End of Days

by Frank Lauria

  “Give in to him,” Chicago urged. “He’s everything you’re looking for.”

  Cold contempt edged Jericho’s voice. “Not anymore.”

  “God has abandoned you.” The man sighed. He put an arm around Chicago’s shoulder and began walking to the car. “But don’t take it personally. I hear He does it all the time…”

  The man supervised from the town car while his followers tied Jericho’s hands and feet, then threw the ropes over a fire escape and hauled his bruised body into the air, head down. When Jericho was properly secured, the man signaled his followers.

  Using long, heavy sticks, they beat his defenseless body like a bloody piñata. Methodically they clubbed his limbs and torso for long agonizing minutes, some resting while others started fresh.

  Beyond pain or consciousness, Jericho hung inertly, barely hearing the man’s voice. “Beg to die…,” he taunted. “Beg to die.”

  Jericho didn’t respond, but the man’s touch awakened his screaming nerves. “Sorry … it’s not going to be that easy. You’re mine. I want you to see what’s going to happen.”

  The man laughed softly and swaggered to the waiting car where Christine stood, her hands bound. Chicago lingered, his face furrowed with sadness. He checked Jericho’s vital signs, then stared into his partner’s glassy, unseeing eyes. Finally Chicago shook his head regretfully and joined the man at the town car.

  Through the blurred, bloodshot veil clouding his vision, Jericho saw Christine’s anguished face looking back at him as the car pulled away, lights fading into the throbbing darkness.

  * * *

  The news shook the Vatican like an earthquake.

  The papal guard was doubled, and the pope’s closest associates gathered in his frescoed chambers. They approached the frail figure in the gold wheelchair hesitantly, unwilling to burden the Holy Father with the tragic news.

  Cardinal Gubbio’s reckless crusade had ended in his murder, along with some of his monks. The signs of the impending apocalypse were everywhere. From remote corners of the planet came reports of rampant slaughter of nuns and priests.

  The Holy Father’s chief advisor wept as he gave his report. “He has the girl,” the advisor said hoarsely. “We have failed.”

  Although worn in body, the pontiff’s spirit burned intensely. He understood humanity might very well be doomed. But that was no reason to abandon His path. Even if they’d lost a thousand-year battle, the truth was eternal.

  Death held no fear for him, nor did hell itself.

  The fragile figure in the gold wheelchair lifted a skeletal hand, sunken eyes cold as diamonds.

  “It is in our darkest hour that we must have faith,” he whispered, thin voice floating through the quiet like a trumpet.

  * * *

  Jericho’s brain flickered like a defective light bulb. Consciousness focused and faded through the constant agony. He hung upside down like a sacrificial chicken, his blood forming puddles on the pavement. Slinking felines and rodents crept closer to drink.

  Footsteps.

  Jericho rolled his eyes and recognized Father Novak. Then blackness smothered his pain.

  * * *

  A haunting melody danced across his dreams. He heard whispers and the melody tinkled louder—the music box. A cool, gentle rain fell on his parched lips.

  Jericho’s eyes fluttered open. Someone was dabbing his wounds with a damp cloth. He looked around and saw it was someplace familiar.

  The underground chamber beneath the church. He turned and saw the tinkling music box was actually the rattling of a nun’s rosary beads. The moment Jericho tried to rise, a bolt of agony swatted him down.

  Everything in his body felt broken, bloody, or ruptured. He looked and saw the purple bruises on both arms. When he tried to breathe, his ribs screamed with agony.

  “So how long have I been out?” he grunted, looking at the nun.

  “Most of the day,” a man’s voice answered. Father Novak stepped into his blurred vision. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

  Nobody seems too happy about it, Jericho observed, as his vision cleared. The faces around him all wore expressions of defeat, resignation, and despair, as if waiting for the ovens to fire up.

  “The time … Is it…?”

  They stared, hopeless and desolate. Upstairs the church was a slaughterhouse. And something had died inside of the survivors.

  With great effort Jericho looked at the wall clock. “It’s not too late,” he muttered.

  Father Novak shook his head. “He has the girl.”

