The Prophet Box-Set: Books 1-4

by David Beers

  The humming around her increased in intensity, yet the fat man in front of her stood as if he didn’t notice. His eyes staring at her, frozen, looking like an iced-over pond. The thin man behind was pale and silent. Nicki saw a dark stain spreading across his pants—he was urinating on himself.

  NOW!

  The gray inside Nicki started welling up, called either by the voice or the fear racing through her own body. Making its presence known, warning her to protect herself. Nicki didn’t reach for it. She remained hanging, unmoving, watching the madness spill out around her.

  The buzzing in her bones made its way to her teeth—they started chattering. The room was fading, too. Blackness didn’t swarm the outer edges of her vision, but rather swirled in from the center, a tunnel growing larger.

  The voice spoke, but the fury in it was gone. A cold truth had replaced it.

  If you don’t act now, It’s over. It’s all over. Do you understand that? However they’re doing this, if they force you out there, right in front of It, you’re dead. Your body might still live here, but your mind—your very soul—It will consume everything. I told you that nothing was over, that everything was only beginning. It has left you alone because It doesn’t think you’re important. If they thrust you in front of It, though, It will act.

  Either do something now, or die.

  Trinant One stared at the True Faith members aboard their ships; their bodies were glowing green and they floated off the floor like balloons. She swallowed, understanding nothing of what was before her. She was receiving no more communications about what was taking place inside the High Priest’s home, and that meant she had only one option left.

  “I’m attacking,” she said to the Pope.

  He was seeing the same thing as her. He had to know that there was no other choice.

  The Pope was quiet for a few seconds, the video of the dying True Faith members filling the silence. Finally he said, “Okay.”

  “Use all means necessary to destroy that building,” Trinant commanded.

  The massive screen in front of her reverted back to looking at a long view of the High Priest’s house. The True Faith’s ships were visible now, their camouflage vanished, replaced with the same green light that she’d seen lining the inside of their walls.

  Are we too late? she wondered.

  The One Path’s ships were still hidden, the High Priest unable to affect their technology. Trinant could only see them by the yellow dots that lay over the screen—for a moment at least.

  Bright red circles pulsed to life across the screen. Hundreds of them, all circling around the massive building in the center, the camouflage unable to conceal the lasers warming up.

  The black swirled in front of Nicki’s vision, growing larger and slowly covering the world like flowing ink.

  Nicki knew where she was going, back to that black space. Somehow, this machine and the ‘Disciples’ were thrusting her to it, with those exploding lights and that huge hazy globe.

  All of this—the men and their nearly incomprehensible conversation, the sight, the goddamned box surrounding her—it had all been about control … using her to … to what? All of these people around her wanted to control, to take her freedom and use it for …

  And Nicki understood it didn’t matter what they used it for.

  The Black. The voice. These people. Those that had chased her since the sight arrived. All of it had been about control. And now she hung inside a machine that had taken everything from her. Two men she didn’t know and a voice she didn’t understand all wanting different things from her.

  Use it, the voice said, still trying to whip Nicki’s thoughts in line. Use the gray.

  The black ink had nearly filled her vision, and she was beginning to see the orange explosions—though they were much closer now. Before they had been far away, as if she’d sat a far distance from them. Now they felt like they were right next to her face, and if the black ink completely filled her vision, she might be inside the explosions.

  “It’s working,” someone said, though Nicki couldn’t see who.

  Everything depends on you, the voice told her, just another in the chorus of people wanting to use her. Right now. You’re out of time.

  Nicki didn’t know what the voice was talking about—how anything could depend on her. All she wanted to do was survive, to somehow make it out of here alive.

  No more thinking, the voice said, sounding as if it was near the point of pleading. Use it. The gray.

  Nicki could barely see any of the room anymore. The steady beat of explosions filled her senses, and just behind them, she saw It.

  The Black.

  That’s what she’d been staring at before, unable or unwilling to actually say it aloud.

  Yes, the voice said. Yes. And now you’re almost at It. They’re going to force you to It. Use the gray, or It all ends.

  And Nicki knew the voice wasn’t lying. Everyone in this room might be using her, the voice included, but it was the only one giving her an option for life.

  The gray.

  Fuck them all, Nicki thought and reached down deep. She dropped both hands into that gray well of static inside her.

  And as she did, she heard her father shout.

  “Nicki!”

  For a moment, and no more, the First Priest understood what was happening around him. It was a frightening—no, terrifying—moment.

  He heard the hum of the box. He watched the air inside it start shaking, making the girl look hazy as air molecules vibrated around her. The High Priest stood in front of the box, not moving at all.

  Another, louder noise began outside. The First Priest didn’t turn his head to look at it, because he didn’t need to. It was the One Path’s lasers coming alive, and he knew that in a few seconds, this entire place would be reduced to a flaming wreckage falling from the sky.

  Urine leaked down the side of his leg, and the First Priest felt that too. Hot—almost strikingly so.

