himself. He didn't know what that meant, but he could read between the lines: Don't screw this up. Get us safely home.

  "Plugged in, we'll get the entire continent juiced up for the next hundred thousand years," the Major said, trying to sound sagely.

  Not knowing what to say, Ricks nodded and fixed his eyes firmly on the road.

  A beep from the navcom drew his attention. Another right coming up.

  The lead Humvees disappeared around the corner. The road here was tighter than usual, hemmed in by residential blocks on both sides.

  A double burst of lightning struck nearby. He flinched.

  "The Devil's weather, this is," Douglas said. Convinced of his own wives-tale wisdom, the Major nodded like an idiot as he stared into the dark space beyond the window.

  Ahead, a large crowd of people clumped together, cluttering the narrow two lane street.

  "Oh, shit," Ricks muttered.

  Major Douglas blanched.

  The crowd clustered behind huge wooden barricades that blocked the road. Anti-nuclear posters fluttered from the barricades in the stiff midnight breeze.

  The forward Humvees sped up, bearing down on the crowd and their blockade.

  When they saw the vehicles approach, the shuffling mob burst into life. They waved their hands and chanted slogans. The wind tugged at their placards and snatched their voices away, but Ricks could read their lips as he slowed to a cautious crawl.

  The lead Humvees closed the gap at speed. When the armoured vehicles didn't slow down, some of the crowd panicked and melted away. They hid in doorways and behind parked cars. At the last possible second, both Humvees executed hard synchronized turns and screeched to a halt just inches from the banners.

  The leaders of the protest group—those pressed against the barricades—recoiled but stood their ground. There were easily two hundred people still on the street, a diversity of cultures and colours. They renewed their chants after the Humvees pulled up.

  "No Nukes in our streets!" they cried, a ragged cheer that gained momentum as Ricks edged the truck closer.

  The static of a loudspeaker cut through their incessant protest.

  "This is a military operation," the driver of the first Humvee announced over the vehicle's speaker. Ricks recognised the voice as belonging to Lieutenant Anders, an intense guy about his age.

  "Desist immediately and clear the road," Anders went on, his hoarse voice amplified by the loudspeaker. "Or we will open fire."

  The crowd paused, stunned by the direct threat, but only for a moment. One of the leaders, a gaunt, bearded man in an orange robe, threw a fist in the air and renewed the chant.

  "No Nukes in our streets!"

  "No Nukes in our streets!"

  Their placards waved defiantly in the stiff breeze, a sea of messages decrying the evils of nuclear power.

  Ricks eased the truck to a stop, about a car's length behind the Humvees. He shifted the rumbling engine into neutral and caught sight of the rear Humvees closing in from behind.

  "Holy mother! What in damnation are these people playin' at ..." Major Douglas's tirade exploded into a string of curses.

  A hot flush rose through Ricks' cheeks. The wavering energy field intensified again, penetrating seat and steel to jolt down his spine.

  "What do we do, sir?" He scanned the blockade for any gaps.

  "Stow it, son," Douglas shot back, reaching for his walkie talkie. "Anders, this is Douglas. If this rabble isn't gone in thirty seconds, open fire, goddammit."

  "Sir, you can't! They're innocent civilians!"

  "If you had any fuckin' idea what's in the back of this truck, you'd have given the order to fire before we stopped!" Major Douglas screamed. "So shut yer damn hole and drive this damn rig when I give the all clear. Is that understood?"

  "Yes, sir," Ricks said through clenched teeth.

  He stared straight ahead, searching the faces of the gathered crowd, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. He refused to meet the eye of the hateful madman sitting next to him.

  The chanting outside had reached fever pitch. All Ricks could make out was a raucous chorus of yelling.

  Anders again ordered the crowd to disperse but the constant clap of thunder drowned out both him and the crowd.

  Protesters broke the line, trickling around the barricades and towards the vehicles. The trickle soon turned into a flood as waves of people with placards spilled across the road.

  A volley of heavy machine gun fire rocked the crowd, deafening even the constant thunder. Lieutenant Anders had opened fire across the swarms of people.