  “But it’s not too late,” Jericho repeated. Inch by agonizing inch he lifted his battered body until he managed to get on his feet.

  Father Novak reached out to help him, then paused, hand in midair. Suddenly he had a glimmer of realization, of hope …

  Their eyes met, and Jericho sensed the priest’s flickering faith, like an ember in a hurricane.

  “May God be with you,” Father Novak said.

  For the first time since Amy’s death, Jericho heeded the blessing.

  * * *

  The war room of Striker Security was located in a converted warehouse on the East River. Joe Kellogg, the chief dispatcher, liked his job.

  Kellogg liked being in the command center, controlling two dozen security teams. He liked the hardware: the wall-sized digital map of New York City, the computer banks manned by his personal staff. And he liked the action.

  What Kellogg didn’t like was New Year’s Eve. He didn’t like it when he was a cop, didn’t like it when he was a SWAT specialist, and he hated it now.

  Not only did the hysteria and revelry hamper security, it compromised his agents. Even now, his high-paid hackers couldn’t wait to put on their silly paper hats and guzzle champagne. Meanwhile, half our clients could get blown away, Kellogg brooded.

  For that reason—and the fact that he had no other family except his security staff—Kellogg always volunteered for the New Year’s shift. Just to make sure things didn’t screw up. And they always did.

  So he wasn’t surprised when the entry alarm went off and the metal doors slid open. Kellogg knew that only team captains and his personal staff had access to the command center. But it took him a few seconds to recognize the battered, blood-caked, swollen-eyed figure who staggered inside.

  Jericho Cane. Of all fucking people.

  Kellogg had just received a police APB on Jericho. From the looks of him he got gang-banged by the entire NYPD, Kellogg observed.

  The computer staff gaped as Striker Security’s legendary team captain dragged his ravaged body to Kellogg’s desk. They were awestruck at the level of physical abuse Jericho could endure. Kellogg was impressed, but not quite amazed. Jericho had always been strong-willed. That’s why he was always in trouble.

  “Jesus,” Kellogg greeted with mock disgust. “Whadja do? Get hit by a truck?”

  “No. The truck missed.” Jericho tried to grin but couldn’t.

  Kellogg waved the APB. “You know the cops are looking for you?”

  “They’ll have to wait,” Jericho said calmly, limping to the main computer. “There’s something I gotta do.”

  Well, I told him, Kellogg noted. If the cops want him, it’s their job. He knew better than to mess with Jericho Cane. The bastard was as lethal as C4 when aroused.

  The other staff members looked at him questioningly, but not one of them would dare object. Kellogg went over to see what Jericho was punching up.

  Jericho typed an ID on the keyboard and a small red dot began to blink on the digital map. He was putting a trace on one of their security vehicles. The one Chicago had signed out.

  “I cannot get caught doing this,” Kellogg whispered. “We’ll both be out on our asses.”

  “Pray we’re around long enough to worry about it.”

  Pray? Kellogg reflected, watching Jericho head for the armory. Never heard him use that word before.

  When Jericho unlocked the armory and stepped inside, he felt like a kid in a
candy store. The room was filled with a cache of the latest armaments. He eyed the rows of weapons and selected a modified MP-5 with an attached grenade launcher. Then he slid two fresh Glocks into his quick-draw wrist holsters. With rapid, precise movements, he snatched magazines, ammo belts, and other gear from the fully stocked racks. He also took extra grenades; a few yellow ones and a few red ones.

  Finally he strapped the modified machine gun down tight against his side. It felt like part of his body. The part that doesn’t hurt, Jericho thought grimly, heading for the door.

  When Jericho emerged from the armory he looked like a battle-scarred tank.

  Even Kellogg’s stony-faced cool dissolved as he watched the bruised, damaged killing machine lurch toward the exit. “Where the hell are you going?” he croaked.

  Jericho didn’t look back. “To save the world.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Millennium 2000 celebration was in full swing around the world. But judging from the images on various storefront TV screens, the carnival was turning ugly. In Paris, Berlin, Milan, London, Tokyo, and Hong Kong the revelry had escalated into rioting.

  As Jericho cruised the outskirts of Times Square, he could see the hungered frenzy in the faces hurrying past. He spotted Chicago’s town car at the spot marked on the digital map. From where he sat it looked empty.

