Unholy Advent: Deception Of The Christ

by Brandon Messerschmidt

"Where the hell are they?" A famished Tony Matea groaned.

  "I don't know, Creep." Washington responded, feeling equally as weak as his afflicted partner.

  With no clock or daylight shining into the hole by which to judge, the two newest prisoners of this mysterious penitentiary couldn't tell exactly how long it had been seen they'd seen a corrections officer. Their growling stomachs, however, told them it had been at least several days.

  The first few hours they had spent together in this cell intended for the solitary confinement of disobedient inmates were uncomfortable to say the least, but the misery in which they existed now was miles beyond what could be considered humane by the standards they'd grown accustomed to in The United States of America.

  Washington's chest wound had grown stiff and felt infected in the absence of care. Movement of his left arm was inhibited by the pain it caused, leading him to hold it bent at the elbow in front of his stomach as though it were in a wrist to shoulder cast.

  The two of them grew increasingly disoriented with each passing minute, hunger and dehydration playing tricks with their minds. They had been able to drink from the steel sink in the room until the supply was seemingly turned off. Then, they resorted to drinking the water from their filthy commode until it too ran dry.

  "Hey, yo!" A man shouted from a cell somewhere within the wing. "My toilet's overflowed, man! Get somebody down here!"

  "Shut up!" Creeper hollered back, incensed. "God dam it, you've been yelling for hours now! Nobody's coming to fix your fuckin' toilet! Who are you telling -- us? We know it's overflowing, we can SMELL it!"

  "What am I supposed to do, man?" The voice asked. "I've got piss and shit all over the floor in here!"

  "The same thing the rest of us have had to do -- live with it, asshole!"

  "Man, kiss my ass! I'm gonna shove this hunk of shit down your throat when I get outta here!"

  "Fuck you!" Matea's voice cracked at the severity he put into the curse, beating his fist against the solid steel of the cell door as he did.

  "Chill!" Washington ordered, grabbing Creeper by the shoulder. "You can't be wasting your energy like that, Creep... survival mode, Tony -- remember survival mode. Conserve yourself... breathe deep, relax, clear your mind. We're gonna get out of here eventually, and we're gonna need to be ready to go when we do."

  Even with his energy waning, Washington was confident in his resolve. He had spoken with Irving, his long lost father, at length after clearing the initial emotional hurdles between them. His intense anger towards the man was cooled, though not extinguished through their conversation.

  He learned that the man was troubled from his childhood, having been diagnosed with a severe learning disability early in his life. He had struggled in school, dropping out before completing the sixth grade to follow in the footsteps of the gangsters in his oppressed neighborhood. They had money, cars and women; the three key measures of success in a poor and dying inner-city area. While most teenagers were studying for mid-terms or preparing for their first dates, Irving Washington was slinging cocaine and pimping prostitutes for the leaders of his block.

  These facts didn't absolve him of his crimes; he was a killer, in more ways than one. It did, however, buy him a degree of latitude and understanding from his forsaken son.

  Commander Robert Washington had been blessed in comparison to the life his father had led; his nana worked well beyond normal retirement age to keep him in a safe neighborhood. They were still well beyond impoverished; her minimum wage stipend wasn't even adequate to furnish the small apartment they lived in. The woman swallowed her pride and accepted food stamps to feed them, though, and put on a brave face when he was with her; swearing to him that he was as good as any of the wealthier children in the suburb.

  She was a strict disciplinarian, calling upon The Lord for strength and beating the devil out of Washington when he strayed from the line. He came up well under her watchful eye, joining The Navy immediately upon graduation from high school and setting off around the world in a quest to make his grandmother proud.

  When age finally caught up with the woman she had made it clear to Robert how pleased she was with what he had become. Even on her deathbed, she praised him endlessly. He was her Mona Lisa; the crown jewel of the work she had done upon this Earth. The smile she wore when she passed carried him through many dark places once he became a SEAL, shining upon him still - even in the darkness of this foreboding prison. She came to him when he slept; forcing him to maintain the determination she had instilled in him even while his physical strength wasted away.

  "I don't know how much longer I can hold out, Little Rob." The senior Washington said softly from his pen across the hall from the soldiers. "I'm not as young as I used to be, son -- think I might die here in this cell -- soon."

  "You hold on, Dad." The Commander directed. "Something's gonna happen for us here... I know it is."

