by Mark Romang
****
A mile from the bunker as the crow flies, the Legion took cover in a deep hollow surrounded by a coniferous forest, giant boulders and dense undergrowth. The dark warriors were exhausted and beaten down, and their morale hung even lower than their faces.
Many of the six-thousand demons lay sprawled on their backs on the forest floor. Their magnificent wings wrapped around and covered their heaving chests like a blanket.
Almost every demon had sustained a significant battle wound during the altercation in the mine. Puncture wounds and lacerations were the most prevalent injuries. Contusions and stiffness would show up a little later.
A demon named Toragor moved amongst the spent troops, assessing injuries and dressing wounds. Gifted in the healing arts, and having served as a battlefield medic for thousands of years, Toragor had much experience attending to war wounds. He currently treated a demon with an odd puncture wound.
Using his index and middle fingers, Toragor applied a brownish-colored salve to the ugly wound. “Who did you fight?” he asked. “This wound puzzles me.”
The injured demon grimaced, as much from shame as pain. “I’m embarrassed to have to confess this, but it was a saint.”
Toragor stopped what he was doing and looked up. “A saint, you say?”
The demon nodded. “But not just any saint. It was Andrew Maddix.”
Toragor nodded. “Now it all makes sense. Your wound is deep, but it looks like it’s been cauterized by fire.”
“Yes, Maddix used the Eden sword to fight me. During our battle he plunged the sword into my left side. The sword blade caught me aflame. The pain was intense, and still is.”
A demon lounging nearby who somehow escaped injury, piped up, “I don’t know who I fear more, Andrew Maddix and his flaming sword, or Vallen and his giant arrows.”
Toragor’s patient turned his head to face the lounging demon. “I would rather face Vallen. To be bested by a saint is humiliating. And Andrew Maddix is known for his verbal slights. Just before he plunges his sword into an opponent he insults them. He insulted me, and I hate him for his disrespect.”
“Speaking of Vallen, I think I saw him in the mine,” called out a third demon from not far away.
Toragor finished dressing his patient’s wound. “I am not surprised. Where Vallen is you will find Andrew Maddix and his friend Coleton Webb. And sometimes Michael leads them.”
“I didn’t see Michael.”
“Then he wasn’t there. There would’ve been no mistaking his imposing presence. He can barely contain his glow,” Toragor said. He finished treating the warrior demon’s wound and patted him on the shoulder. “You’ll be back and fighting in no time.”
“How soon?”
Toragor shrugged. “Six days, perhaps less if the salve works.”
“That’s only if Lucifer gives us another chance. He’ll be furious when he finds out we failed to possess the young man.”
Toragor nodded. “You have uttered a gross understatement. Lucifer will be outraged. So, if you do receive another chance you’ll have to try even harder. Lucifer does not like it when his plans go awry. He doesn’t like it at all.
Chapter 2
Babylon
Henrik Skymolt breathed air just like everyone else. An inhale followed by an exhale. And this fact made him a paradox.
Tall and handsome with ruddy skin, he looked like the picture of health. But first impressions can be misleading. Skymolt was actually a dead man, a one-time Viking warlord born in the eighth century. And yet here he was in the modern world, walking and talking and assimilating with the living.
Officially, Skymolt had been dead for over 1200 years. When his soul departed his body during a Viking raid on the Isle of Man, another spirit instantly entered his six-foot-eight-inch frame. The spirit was actually a fallen angel named Lucifer.
And Henrik Skymolt had been doing the devil’s bidding ever since.
The Swede stood on the sprawling balcony of his twelve-story palace and surveyed the cityscape below him.
The incredible view captivated him.
He had rebuilt Babylon with his own money and made it the most dazzling city in the world. Babylon’s skyscrapers were the tallest in the world and by far the most breathtaking.
Though not an architect, Skymolt designed and supervised the buildings’ construction himself. And like an artist admiring their greatest masterpiece, he never tired of gazing at his creation.
Skymolt placed his large hands on the balcony railing and took in a deep breath. A warm, morning breeze blew against his face and ruffled his wooly golden locks.
