The Apostates

by Lars Teeney

  The group was riding toward a local village. The geldings traveled down a rough, gravely road that was flanked by lush grasses and jungle undergrowth. The Friars spied an old, beat up truck moving up the gravel road toward them. They did not move over; the truck had pulled over to the side to allow the Societatum Pentagram to pass by, as a sign of respect. The clouds in the sky had collided into a viable storm, and let loose a late afternoon drizzle. The Order pulled the hoods of their cloaks up over their heads as to ward off the water. The geldings trotted at a steady pace, splashing up shallow puddles as they passed.

  They had been moving along the southern route of Buenos Aires, for several hours. In the distance thatched roofs could be discerned from the thick foliage. They were coming upon a village, simply named San Miguel. Children that played on the fringe of the village had spotted the Order moving toward them. Some of the children had ran back to the village announcing their arrival, other children stood in place, with wide eyes affixed to the noble geldings. The children’s calls had alerted the adults who began to assemble in the village square. Stoutly-built bodies, with weathered faces, watched intently as the Holy Knights trotted into the square

  “Saludos, miembros de la Orden. ¿Qué te trae a nuestra ciudad? (Greetings, members of the Order. What brings you to our town?)” the village elder spoke: a squat man, with a humble straw hat on his head. He was on edge as he had past experiences with the Order.

  The Monsignor willed his gelding forward closer to the village elder’s position. Monsignor Carafa looked over the assembled crowd then spoke, “La Orden está en una misión para Dios. Le solicitamos que nos proporcione. Por favor, cumpla. (The Order is on a mission for God. We ask that you supply us. Please comply,)” Carafa had instructed the villagers. He hoped there would be no protest so that he could get his mission underway.

  “Sí, por supuesto. Tenemos un pequeño superávit que podemos dar. (Yes, of course. We have a small surplus that we can give,)” the village elder confirmed cheerfully, taking his hat off and nodding in submission. The elder gestured for a group of men and women to gather up a quantity of food. As the men and women entered the various houses to collect provisions, one woman pleaded and yelled at one man who tried to get her supplies. The woman would not give in. The situation required the village elder to intervene personally. He consoled the woman and convinced her to relinquish the supply, with promises that they would be replaced. The elder remembered past dealings with the Order in earlier years. Back then the village had been defiant and had paid the price in lives. He was keen to avoid a rehash of the events.

  After some time, the supply cache was collected before the waiting Monsignor. He peered down at the pile. It was composed of dried meat of goat, pork and beef, various smoked fish, a variety of fruit, and canteens filled with juices. Monsignor Carafa nodded his head approvingly, then gestured for Friar Benedict to climb down from the wagon and add the provisions to his load. The other Friars did not pitch in, as they watched his numerous trips from the pile to the rear of the wagon. At last, Friar Benedict concluded his labor. Monsignor Carafa willed his horse to bow its head and he made a gesture of blessing toward the assembled crowd. Then he spoke, “Dios te bendiga, personas virtuosas. Usted será recompensado en el cielo por su donación. (God bless you, righteous people. You will be rewarded in heaven for your donation.)” He wheeled his horse around and picked up speed to a trot. The Friars followed suit and the wagon moved out to follow them.

  The villagers, robbed of everything except the clothes on their backs, watched forlornly as the Order moved south out of their village. They would have to go back to their fields and toil, back to the river and fish and back to the cows to milk to make up for the net loss. The children ran aside the horses as they vacated the village. They were enamored at the spectacle and naive to the purpose of the visit. However, the adults knew all too well the strain a visit from the Order put on the village.

  ⍟ ⍟ ⍟

  The procession had been moving south all evening, down old Route Two, toward the border with Panama. Monsignor Carafa had used the night vision function in his retinal H.U.D. to light the way on the rough pavement of the old highway. In previous centuries the government had blasted holes and cut swaths through the jungle to create the major artery, but since that time the government had collapsed, leaving petty fiefdoms run by black market cartels and the remnants of the Catholic Church who had been left to provide services all over the region. The two systems were at odds with each other and often came into conflict. The region seemed to be ripe for some ambitious strong man to unify it through conquest. Monsignor Carafa had entertained the idea more than once himself. He had fended off several cartels in his career as Monsignor of the Order.