  Jericho left the company car he’d borrowed, adjusted the weaponry strapped to his body, and slowly walked to the town car. In a strange way he felt cleansed, beyond pain or fear. There was only his quest.

  The side street was deserted. Jericho checked inside the town car. Nothing. Jericho checked his watch: 10:45, almost an hour before midnight. He was about to go back to his car when a police cruiser rolled around the corner.

  Jericho ducked back into a storefront, aware he was wanted, and fully armed. The police car stopped in front of an abandoned movie theater across the street.

  The door opened and a familiar figure got out. Jericho’s jaw dropped as he watched Detective Marge Francis walk toward the movie theater. He shook off his initial shock and left the storefront.

  I killed her just yesterday, Jericho reflected, trailing her. Some insurance plan.

  The abandoned theater was actually an old porn palace, judging from the torn posters behind the wooden boards. Jericho saw Marge slip inside the front door. He quickly crossed the street and entered the theater.

  It was dark inside. What little light came from behind the movie screen. Jericho paused and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. He glimpsed someone moving behind the movie screen, and followed.

  Behind the screen lay a dark labyrinth of narrow corridors and doors. Jericho stopped and listened hard, eyes closed. A shuffling noise drew his attention. Finally able to see in the murky gloom, Jericho hurried toward the sound and saw Marge Francis enter a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY.

  Moving past dusty theater props, Jericho opened the door and looked inside. It was a large storage closet. And except for a few racks of clothes, it was empty.

  As Jericho stepped into the closet, a gnarled, wizened old man loomed from the shadows. His skin was like dry white paper, but his voice had strength.

  “You wish entrance?”

  “Yes.” Coming closer Jericho realized the old man was blind. His eyes had been sewn shut.

  The old man barred his way, arms reaching. Jericho’s hands came together, fingers inches from his Glocks.

  The grotesque gnome lifted his skeletal hands as if they were eyes peering at Jericho, weighing him, judging him. “There is much vengeance and hatred in your heart,” the old man said with a hint of approval. “You may pass.”

  The old man moved aside and Jericho saw the stairs. He descended carefully and found himself in a service tunnel. Phone cables, electrical conduits, and pipes snaked down the dimly lit passage. Jericho glimpsed Marge at the far end of the passage before she disappeared.

  The rattle of a passing subway muffled the loud snap as Jericho locked a clip in his MP–5, and moved deeper into the bowels of the city. Hot, steamy air stuffed the narrow corridor.

  Eventually the passage opened onto a subway tunnel. The foul breeze was mild relief compared to the stale haze of the corridor. But when he took a few steps into the subway tunnel, a familiar voice cut the quiet.

  “That’s far enough.”

  Jericho stopped. He glanced back and saw Marge Francis staring down the barrel of her gun.

  “Put it down,” she warned.

  Jericho slowly lowered the modified machine gun and dropped it onto the tracks.

  “Hands on your head.”

  Jericho complied, keeping his wrist holsters turned away from her.

  “Turn around—slowly.”

  As Jericho turned to face her, he blinked in mock surprise. “Didn’t I kill you already? Time flies when you’re dead.”

  She smiled triumphantly. “He gave me another chance. You can’t beat him you know.”

  “Others have.”

  “He’s stronger now.”

  Because he’s got you and Chicago and lots of others like you, Jericho thought. “You were one of the good ones,” he said sadly. “What happened?”

  Marge shrugged. “I found out life doesn’t have to be hard. It’s so much easier this way … I promise you. If you just give in, you’ll wonder why you ever resisted.”

  It’s simple logic, Jericho reflected. If this evil exists—then God exists. He locked eyes with Marge. “Because we were friends, I’ll make you a deal. Tell me where the girl is—and I won’t kill you.”

  As he spoke Jericho shifted his hands behind his head, trying to grip the guns at his wrists.

  “You think I’m some dumbass broad gonna fall for the same shit twice?” Marge asked sharply. “Open your fucking hands and show me your hideaways.”

  Jericho paused, then slowly raised his hands. He had a gun in each one.