Melancholy suddenly washed over him. A pity Babylon the Great would soon be destroyed. Any day now a massive earthquake would shake the city’s towering skyscrapers and reduce them to rubble. It was going to happen. And there was no way to stop it.
But before the dry, desert ground ever started quaking, darkness would cover Babylon. The sun would refuse to shine its rays on the metropolis. And the city would go black. Very black.
The thick darkness would come courtesy of the fifth bowl judgement.
A disturbance in the breezy air roused Skymolt from his gloomy thoughts. It was a subtle disturbance, but he definitely felt it. His senses were more acute than an ordinary man.
Skymolt shifted his gaze upward and toward the west. He spotted a demon flying high in the sky four miles away. His wings a blur, the demon flew as fast as a fighter jet. A black contrail streaked the blue sky behind him.
Skymolt recognized the demon. It was Zarkien, his top general.
Reaching Babylon’s outskirts, Zarkien dropped down into the city and banked effortlessly around the soaring architecture, weaving in and out amongst the buildings at speeds nearing the sound barrier, his g-force reaching double digits.
As required, Zarkien was reporting in to deliver Skymolt his daily briefing. And judging by Zarkien’s speed, he had something important to say.
Zarkien flew right through a sparkling glass skyscraper rising up near Skymolt’s palace and then put on the brakes. He landed nimbly on the balcony and faced Skymolt. Bowing low, he said, “Master, I didn’t expect to see you in your host body.”
“I have a staff meeting in a few minutes. We have a full slate to cover. If I show my true identity the staff will grow faint and nothing will get done.”
Zarkien nodded solemnly and straightened up. His long sable hair flopped down and covered one eye like a pirate patch. He tucked his charcoal-colored wings behind his back like a cape and stood at attention with his powerful shoulders and chest held back in a regal posture. “I understand,” he said, his voice cold and firm and all business.
Skymolt looked at his general. “Do you have good news to report to me?”
“Some good and some not so good.”
“Tell me the good news first.”
“The armies of the world are beginning to form up. More troops are crossing over the Euphrates River every day and forming battle lines along the plain of Megiddo. The fighting force assembling is uncountable. But it’s taking a long time to cross the river. There are only so many bridges.”
Henrik Skymolt nodded. “Soon the river will recede, and the troops will no longer need bridges to cross over on. They’ll simply drive or walk over on the dry riverbed. This will help immensely with logistics.” Skymolt studied Zarkien’s face closely. “And what is your bad news, Zarkien? Does it involve Tanner Mason?”
Zarkien nodded. “The Legion was unable to enter the young man’s body.”
“How can this be?”
“Tanner Mason possesses a strong faith that is difficult to overcome. But in this case he received help.”
“Help? From who?”
“Evidence points toward a contingent of saints and angels led by Vallen and Andrew Maddix. It is unclear whether Michael was there to defend Tanner Mason. But I wouldn’t be surprised if he was.”
Henrik Skymolt began to pace on his expansive balcony. “Andrew Maddix has been a thorn
in my side for some time,” he said bitterly.
“I must admit he is formidable. But he can’t be everywhere at once.”
Skymolt turned sharply to face Zarkien. “You sound as if you have something in mind, Zarkien.”
“Nothing specific, Master. But I propose we split up the Legion. Send half the demon troops away to create mayhem somewhere else. Hopefully Maddix and his comrades will chase after them. And then the remaining half of the Legion will meet less resistance in their quest to possess Tanner Mason.”
Skymolt started pacing again. His long legs created huge strides. “Perhaps I will give the Legion one more chance. But only one more. I’m going to need them in Megiddo, and possibly Jerusalem.” Skymolt looked at Zarkien slyly. “If only Tanner Mason could be found and arrested by the local UWC officers out there in Washington. Why don’t you find a way to make that happen? The sooner the better.”