  As they continued down the muddy, patchwork of a highway, the geldings began to tire and the group had decided that it was a good time to stop for the night to camp. Monsignor Carafa relayed the order to Friar Benedict who pulled the wagon into a clearing off the side of the highway. He started unloading supplies and camping materials for the night. The other Friars had an inside joke: they referred to Friar Benedict as “The Pack-mule”, for obvious reasons. Benedict laid out food rations to be cooked over a fire. The other Friars knew that if they didn’t set up their tents that they would be stuck in the pitch darkness.

  Friar Benedict dumped firewood, creating a makeshift pit. He had used compressed sawdust chunks that he had made as one of his many duties around the Friary. He ignited the chunks to get a fire going. Benedict and Leo set up the metal spit over the fire, and they would use it to rotate meat. Benedict grabbed a haunch of a goat that they had been given by the villagers and pierced it through with the skewer, he then lifted it onto the support arms and the haunch was licked by the leaping flame. He also rigged a large pot to make an accompanying stew that would contain beans, potato, onion, shredded-turkey, with a side of smashed plantains.

  Monsignor Carafa spread out a bedroll and sat upon it studying maps of the Panama Strait displayed on his retinal H.U.D., further refining his plans. The Order had paid for a black market cartel to create knock off neural implants like those used in New Megiddo, and the cartels had performed the installation operations. Carafa looked at old aerial photos and noticed there was a fort and a shipyard not far from the Pacific approach to the Panama Strait. He thought that this would suit his plan well.

  The other Friars had settled in around the fire, having finished erecting their tents. Friar Francis had installed a security perimeter of small proximity mines attached to tree branches. The movement sensors had a fail-safe to ensure that only human size targets would trigger the detonation. Friar Francis dropped some gear and joined the other Friars around the fire, which filled the air with the aroma of charred meat. The pot was boiling over with a hearty stew, and Benedict pulled it off the fire in anticipation of service. The Friars lined up with their food kit and dished up a bowl of stew, then they each used their knives to slice off a slab of goat meat. Monsignor Carafa dipped smashed plantain into the stew and popped it into his mouth. They all drank some mango juice and apple cider.

  “Mis felicitaciones a la cocinera. Como siempre usted gana su posición. (My compliments to the cook. As always you earn your position,)” Monsignor Carafa was being sarcastic, not that he didn’t enjoy Benedict’s cooking, he just presented an easy target; the night’s entertainment.

  “Gracias, señor. Me alegro de que te haya gustado. (Thank you, sir. Glad you liked it.)” Friar Benedict half bowed in acceptance of the compliment, his belly getting in the way.

  “Con un vientre de grasa como eso, él se quedaría con nosotros alimentamos si nos pasamos hambre! (With a fat belly like that, he would feed us if we went hungry!) Friar Leo fired off a jest, his small frame gesticulating with laughter.

  “Hey! Detener burlándose de la mula. Él hace la obra de Dios! (Hey! Stop mocking the pack mule. He does the work of God!) Friar Francis stuck up for him, facetiously. No one could discern if she was ser
ious or jesting behind the veil.

  Friar Francis unfastened her veil to eat her meal. The darkness of the night and the shadow that the fire cast, concealed her face. She emptied her stew bowl and consumed a few chunks of goat. When she was done she refastened her veil, leaving the mystery intact. She got up and took a seat beside the Monsignor. He was consumed in some activity only he could see. She assumed it involved his retinal H.U.D. After a few seconds, he acknowledged her presence.