  The lasers’ power was growing, and the whole building vibrated with it. The First Priest’s legs shook, the floor beneath letting him know exactly what was about to come.

  With a horrible moment of clarity, the First Priest saw the hazy girl inside the box, and he had a moment to think, This is what we were all so scared of. This right here.

  The First Priest knew with Corinth’s certainty that the world was over, because her eyes were full of static gray, sparking alive the same way the Prophet’s had.

  Someone shouted, but the First Priest couldn’t make out the words. He could only see the blazing gray inside the hanging woman’s eyes.

  And then it shot forward, and the First Priest no longer had to worry about understanding anything.

  Fifty-Eight

  The Prophet had fallen from the sky.

  Those who loved him had watched with horror. Those who feared him had stared on with hope.

  His name had been David Hollowborne and he brought a war to the world, in service of a creature only he understood.

  He fell through blue sky, and then through puffy, white clouds wherein he disappeared from view.

  The Prophet continued falling, his back facing the world beneath and his arms and legs trailing upward into the sky. His long black hair rushed around his face, whipping with the wind.

  Unconscious, the Prophet had no idea death was approaching him—coming to claim him as it eventually did everyone, Prophet or not.

  Ten thousand feet turned into five thousand, and then two thousand, and finally at a thousand feet from death gray light rippled behind his closed eyelids.

  Small and without ferocity, energy trying to spark kindling, but having almost no time.

  It grew though, from the Prophet or the creature he served, the gray light slowly replaced the natural color of his eyes.

  And still he fell, growing closer and closer to the bone crushing ocean beneath.

  At 500 feet, the Prophet’s eyes opened and gray light spilled out. It spread quickly—des
perately—around his body. It created a thin membrane and could do no more.

  Time was up.

  The Prophet slammed into the water, huge geysers shooting into the air. He barely slowed, but sank deeper and deeper. The gray light around him pulled tight, creating an almost second skin. The Prophet’s eyes remained open, though no life besides the otherworldly light shone in them. He kept falling further and the black ocean water enveloped him.

  Deep, deep, the Prophet went, until his momentum finally halted and he stopped miles underneath the surface.

  His nearly dead eyes stared endlessly up, seeing nothing. The gray light continued circling around him, flowing from his eyes and wrapping him in that protective cocoon. From miles around, lifeforms swam to it, not understanding the new light in their home, but watching it helplessly.

  The Prophet had fallen from the sky, and then he had sunk into the ocean.

  The world continued on above, with few concerned about the fallen man. Days passed and the Prophet did not move—neither alive nor dead. Somewhere above, a voice whispered that nothing was finished, and that things were just beginning, but the Prophet could not hear it.

  Days turned into a week.

  On land, decisions were made—some horrid, some good—but none touched the Prophet.

  And finally, nearly at the same place where he’d fallen, gray light ripped across the sky. It stretched for miles and miles around, so that nothing else could be seen.

  And in that moment, when those above saw gray death sweeping for them, deep beneath the ocean, the Prophet’s mouth opened and he breathed in. The gray light surrounding him flowed into his mouth, his lungs, and life was granted to David Hollowborne once more.

  The Prophet awoke.

  To be concluded…

  The Prophet: Resurrection

  Rachel Veritros

  Everyone involved with Rachel Veritros felt her influence on a very, very personal level. Indeed, for the people who fought at the Nile River, most never fully recovered psychologically from the brutality they witnessed and participated in.

  Four Ministers fought Rachel Veritros. Three survived; the fourth died in the collapse of the Constant Ministry’s capital.

  For The Old World’s Pope, Frances XIV—he only served in his position for two years following the war’s end.

  During his last week of service, the Pope’s hands wouldn’t quit shaking. When he picked up a cup of coffee, it rattled all the way to his mouth, and more often than not, spilled down his chin. The burns from such unfortunate accidents were bad, but they weren’t the reason he was ultimately asked to step down.

  While the Church’s official reasons for the man’s retirement were dignified, the truth was his mind had snapped. At least that’s what the people nearest to him said.

  Such things were only whispered about in the beginning.

  “The Pope is not well.”

  “He’s not sleeping.”

  “He’s raving at night.”

  The whispers grew louder though, as more voices joined in the chorus. To be fair, they also grew louder because the Pope’s actions … became more severe.

  “SHE’S NOT DEAD!” he finally shouted at a meeting of his Cardinals. “VERITROS ISN’T FUCKING DEAD!”

  The Cardinals had all sat in silence, most staring at the long wooden table in front of them. None knew what to say, especially not in front of the red faced Pope.

  A week later, he was no longer in power and the search for a new Pope began.

  Frances XIV only lived another five years after that, dying at the relatively young age of 72. His mental state had deteriorated further, until he mostly remained secluded in a single room. The people tasked with looking after him said that he conversed with himself quite often, though to them it sounded as if he was speaking with Veritros.

  They said the conversations were one sided, as if the Pope wanted the apparition to speak, but she wouldn’t.