  “Okay, toss ’em to me … one at a time,” Marge cautioned, voice tight.

  Desperately, Jericho looked for options and saw the HIGH VOLTAGE sign on the third rail. He had two chances. Very carefully, Jericho tossed the first gun to Marge.

  It landed near the third rail, about a foot away. Marge never took her eyes off Jericho as she bent down to retrieve it.

  “Okay, the other one,” she ordered.

  Jericho tossed the other one to her. It skittered along the ground … and came to rest against the third rail.

  Marge started to reach for the weapon, then realized where it had landed. She regarded Jericho with grudging admiration. “Oh, wow, what a clever trick. Throw the gun against the third rail and electrocute the bitch. You do think I’m stupid.”

  Jericho snorted. “This track’s abandoned. The third rail is dead.”

  “Yeah? Then you pick it up.”

  “What?”

  Fury clenched Marge’s jaw as she slowly repeated. “If the track’s not active, then you pick it up.”

  When Jericho hesitated, Marge fingered the trigger. She didn’t like being taken for a fool. Especially by a man she could have loved. And now she would make the arrogant bastard pay.

  “What’s the matter?” Marge demanded. “Scared? Why?” She sighted down her gun at Jericho’s leg. “Tell you what … I can make you a deal. I can blow out your kneecaps, then put a hole in your gut. Probably take you oh … two, three hours to scream yourself to death. Or … you can pick up the fucking gun!”

  Marge pulled the trigger.

  The blast blew sparks off the track near Jericho’s foot. “What’s it gonna be?” she asked calmly.

  Jericho shrugged. “Sure.”

  As he crossed in front of her to pick up the gun, Jericho stepped on the third rail. Nothing happened. He reached down for the Glock.

  Marge noticed a little smirk as he leaned over. “You son of a bitch!” She fired again, blowing sparks near Jericho’s outstretched hand.

  He froze, still bent over.

  “The track is dead isn’t it?” Marge gloated.
“You were baiting me to get your gun back.”

  Jericho’s body seemed to slump. “Shit,” he hissed. He eyed the Glock less than a foot away.

  Marge was already moving to scoop it up. She gave Jericho a smug smile as she grabbed the butt. Wrong.

  She bolted straight up, her hair sizzling and eyes bulging wide as high-voltage electricity jolted her burning flesh, jerking her like a puppet. Convulsively she fired her gun, blasting six spastic rounds in her death throes before she collapsed.

  Jericho kicked the gun free of the rail. His boot hovered over her wide, sightless eyes. “Rubber soles,” he confided.

  He stepped over Marge’s still-fuming body and recovered his weapons. He holstered his Glocks, then picked up the MP–5.

  Hefting his weapons, Jericho peered both ways down the rusted tracks. In the distant gloom, he glimpsed the unmistakable flicker of torchlight.

  Then he heard the chanting.

  * * *

  The demonic temple was as crude as His cathedrals were grand.

  The altar was constructed of artifacts stolen from various churches, and stood as a mockery of worship. Obscene graffiti and satanic symbols were scrawled on the walls and the filth of past ceremonies littered the floor. The foul air carried the stench of rotted flesh, and on the altar a slimy mass of maggots covered the corpse of a mutilated cat like a writhing white wig.

  But Christine didn’t notice any of it. Deep in a sexual thrall, all she knew, or wanted, was her green-eyed master. The man led her triumphantly into the fetid chamber. There was an awed gasp when he entered with his bride.

  If Christine could remember, she would have recognized the albino beggar, as well as the subway passengers who witnessed her hallucinatory visions—and also participated in them. However, her entire being was consumed by her master’s presence. She thought of nothing else.

  “Dignus sum non Domini…” the man intoned, reciting the Latin prayer backward. Her unholy wedding mass had begun.

  A sensual thrill slithered up Christine’s thighs as her master took her hand. “The time has come to join the kingdoms,” he declared.

  Somewhere above, a clock chimed the eleventh hour.…

  “Satanus beati…” the followers chanted. They repeated the phrase over and over in hypnotic counterpoint to the master’s words. Christine began to sway to the droning rhythm. “… Beati satanus beati…”