Fools' Apocalypse

by Anderson Atlas

  “An arrow struck him?”

  “No. This document says a meteor struck him. The official account says arrow, but that was not true. I believe it was a meteor. The chest plate was penetrated as if it were made of paper.”

  “Why do you believe that it was a meteor?” Markus asks. “That would be a huge coincidence. Is there any evidence?”

  “This is the oldest account we have. It is much older than Albert of Aix-la-Chapelle’s account in the eleventh-century text.” The priest flipped to a page and pointed. “It says here that the French army found the meteor under John’s dead body. It was reported to be a clear stone in the shape of a large cut diamond. It had a rusty shape in the heart of the stone that glimmered, even in the night, as if it had a power unto itself.” The priest took the book and tucked it back into his robe. “The French were confused, disheartened. So the Caesareans seized the advantage and made a desperate attack. The French army retreated but had not prepared a strategy for retreat because of their arrogance. The Caesareans were able to kill most of the French in a bloody assault. After the battle, the meteorite was taken by the victorious Caesareans and hailed as the Stone of God.”

  “Then why did King Louis IX find the city dead after he came back with his second army?”

  The priest shrugs. “No one knows. But it would seem that the city died from some disease. Maybe, during the first siege, their food and water supply became contaminated with dysentery or some other disease.” The priest gets up from the table and nods, slightly. “Fascinating isn’t it? To be struck by a meteor would most surely be the will of God. That is why they called it the God’s Stone.”

  Markus thanks him for his time and finds his way out of Vatican City to his hotel. His room overlooks the River Tiber that runs through the heart of Rome.

  A week of research passes; he’s still not found the answers he seeks. He’s become obsessed with why or how the Caesareans died. Surely dysentery wouldn’t have killed every last woman and child. He looks up many other siege conquests in the library and spoke to the priest on more than three occasions. None played out in the way Caesarea did. It is truly extraordinary.

  One night, while watching the city lights from the balcony, Markus realizes that the Priest called the meteor God’s Stone. Since Allah was God in Arabic, The Stone of Allah must be one-in-the same. It made sense. Caesarea was saved from the first Christian attack by the Stone of Allah. Even with that question answered, others remained. Did the meteorite kill the people? Did its famous nature bring thieves to the city? Maybe a civil dispute?

  He finds an online article about King Louis IX and his last crusade. It claims his brother pushed him to go to Tunisia for one last conquering. There he grew sick and died. Tunisia is a small Mediterranean country next to Libya and directly south of Italy. There the King died from what historians believe to be dysentery. Another dysentery reference. He circled the word in his notebook over and over and over.

  A pop goes off somewhere in the city. Lights burst in the night. It almost stops his heart. Another pop. There are fireworks going off as a celebration begins. Markus watches the show and wonders why he feels so obsessed with this mystery. What is God tryin’ to tell me?

  He goes back to the Internet. In the margin of the Wiki article is a picture of an ornate crown. It looks too large and cumbersome to be worn, but who knows. Catholics can get really gaudy. He reads further. The crown is a piece of art bought by Louis IX called The Holy Crown of Jesus Christ. It was commissioned just after the Caesarea attack. It is now on display at Notre Dame in Paris. He has to follow every lead, and this is a lead.

  Markus hops on the Eurostar train and takes it to Milan early the next morning. It’s an incredible ride through fields of grapevines and sheep. He stares out the window like a kid at the circus. A castle sits on a hilltop, and centuries-old buildings still function just as they had hundreds of years ago. The train flies by a poor shepherd speaking on a cell phone and at a crossing there’s a wealthy man in a limited edition BMW, tapping his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel.

  In Milan, Markus transfers to a different train and heads to Paris. He dines on fresh bread, Fourme d’Ambert cheese flavored with mixed nuts, and a glass of Pinot Grigio. He arrives shortly after eleven at night, full and alive and stays at a nearly five-hundred-year-old hotel in a small but quaint room.