  "It's a strange thing, Rob." Irving continued. "That man that came through and told me you two were coming -- that man I thought was a guard... I could swear that it was the Lord Jesus himself."

  "It was Dad." Washington answered emphatically. "It was Him. I saw him in the desert; he saved me when I should've died. Then, he sent me here. I didn't know why, at first... but I know now."

  "You do?" Matea broke in to ask.

  "Oh yes." He explained. "For the whole of my life I've carried a heavy weight on my shoulders, just as my dad said when we got here. I was consumed by it -- it was present every second of every day; everything I did was driven by it. It was hatred -- the most pervasive kind... hatred for you, Dad. I thought you were dead, but still I hated you and Momma both for what you did to me -- to nana. You'd just run off and left us behind to pick up the pieces."

  "I never wanted to do that, son. It was the life I was born in to -- I didn't have a choice!"

  "You did have a choice, Dad -- that's what you need to learn through all of this. You took the easy route... crawling through a hole in the wall instead of having the courage to climb over. But I forgive you, now. That's why I was sent here - to exalt myself from the chains I've worn for all these years. I'm free now -- ready to fight!"

  "Who the hell are we supposed to fight?" Creeper rightly asked. "We're stuck in a damned prison cell!"

  "We won't be for long." Washington replied. "I'm sure of that."

  "How?"

  Washington looked at his friend with the undeniable certainty that had driven him through the ranks of the military in his eyes.

  "Nana’s told me in my dreams."

  The intensity in his stare was compelling, but Matea was far beyond the gullibility and chain of command indoctrination that had been driven into his skull during his time in the armed forces. He chuckled nervously, some part of him still afraid that Washington would snap him back into rank with an enraged outburst.

  "Great!" Creeper laughed. "Just great... we're trapped with no food or water in a small room that smells of shit and armpit - and we're counting on a dream to get us through the night."

  "Hey!" The man with the plugged toilet shouted again. "Are you the plumber, chump? I've got real problems here!"

  "Sorry." Another strange voice replied. "I can't help you."

  "Aw, what the fuck?"

  "Who's that?" Matea wondered.

  Washington shook his head as he moved to the door, trying to peak through the small hole where meals should have been passed in to them.

  "Excuse me." The man asked someone else in the block. "How long have you been here?"

  "What the fuck does it matter to you, priest?" A voice answered violently.

  "How long have you been here, sir?" The questioner continued, sounding closer to them now.

  The inquiries continued, the man seemingly asking the inhabitant of every chamber the same question and receiving very similar answers each time.

  "I think this is it..." Washington said calmly to
Creep. "I think this is what we've been waiting for."

  "You, sir." The man continued, this time asking Irving Washington in his room across the hall. "How long have you been here?"

  "I've been here a very long time, Father," Irving answered. "But I believe you've come for my son and his friend -- they're in the cell just behind you."

  Suddenly the window Washington peered out of was covered by a strange and disturbing face; one eye returning the Commander's stare and holding for several seconds before the man spoke.

  "You there." The man said. "What is your name? How long have you been here?"

  "There are two of us." Washington replied. "I'm Commander Robert Washington - my partner, Captain Tony Matea, is here with me."

  The stranger's eye lit up at the answer.

  "You're soldiers?" He asked excitedly.

  "The best!" Matea glowed in return. "United States Navy Seals, baby!"

  "Oh, this is excellent! Gentlemen; my name is Father Cameron Jennings... I've been sent here to retrieve you -- by Jesus Christ himself."

  "We've been waiting for you." Washington explained. "But -- I'm not sure why. What does The Lord want of us?"

  "A great battle is brewing, gentlemen." Jennings said. "An army of demons commanded by the devil himself is closing on the Holy Land! You are commanded by God himself to fight there, in his name!"

  "Perfect!" Matea cried. "There's just one problem, sir -- we're stuck in this fucking cage! We haven't seen a guard in days and we're starving to death in here. How the hell do you suggest we make it to this battle of yours?"

  "The guards are gone -- you'll see why soon enough." Jennings offered. "But I found keys -- I've got them here. It might take me a while to find the right one, but I'll get you out. Then I must go and collect the rest of the warriors - you'll have to find your own means of sustaining yourself as you make your way to Israel."

  "One step at a time." Washington responded. "Just get us out of here!"