  Ricks flinched at the sound. His heart almost exploded, thumping hard as he scanned the faces milling in confusion. Panic was rife. Seconds later, he came to understand the booming machine gun fire was just a warning. The spray had been fired into the air.

  People screamed in the confusion, stumbling over each other and trampling the fallen as they fought to clear the street.

  Amid the confusion, the gunfire, the wind and weather, Ricks noticed too late that an old bus had blocked the road behind.

  "Sir, it's a trap!"

  Rapt in the chaos infecting the crowd, it took long seconds for Major Douglas to realise what he was saying. An instant later, one of the forward Humvees exploded in a fireball. The whole world shook as thunder echoed the massive explosion.

  A wide circle of people who had been milling around the Humvee were thrown to the ground, victims of the blast. Some groaned and rolled around. Many didn't move.

  "Oh, shit!" Ricks fumbled as he shifted the gear stick back into first.

  More gunfire, lighter calibre this time, erupted from nearby buildings. The staccato sounds punctured the wind and the screams of fleeing protesters.

  The Humvee gunners returned fire, blasting away at the surrounding apartment blocks. Thunder boomed in chorus but failed to drown out the harsh sounds of mechanised war.

  Amid the crowd, men in orange robes lingered. Ricks watched with horror as the wind snatched at their robes and revealed glimpses of weapons concealed beneath.

  "Sir, sir!" he tugged at the CO. "The orange robes. Target them."

  The Major was vacant, lost to some soul-crushing struggle weighing on him. The stress was obvious on his already-lined face.

  Ricks snatched the walkie talkie from the Major and bellowed orders into the device. "Take out the orange robes. I repeat. Take out the orange robes."

  The fierce sounds of Humvee machine gun fire had diminished. Searching his mirrors, he saw two of the rear Humvee gunners were dangling from their roofs like rag dolls. The same fate befell Lieutenant Anders' gunner as a spray of red mist burst from his back.

  The remainder of the protesters had fled, leaving only the dead and wounded bleeding on the blacktop.

  The robed men closed in on the Humvees, pulled out rifles, and blasted away at the vehicles.

  Someone in Anders' Humvee kicked the vehicle forward and crashed through the barricades. Anti-nuclear banners were sheared off in the demolition, caught by the wind, and soared away like spectres in the night.

  A rain of bullets shattered the Humvee's already damaged windshield, sending the vehicle crashing into a parked station wagon. The car buckled under the w
eight, collapsing as the Humvee came to rest on its hood.

  Escape was impossible now. There were too many wounded bodies strewn across the road for Ricks to move the truck.

  "Get out and defend the cargo," Ricks screeched at the Major, tugging at his arm.

  Ricks grabbed his M16 rifle stowed by the door, kicked the door open, and jumped free of the cabin. Seconds later, Major Douglas had regained his senses, worked his pistol free, and jumped down beside him.

  The noise was oppressive outside the cabin. Gale force winds made walking a struggle but both men managed as they headed for the truck's rear.

  The Humvees were silenced—either hollow, fiery wrecks or riddled with bullet holes.

  Two orange-robed men ran towards them, their rifles funnelling fire as they approached. Crouched by the truck, Douglas and Ricks returned fire. The wind made accuracy difficult, but Ricks and the Major were the truer aims, taking down the robed attackers in short bursts.

  Huddled by the truck's rear door, bullets sprayed all around them. At least a dozen orange-robed men fired at will from all directions.

  Pinned down by the gunfire, Ricks failed to see the robed man sneak up and release the door latch from the far side of the truck.

  At first, wavering in the wind, the steel door crashed to the ground with a thud like localised thunder.

  "No!" Douglas charged forward, firing his pistol with abandon.

  He took out two orange robes but was caught in a withering rain of return fire. Major Douglas spasmed and collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut. His killers stepped from cover and pressed their advantage against Ricks, the only soldier still left on the battlefield.

  Desperate to hold the truck from the attackers, Ricks was too preoccupied to chance a look inside.

  More gunfire erupted from somewhere behind the encircling line of robed men. Ricks suppressed a cheer. One of his escorts had re-entered the battle.

  Chaos ensued.