  The next morning, Markus takes a taxi to Notre Dame de Paris after eating some fruit and a pastry for breakfast. The church’s shadow looms over him as he steps out of the taxi. The architecture is truly amazing. Two square towers stand as a front entrance to the church. The towers are adorned with arched windows. Centered between the towers is the Grand Gallery. It has a pointed roof with a circular stained glass window at the apex. The church’s girders extend from the pointed roof and continue over the sidewalls, finally arching to the gardens; they’re called flying buttresses, he reads. They look like the ribs of some enormous creature. The bell tower is in the back with pointed archways and steeples. It’s beautiful. Markus recognizes the gargoyles that adorn the building. It is the very definition of Gothic architecture.

  He enters the massive front doors behind a group of tourists. The vaulted ceiling and all the elaborate stonework makes him dizzy. He walks down the aisle between richly stained wooden pews and lines of tourists.

  Along the great room walls are exhibits. He finds the crown easily. It’s an elaborately formed piece of gold and has a huge round top piece with a typical crown top. It rests on a gold pedestal that has figures sitting on thrones positioned around the base. Jesus Christ is depicted in the center, the Virgin Mary on the left, and some other figure on the right. Maybe that is supposed to be the Holy Spirit in human form. Perhaps it is John the Baptist.

  A woman stops next to Markus and stares at the same crown. She is young, has darker skin than he does, and may be of mixed African descent. Her hair is black and straight, not curly. She wears thick glasses and looks bookish. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” she says.

  Even though Markus dislikes these pieces, he nods. They were paid for with church money that was stolen from the people. He doesn’t think God would appreciate that. It’s the corruption of the Catholic Church that paid for these commissions with the sweat and blood of slaves. Markus mumbles so she can’t quite hear, “You shall not make for yourself an idol in the form of anything in heaven above or on the earth beneath or in the waters below. Exodus 20:4.”

  “The piece was bought from Baldwin II who ruled Constantinople at that time. It was later sold to King Louis IX. It’s incomplete. If you can believe that,” she says. She’s obviously American and probably happy to speak with other countrymen.

  “Is that right?” Markus replies. “What more could they do? This is already filled with too much detail. I think it would make my mother faint, God rest her soul.”

  “It’s not a wearable crown. It’s a decorative status piece. But he would have carried it with him on occasion. The piece was said to have the power of God.” The woman stands on her toes and points to the top of the crown. “There are four clasps inside the crown that are bent inward around a gold cup.”

  Markus peers into the crown and notices the clasps. “I see. Something was supposed to go in there?”

  She nods. “Clasps like those usually hold a precious stone.” Her eyes widen. “Must have been made for a rather large stone.” She smiles and moves on to the next exhibit.

  Markus studies the group of clasps in the middle of the crown. An unusually large stone would fit in there, perhaps the Stone of Allah. Did King Louis IX recover the meteor in the diseased city of Caesarea? It was written in the transcript that there were no jewels or treasure left in the city, but what if there were? Could it be that one meteorite had been kept secret because it was an embarrassment to King Louis IX and his Holy Army, a stone he would not part with? His trophy. Markus pictures the King carrying around the audacious crown. It is absurdly large but fits his grandiose personality.

 
Markus finds a seat on a wooden bench. Light filters through a glass window and hits him in the face. He squints but chooses to stare because it warms him. He thanks God for giving him the opportunity to uncover a six-hundred-year-old secret. Me, of all preachers!

  The night arrives, and Markus still has no appetite. He makes his nightly call to his wife early as he is eager to hear her voice.

  She sounds concerned. “What you are telling me is that you’re going to stay in Italy for another week?” she exclaims. “I’m worried about you, Markus.”

  “I’ve got to see this through, Marian. I have a purpose now,” Markus emphasizes. He feels more alive than he has in years. “When I return you will understand. Please trust me.” He ends the call. “I’m going to find out what this Stone of Allah is all about and why there are men who will kill to keep it a secret. I will bring this information out of the shadows and into the light, and maybe this war will end and I can go home,” he says out loud to himself.