  Jennings looked over the keys he'd found; a massive jumble of metal hanging on a giant iron ring. There must've been a hundred of them, but the very first one he tried worked the mechanism of the lock and set the soldiers free.

  They were elated to leave the room, hoping never to be so close to each other again despite their tight bond.

  "Come this way." Jennings ordered, walking down the corridor. "You need to see this."

  The preacher led them to the yard, where the unfortunate events that led to their trip to the hole had transpired. The sky was dark as night now, save for an inferno raging to the west.

  "I've seen this before." Washington remarked as he stared at the curtain of fire closing on the prison. "During freefall." He explained to Matea. "Just before the raid on Ali Sabra's compound."

  "Whoa, whoa -- hold on!" Jennings exclaimed. "The two of you are familiar with Ibrahim Ali Sabra?"

  "Familiar?" Matea laughed. "We were gonna kill the son of a bitch, before everything went nuts."

  "What happened?" The preacher asked.

  "What didn't happen." Washington answered. "His men got the best of us. I was nearly killed -- that's when we saw The Lord..."

  "He led Ali Sabra away." Matea continued.

  "Away where?"

  "Into the clouds."

  "Son of a bitch..." The priest recoiled. "I still can't believe it."

  "Believe what, father?" Washington questioned. The preacher paused in consideration, looking up to the fire before continuing.

  "It doesn't matter..." Came an enigmatic response. "You must get out of here -- now -- before that column of flame gets here. It will chase you all the way to the shores of the Atlantic ocean."

  "What do we do then?"

  "You'll have to find a way to get yourselves across -- then the Mediterranean sea will stand between you and Jerusalem."

  "Okay --" Matea said doubtfully. "So what, we just walk across? We'll die of old age if we don't drown before we get there!"

  "There will be a way." Washington insisted. "We'll get there in time for the fight."

  "Excellent." Jennings approved. "You should leave now - you haven't much time before this place is burnt to the ground."

  "We'd better get to work letting these people out, then."

  Jennings snapped his head back to the Commander at this suggestion, looking shocked at the statement.

  "These people are prisoners." He said. "We can't just let them free -- there's no telling what they might do."

  "Well we certainly can't just leave them here to die!" Washington argued. "Besides, you said we've got an army of demons waiting for us out there... we're gonna need all the help we can get!"

  The preacher seemed to consider this for a moment, but the uncertainty didn't clear from his face.

  "Do what you will." He concluded. "I have to go now." Handing Washington the heavy ring of keys, he turned to leave. "Just hurry... before it's too late."

  "You heard the man!" The Commander advised. "Let's go!"

  Washington split the keys into two halves, giving one to Creeper as they raced back into the facility. Matea started in the general population wing of the place, opening cells and tossing keys to the men within as quickly as he could without so much as a word of explanation.

  The Commander went directly to the hole, freeing the man he knew now as his father first. They set eyes on each other for the first time in thirty years, each taking time to look the other over and being delighted at the resemblance they saw to themselves. The elder Washington looked much like his son, only a thickening grey showing their separation in years. They hugged briefly but knew time was short, so they split up to free as many men as was possible.

  Opening the last cell in corridor brought an unwelcome surprise as a familiar biker emerged to stare Washington down... it was the man who had stabbed him in riot of the yard.

  "Hey, nigger." The man greeted him with ice in his eyes. "Come back for more?"

  "There's no time for that." Washington answered the charge. "If it's death you're after - stay put in that cage for a couple of minutes. Otherwise, take some of these keys and help me for Christ's sake."

  The Commander tried to move away but was stopped as the prisoner grabbed hold of his jumpsuit, putting pressure on his wound and bringing a wince to his face.

  "What is this, man?" The racist asked. "Who was that priest? Where the hell are the guards?"

  "They're gone... maybe dead. We will be too if we don't hurry, so please... either hit me so I can feeling justified in knocking you out, or help me."

  Washington tried to leave again, and again the man stopped him, holding him tightly and staring into his soul.

  "Come on, brother!" The Commander snapped. "We ain't got time for this!"

  "I ain't your brother..." He snarled. "If we're gonna work together here, you call me Chrome." With the official introduction the man's grimace gave way to a smile, devious though it was. Washington returned it, sharing an awkwardly warm moment with the man who had tried to kill him just days ago.

  "My friends call me Mamba... but you can call me Commander Washington." He quipped.

  "Right." Chrome chuckled. "Let's do this."

  Chapter 23