  Frances XIV’s mental state continued deteriorating until he died alone in his bed. The person that found him said that his eyes were open, as if he’d been staring at the ceiling and not sleeping.

  The One Path’s Minister also came to an unsettling end, especially for someone with so much power and wealth. Her name—like all of the One Path’s Ministers—was Trinant One. Her breakdown came 15 years after the war, though she was even younger than the Pope, only 55 years old.

  Trinant’s hands didn’t shake, but her aides noticed the woman had begun to stare off into the sky for long hours.

  Hours.

  She would walk to the edge of her office and then stop, looking outside the Globe of One. Arms at her sides, she would stare out the huge windows until someone interrupted her. A recording showed she did this one morning for five hours before someone finally ventured inside her office. It was an eerie thing to see, watching her stand without moving—a slight sway from time to time—and only watching the clouds pass.

  Staring out a window certainly wasn’t enough to remove Trinant One from power, however. No one would even consider such a thing.

  Unfortunately for Trinant, that was only the beginning of her problems.

  An aide found her naked, standing in the hallway outside of her apartment inside the Globe. The aide had served Trinant for 20 years, yet when she walked up to her Minister, Trinant didn’t recognize her.

  “You’re not her,” the Minister said.

  “I’m not who, Your Grace?”

  “Veritros.”

  The aide did her best to get the woman first inside her apartment, then clothed. To her credit, the aide never spoke of what she found, not even after the horrible affair that took place.

  Trinant One quit making decisions, though not with any decree. Her time spent staring at the sky simply took up a larger and larger portion of her day, and her mind.

  “Your Grace,” one of her inner consortium said. “We’re growing concerned.”

  Trinant One didn’t hesitate. “I am as well.”

  “What concerns you, Your Grace?”

  “I don’t think she ever really left.”

  “Who?”

  “Veritros,” Trinant responded.

  The One Path never had the opportunity to remove their leader from power. Six months into her growing despondency, Trinant One woke up, went to her office, and began staring just as she had done for the past month.

  Recordings showed she stared for two hours.

  At the end of them, she walked closer to the window, then began banging her head against it. It started out softly, but grew into a steady drumbeat of whack … whack … WHACK. The office’s recording system captured it perfectly.

  This continued for another ten minutes.

  Then, Trinant abruptly stopped and stepped back from the window. Blood leaked down her head and the window, though neither seemed to notice.

  The windows that lined her office were floor to ceiling—ten long panels.

  The recording showed Trinant not moving at all as the panel in front of her slowly descended into the floor. Gusts of wind rushed in almost immediately, ruffling her long blonde hair across her face.

  Once the window had completely disappeared, Trinant One simply walked forward—and without pausing—committed suicide. She fell for miles before hitting the ocean. Her body was never recovered.

  The world recovered after Rachel Veritros, though very slowly. It was an odd feeling for years afterward, both for her followers and enemies. Her apostles fled across the globe, doing their best to hide from the constant manhunt. Even as they ran, or awaited trial (some were afforded this luxury), they couldn’t believe their Prophet was dead. Their very bones felt different, as if some portion of their marrow had been extracted.

  Her enemies lived in fear that she wasn’t truly gone. That she would return. Because it made no sense. One moment she had descended into the river, and the next she had simply ceased existing.

  What truly scared them was that they understood how close they’d been to
losing.

  “We were lucky,” those in high positions said.

  That truth never wound its way down to the laymen, though. No, each Ministry kept up appearances, putting the glory on their respective gods.

  Outside of the two deceased Ministers, no one else spoke her name as the years passed. In the world’s mind, she became one with the Black—evil, and unmentionable.

  After a while, even those on high stopped thinking about her. They stopped thinking about the Nile River and the war that took place. Rachel Veritros passed from the minds of those who fought her.

  Those who knew her, and had followed her, eventually died.

  Something happened in that river, though, and humanity’s refusal to face it left a massive hole in their knowledge.

  Rachel Veritros had descended into it. She had moved close to the Unformed, understanding that the Union was near. And inside that boiling river, she had finally faced the question she’d refused to ask.

  What does It want?

  The world forever declared her a traitor and a blood-thirsty rebel. She went down in history as one of the most evil human beings to ever draw breath.

  However, the truth was that Rachel Veritros sacrificed herself in hope that she might save humanity.

  It would take nearly a thousand years for her to finally have the opportunity.

  Fifty-Nine

  Rhett was turned around and looking out the back of the transport. “There’s four!”

  “Five!” the woman up front, Brinson, shouted back.

  Rhett now saw the fifth ship as well, dropping down from the top left to join the formation.

  The five of them were running for their lives; including four former prisoners—one rescued during the middle of his execution. Their ship was quickly picking up speed, but now the True Faith’s fist was closing around them.

  Rhett’s hands hurt from strangling Rebecca moments before, but he didn’t look down at them. He kept his eyes on the coming ships. To murder her, he had to first survive this—and killing Rebecca was all he wanted anymore.