  Chapter 1.13

  Ian

  Emerge, the Parasitic Tentacles

  Ian walks to Central Park, a couple blocks east of his condo, wondering how he’s going to get out of the city. His pack is loaded with hiking gear and as much water as he can carry. It’s about sixty pounds, a bit much, but he doesn’t want to take any chances. Two years ago he’d had spent two weeks deep in the Chimborazo Mountains in Ecuador on an Earth expedition with the Sierra Club. That’s when he fell in love with hiking. It was a chance to get out of the city. He loves the quiet, or at least thought he did. As it turns out, the real quiet is this dead city. No cars, horns, bikers, no one yelling, no alarms or sirens, no birds, rats, crickets. Nature’s silence is different—richer, and filled with subtle sounds. That is real beauty. This is unnatural.

  As Ian rounds the corner of 100th Street he hears a shot and ducks instinctively. Ian creeps toward the noise only to find an overweight guy, probably about thirty years old, looking all messed up, holding a six-shot revolver. Ian wonders if he’s sick, until the man pulls out a flask and swigs from it. He isn’t sick, just drunk.

  Ian approaches, “My name’s Ian.”

  The man turns, startled. After a moment of silence, he says. “Hey, I’m Ben.”

  He puts the gun away, which Ian is glad for. Ben turns out to be a decent person that just looks like shit. Ian probably looks like he’s been slapped around a bit, too.

  “Are you sick?” Ian asks hesitantly. He doesn’t quite know what else to say, but he’s tired of the dialogue in his head being his only friend.

  Ben shakes his head. “Na. Just pissed and a bit drunk.”

  “You made any plans?”

  “What do you mean?” He puts his hand on his forehead. “Sorry, I’m slow.” A moment passes. “I guess I’m gonna get out of here.”

  “I was thinking the same,” Ian replies. So the two start walking north. “I need to find some food first, and then we can find other survivors.”

  Ben kicks a dead guy lying in the street. “Yeah, let’s find people that are alive. That’d be a fuckin’ good start.”

  “I heard the jets and the explosions. I think they took out the bridges,” Ian mentions.

  “Government’s gotta have a quarantine line set up,” Ben slurs. He takes a pull from his flask. “I made myself a bacon and potato burrito just a bit ago.”

  “Precooked?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Was there more?”

  Ben nods.

  “Take me there,” Ian orders lightly. “I’m starved.”

  “I think there’s enough for a few more burritos.”

  Ian has a huge question on his mind but isn’t not sure how to ask it. Finally, he spits it out, “Do you know why you’re not sick?”

  Ben’s face reddens and he looks away. “I must be immune or something.”

  “Yeah. Me, too,” That was a lie.

  They walk down the street that surrounds Central Park until they make it to the northwest corner. Ian sees the Fredrick’s roundabout. His stomach growls, reminding him of his dire need for food. “I can’t take the hunger. I’m stopping for a snack.”

  There’s a BP gas station on the other side of the street. Cars are bumper to bumper under the canopy. People had been trying to fill up before getting out of town. They never had a chance. A blue Volkswagen had driven up on the curb between the two pumps trying to fit in between a truck and a motorcycle. The motorcycle driver was laying down next to his bike with the gas handle still in his hands. He wears a brown leather jacket and jeans and has bright red hair. The driver of the blue station wagon is an older woman who’s slumped in the front seat of her car. In the back seat are the bodies of two children; a girl around eight holding her younger brother in her arms. They’re so still.

  Ian chokes on his own spit then runs to the store, feeling a wave of anxiety fill his head. He flings open the door to the convenient store. The bell hanging from the handle is as loud as a church bell. Ian squeezes his eyes shut trying to burn away the image of the two dead kids, but it will stay with him until the end of time.

  A darkness swirls around him, entering his body through his skin and spreads all the way to his toes. His whole body disappears and somehow he becomes pure sadness. He feels so much shame he wants to die. His mind fogs over as he locks himself in a prison of utter regret. What did I do? Ian cries like he’d never cried before. Sob after sob erupts from him as he slides to the floor, covering his face and hands. He’s ashamed to be walking, to be alive, when those two kids have died. No one will know why this happened, except him and Zilla. He hates knowing what he knows.