Zarkien allowed his hand to dangle and rest on his sword hilt. His fingers, more like the sharp talons of a raptor, curled around the hilt out of habit. “I will do my best, Master. Every time Mason broadcasts a message the noose tightens around him a little more. The UWC is bound to find him soon,” Zarkien said. “But if I may be so bold as to ask you, why the obsession with locating Tanner Mason? He’s just one person. Barely more than a kid, really.”
“Have you forgotten we are at war with God? God wants to save every person through Jesus’ blood and give them an eternal home in Heaven. Conversely, I want to destroy as many humans as I can through temptation and unconfessed sins, and then take them with me to the Lake of Fire. I want as many people as possible to share in my suffering. And every time Tanner Mason makes a broadcast, thousands more become Christ followers. He must be silenced.”
“I see your point, Master.”
“Then do something about it.”
Zarkien bowed low. “I will make Tanner Mason a high priority,” he said. Gathering his powerful wings, Zarkien leaped off the balcony and took flight. He ascended rapidly into the clouds.
Time was running out for him and Lucifer. So he didn’t dare waste even a second. He flapped his wings faster, approaching speeds he’d never flown before. He cut through the Jetstream like a rocket. And the planet below him became nothing but a blur.
He would cross over continents and oceans in just a few brief moments, and then land in the Olympic Peninsula to give the Legion their orders. They dare not fail him again. Lucifer would not accept another defeat. And nor would he.
Chapter 3
Olympic Peninsula
Unlike the exorcised demons who hid deep in the darkest areas of the forest and tended to battle wounds, the angel company stood guard right outside the bunker. They formed a protective circle around the area, and despite their one-sided victory, the angels didn’t relax their attention. They kept vigilant watch over their human charges living inside the hidden gold mine.
Each angel was a decorated warrior and had fought in enough battles to know their foes would not remain down for long. The angels didn’t gloat. Instead they scanned the trees, ever watchful for a counterattack, their gleaming swords drawn and ready to eviscerate.
But not all the members of the company were angels. Five of the two-hundred were saints. And they also were warriors of renown. Two of the saints—Samson and Eleazar—fought their earthly battles long ago: Samson slayed Philistines before Israel even had their first king. And Eleazar fought under David’s command during many of his war campaigns.
The other three saints were Andrew Maddix, his son Spencer Maddix, and Coleton Webb. Maddix and Webb once served together on SEAL Team 8, were veterans of many covert missions on foreign soil, and were tighter than brothers.
Maddix, Spencer, and Webb stood near each other and scanned the woods. Cloud cover obscured the moon and stars and provided scant light to illuminate anything. “The darkness is palpable,” Maddix said in a low voice.
“That makes sense. There’s not a star in the sky to be seen,” Coleton Webb whispered.
“I’m not referring to natural darkness, C-Dub. The darkness I’m talking about is the demons. I can still feel their presence.”
“I know what you mean, Mad Dog. We should’ve kept after them. The ocean isn’t far from here. We could’ve driven them into the sea.”
Spencer grunted softly. “Too bad there isn’t a herd of pigs around here to drive them into.”
“Yeah, that would be perfect. They would feel right at home in the swine,” Webb said, referring to their pre-mission intel that said the demons they just fought were the very ones Jesus had driven into a herd of pigs over two-thousand years ago.
Maddix gripped his sword hilt. He felt at any moment they would be at war again. “Vallen sent out some scouts to reconnoiter the forest. We’ll know soon enough how far they’ve fled,” he said quietly. All demons possess excellent hearing, so Maddix spoke in a hushed tone.
“I bet it’s not far. I can smell their sulfurous breath,” Spencer said.
Maddix nodded his head. “Hell must be a smelly place.”
“Here come the angel scouts,” Webb whispered suddenly. “I’m anxious to hear their report.”
Three angels in an unglorified state exited the timber and floated up to Vallen, who served as captain of the company. Maddix served as second in command. “I’ll be right back. Hang tight,” Maddix said and left his friend and son. The gold mine was situated on a small glade and hidden by a giant pile of boulders. Maddix picked his way carefully along the rocks. He stopped near Vallen and the three scouts.