  “Hola, señora. Yo estaba mirando las fotos del Estrecho de Panamá. (Hello, ma’am. I was looking at the pictures of the Strait of Panama,)” Carafa had informed her that he was studying plans and coming up with a way to stop the Apostate fleet. Carafa had told her that they still had roughly one hundred and fifty miles to travel via horseback, but that a fleet of inexperienced sailors such as the Apostates would take much longer to reach the Straits. They would be slowed down by mechanical issues and other problems. Friar Francis had agreed with him.

  “Eso me parece un buen plan. Cambiando de tema. ¿Crees que veremos Consuela nuevo? (That seems like a good plan. Changing the subject. Do you think we’ll see Consuela again?)” Friar Francis had asked.

  “Buena pregunta. Tengo la sensación de que no hemos visto lo último de la chica. (Good question. I have a feeling we have not seen the last of the girl,)” Monsignor Carafa was sure that unfinished business would soon be settled. He was keen to find her and was almost certain that she had fled north.

  Friar Leo was sitting on his bedroll by the fire. He had a crate of explosive charges next him. He inspected each charge and then placed them in a satchel. Friar Benedict began to clean up the spent dishes from the meal and stored the leftover portions. His belly jiggled as he climbed the back of the wagon to load supplies. Friar Pius sat in silence, sharpening his trench daggers. As the Right Hand, he had the first watch of the night. He also had the unofficial duty as bodyguard to the Spear Wound: Monsignor Carafa. Friar Francis took the moment of calm to sharpen and polish her cavalry saber as well. The saber had dated back to the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth of the Sixteenth century. The sword type was called “Karabela” and that was what she called the blade. It had been in her family since those times and was handed down through the generations to the men of the family. That was until World War One when the Turkish perpetrated the “Armenian Genocide”. It was at that time that there were no more male heirs left, and the remnants of her family had fled to the New World. Francis had the sword but not the family name.

  Monsignor Carafa had taken a break from plotting his ambush. His mind drifted off to other topics. He dreamed of establishing a vast, Catholic theocracy in Central and South America. He knew it was ripe for the taking: what governments did exist were corrupt and weak. They were at the mercy of the cartels, and the lands that the cartels actually ruled had no central authority and the people had to rely on day-to-day administration. He could take them one by one and then reestablish relations with the Vatican. Surely they would send him financial support once they knew what the Societatum Pentagram had accomplished in the Americas? His borders would but up against those of New Megiddo, from the Rio Grande to Patagonia: one unified, Catholic stronghold; a domain for a true Roman Catholic Emperor of old.

  The catalyst for his conquest would be to destroy the Apostates and get compensation from the Church of New Megiddo. From there he figured he could seize control of the Strait of Panama and tax commerce in the region. That would surely raise enough funds for a private, holy army. Monsignor Carafa had the perfect plan. He was content with this stratagem. With these final thoughts he felt he could at last turn in for the night. Friar Benedict snuffed out the last of the fire and the Five Wounds of Christ would rest that night.

  ⍟ ⍟ ⍟

  ONE LIKE THE SON OF MAN

  The dark shroud snapped and swayed in the abyss. Rifts formed in the dark fabric that revealed muscle-like striations and deep flesh colors underneath then snapped back together, and another would open in a different location showing the anatomy of the universe. Jets of infernal-gases broke through what seemed to be a ground plane but was all the same not solid. Some of the gas geysers ignited into open flame, spreading to the dark fabric that resembled the night sky, which incinerated almost instantly. As the fabric shriveled and then disintegrated to ash piles, only the undulating and pulsating gristle and flesh was exposed; naked. Arteries pumped mystery fluids to and fro through the organic chaos. The walls of the arteries were slightly translucent so ghastly forms that resembled faces could be seen being forced through the structure by the some great, unseen, beating heart.