  When his outburst subsides– as the tidal wave always does, Ian takes deep breaths and opens his eyes. Ben is at the other end of the store, grabbing beer and chips. Why is he immune? What’s so special about him? Some drunk is spared but not those kids? It’s not fair.

  Ian feels the burning desire to kill Zilla with his own hands, to rip his throat out.

  Zilla didn’t tell Ian about the virus in the surveillance devices, but he can’t blame it all on Zilla. Unintended consequences do not absolve Ian from guilt. He lied, snuck into offices, played spy. He released the virus into the world. The choice and the consequences are his. He stands, but isn’t quite ready so he presses his back to the door glass.

  Ben walks up to Ian with this kid-in-a-candy-store look on his face. His arms overflow with booze and junk food. His eyes grow wide and his skin turns white. Ian is confused by his reaction. Never seen a person cry? Does he not feel the sadness that is everywhere, covering everything like a rust?

  Ben drops the beer and the food. Without taking his eyes off Ian he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his revolver. The tip of the gun shakes wildly.

  Ian raises his hands. “What’re you doing, man?” he says, getting nervous.

  Ben doesn’t answer so Ian ducks to the side. Ben doesn’t move. He’s still pointing his gun at the front door.

  On the other side of the glass stands the motorcycle guy. He looks normal in his leather jacket and worn jeans, but his face is white and sunken and his eyes are gone, instead, his sockets are filled with white parasitic tentacles. They protrude from his shrunken eyelids like baby octopus arms. A black liquid pours from his ears.

  A large chunk of his hair has fallen out leaving a piece of his skull exposed. His clumsy arms reach up and awkwardly push the door open.

  Ben shakes and can’t speak as the door opens a crack. The motorcycle guy flops his arm inside the store. He seems to be looking right at Ben, though he has no eyes. He takes a step toward Ben and grabs him. Ben shrieks, pulling away. Ian grabs the guy’s shoulder, and spins him away. The guy stumbles off balance and falls on his butt.

  “Are you okay, man?” Ian asks.

  “What the fuck is wrong with him, Ian?” Ben yells. “No, really!?”

  The man clumsily stands and reaches out. He manages to moan a gurgling sound. Ian takes a step back. Ben fires. Boom! The slug hits the guy in the head. H
alf of his skull explodes from the .45 caliber round. A thick white root flops out of his skull and hangs limply. It’s bright white and almost glowing under the contrasting black blood. His body continues to move forward. The white root twitches then shrinks back into his skull. As it recedes it pushes out a mass of brain matter, which splatters on the floor.

  Ben fires again. This time the shell hits the man’s chest. Dark liquid pours out the hole. His body continues to move, one step at a time. Ian backs into a rack of chewing gum and knocks it over. The clatter startles him.

  “What the hell is going on!?” Ben yells and fires into the walking corpse again. “This dude is already dead! Why the fuck is he still comin’ at me!”

  Ian’s brain kicks a ton of adrenaline into his body. He turns and grabs the nearest mobile rack, a wire potato chip stand, raises it over his head and brings it down on top of the motorcycle guy. Dead hands reach for Ian.

  “Over here, dude!” Ben holds the door to the cooler open. Ian turns and shoves the dead guy into the cooler, and slams the door shut.

  Ian’s heart jumps around, making him feel ill. He sits down to catch his breath. Ben shuffles to the front door and looks outside. “It feels like we’re in some game show, dude. But with fuck’en premo special effects. Shit, can they make it this real? I blew his fucking head off! Can that be faked? Am I hooked up to a machine or something? Maybe this is virtual reality.” Ben drones on and on.

  “It’s impossible to reanimate dead tissue. Totally impossible.” Ian looks at the cooler’s handle, making sure it won’t open. The thing bangs around inside, knocking over bottles of soda and juice.