One of the scouts, an angel named Mithellius served as the speaker. Tall and powerful, he lowered his majestic voice. “The Legion is taking refuge a little less than a mile from here. They are hiding in a hollow surrounded by dense undergrowth. They appear weak and vulnerable. Most are injured in some way. Some are even incapacitated. But all the wounded are being treated by Toragor. I suggest we attack them now before they recover.”
Vallen shook his regal head. “Our orders are specific, Mithellius. We are here to guard the Mason family. We are not to leave their side. To do otherwise would be to disobey God.”
“I do not wish to disobey God. Whatever God orders I will carry out.”
Vallen gave Mithellius a playful slap on the shoulder. “We will all have another crack at the Legion soon enough. I look forward to filling them with arrows just as much as you, Mithellius. But everything in its own time. For now, we perform sentinel duty only. We must be content with that.”
Mithellius nodded. “Where do you want us to take positions?”
“I want the three of you to go back and observe the demons, but from a safe distance. Report back immediately if the Legion moves away from their current position.”
“As you command, Captain. We’ll leave at once.”
Chapter 4
Monroe Correctional Center
Monroe, Washington
Nathan Banks sat on the concrete floor of his cell and leaned his back and head against the cinderblock wall. He had no choice in the matter as to where he sat. His captors had modified the cell just for him, taking out all furniture and removing the narrow window in the wall and the small window in the door.
Banks lived in total darkness for twenty-three hours and thirty minutes each day, and the darkness made his tiny cell seem even smaller.
Banks figured the cell dimensions to be roughly seven feet by nine feet. He’d paced it off thousands of times. His living area was really no larger than an average residential bathroom. And yet the lack of furniture made the room seem much bigger.
He had no bunk to sleep on, no chair to sit in, and no light to read by. And unless he counted the smelly, five-gallon bucket in the corner, he also didn’t have a toilet. The only object in the cell besides himself was the bucket.
He’d grown to be thankful for the bucket.
Despite the darkness in the cell, he knew every nook and cranny, every surface irregularity on the concrete floor—the cracks and chips
. He’d even named each cinderblock making up the walls. And if there was one thing Banks knew for certain: there was no way to escape.
He thought of breaking out every day, dreamt of escape nearly every night. Yet this simple fact remained, escape would only ever be a fantasy, a diversion to keep him from going completely mad. He would never get out of this inescapable prison. Jesus would return to Earth with the Saints before he ever left this cell for good.
Ironically enough, as a young boy somewhere between ten or twelve, he’d been obsessed with Alexandre Dumas’ classic novel, The Count of Monte Cristo. He’d read the adventure tale a dozen times, and loved the craftiness of the protagonist Edmond Dantes and how he escaped the fortress-like Chateau d’lf prison and then extracted revenge on his enemy.
Unfortunately for Banks, there would be no Abbe Faria (“The Mad Priest”) tunneling up through the floor and into his cell to help him escape. He was on his own. And yet he didn’t desire revenge like Edmond Dantes. All he really wanted was to see blue sky again, feel the wind tickle his face, watch the sun rise and set, and walk barefoot through grass.
Regardless the isolation, meager food and unsanitary conditions in his cell, Banks had somehow adapted. He quickly figured out if he was polite and obedient and easygoing with the guards they wouldn’t be so apt to bully him about. One guard was actually cordial to him and seemed to take interest in him. But Banks didn’t often see this guard. He showed up maybe once or twice a week, a very tall man who spoke little. And it was always when Banks went to the showers. The tall blonde-haired man stood guard outside the shower room and made sure Banks got to shower alone.
Banks lifted a hand to his head, dragged his hand gently through his hair and back down across his face. Loneliness tormented him around the clock. Sometimes when he touched his face he fantasized he was caressing his wife’s face, and other times he pretended he caressed Brooke Mason’s face.
Banks had once been married. But his wife Jenny had been caught up in the Rapture when they were only newlyweds. He used to miss Jenny terribly. But her memory was ever so slowly fading. And now he found himself thinking of Brooke more and more. She had the most amazing eyes. They were like gemstones, aquamarine in color.