  This was the chaotic biomass that he found himself drifting through. He struggled to anchor himself to a sinewy wall, but as he grasped it, the gelatinous coating was too slick for his hand. He slipped away. He drifted toward a lattice-work structure of veins and arteries, as he floated by he snatched one with his hand, squeezing tightly. The pressure of his grasp caused a stoppage of the fluid traveling within. The purple membrane of the artery expanded and stretched as the pressure built up. He could vaguely see the forms of hundreds of spectral faces crying out in unison inside the viscous liquid. He could hear the membrane stretch and tear, then, finally the artery snapped in two, spraying the bluish-black liquid all over him and sending the ghostly forms free throughout the chamber. He released his grip on the ruptured artery and gravity kicked in, dropping him to a soggy, but solid pockmarked plane.

  He laid there, watching the ruptured artery spewing sludge like a runaway fire hose. The fluid had coalesced on the plane before him. It bubbled and rippled with activity. He started to make out something taking shape. Internal organs formed from the ooze, a rib cage was sculpted, which encased the organs. Sinew, muscle, and tendon were connected to bone. The black fluid worked its way up over the frame, forming a humanoid figure that created a membrane of skin and fat, which in turn, took on an olive complexion. The fluid shaped hair and weaved a fabric of an undergarment and exterior robes of crimson and blue. A veil of white wrapped around the head and a halo of blinding light beams emanated from behind it. He recognized the form as a renaissance depiction of the Virgin Mother. The belly grew and stretched—a bulge projected outward. Violent spasms of life forming within could be seen, and the vibrations reverberated through the membrane structures that were the barriers of this realm. The representation of the Virgin Mother fell to her knees, then laid on her back. She hiked up her robes with legs apart, revealing the holiest of holies. The flesh of the stomach was stretched and strained by hands pushing outwards, searching for an outlet. The hands found the threshold and pushed out through the vertical slit, grasping each side and forcing them to open ever wider. A head slithered out slowly, and the arms grabbed the fleshy ground plane. The arms were not of a newborn baby. As the spawn had pulled itself half way out of the canal, it raised its head to reveal the face. It was that of an adult Christ, beard-clad. The Christ-child struggled out of its vessel completely and the Virgin Mother’s form began to deteriorate. Her milky skin shriveled and formed lacerations and rifts. The black fluid oozed out of her compromised form and deflated like a balloon. The Virgin Mother was assimilated back into the biomass that composed the universe.

  The Christ-child aged and grew at an accelerated pace. Going through puberty in an instant and reached adulthood. The Christ was levitating now and was nude save for a white loincloth. Behind the Christ splinters of wood appeared from nothingness and converged on a single point. The splinters formed planks, and the planks constructed a cross. The Christ was affixed to the cross and nails forced their way through each of his four limbs. A crown of thorns came into existence on the Christ’s brow, drawing blood that ran down his face and body, pooling on the ground. Out from the pool of the Christ’s blood appeared the shaft of a spear. It rose up, defying the pseudo-gravity of the realm. The tip suddenly lit up like the light of a sun. The white-hot tip of the spear moved toward the torso of the Christ. It moved so close the flesh on the chest of the
Christ began to sear and smolder. The burning capacity of the spear tip was utilized by some unseen force, which singed a design into the Christ’s midsection. When it finished there blazoned an encircled pentagram, smoking and charred. A whisper was heard from one hundred different directions at once,

  “The Five Wounds of Christ!” the words pierced Ravine’s skull, as the whispers grew louder and turned into ghoulish wails.

  “Only the flesh of Christ can prevent the False Return!” the voices shook his brain and his head split with pain. He shrieked in agony and reached out for something; anything. The biomass unraveled around him and the flesh turn necrotic and decomposed before his eyes. The structural integrity gave way and Ravine fell back into the dark abyss that enveloped him.

  ⍟ ⍟ ⍟

  Brook pulled her bunched stockings up so that they were flush up and down her legs. She checked her figure in the mirror and touched up some of her makeup. She was looking for adventure tonight, and she was going to get paid for it as well. But, no ordinary joe would do. She was hoping for something above average. Brook had pulled out the stops. She wore a black bustier top and a tasseled miniskirt that left little to the imagination. She had those thigh high stockings that had the habit of bunching up below the knee, so she spent entirely too long adjusting them.