by Carl Meadows
He told himself such positions were beneath him anyway. There would always be someone he had to answer to, someone with more power and sway than he could ever attain, because he was not born to privilege. He had not been blessed with the finest private education or network of contacts to open those doors for him. Without the drive to be an entrepreneur and willingness for hard work, John Maddock was doomed to a life of insignificance, a mote of cosmic dust that would go unnoticed in the vastness of time and space like so many others.
That was until he read a single quote from the science fiction writer L. Ron Hubbard.
“You don’t get rich writing science fiction. If you want to get rich, you start a religion.”
For the first time, Maddock applied himself, working those dead end jobs while he wandered the dark paths of the internet, scouring old style forums and message boards, and tapping into the newer tools of social media to gather weak minded fools to him. Within weeks, he was a subculture online celebrity, a voice for the disaffected. Within months, he was speaking to a massive online congregation.
So many disaffected souls, drifting on that aimless sea with no purpose in life, found an empathetic listener in Maddock. He heard them and understood their pain and disillusionment with a world that ignored them. They were life’s outliers, alone, with no family or friends, and no purpose. They all craved to be part of something, and to feel connected in a community where they had meaning and value. The world had made them pariahs, cast aside to watch others have all the advantages, and all the breaks that they were denied. Maddock echoed their cries of inequality and injustice, transforming their meek whines of disparate discontent into a single roar of unity.
He assured them all that a great equaliser was coming. The pillars of society and civilisation were trembling and on the verge of collapse, corroded by the avarice and capitalism of the evil one percent who greedily retained power for themselves. A new age was just over the horizon, when the world would be reset and all those riches would mean nothing, but if they were to claim their rightful place in this rebirth, they had to be prepared. Maddock gave them all a solemn oath to guide them, to unite and lead them through this great change, and they would be his Children of the Resurrection. The meek truly would inherit the earth.
Throughout history, the end of the world has always fascinated every religion and culture. The promise of the world being reset contained a heady allure, allowing those abandoned by current society to claim the rebirth as their divine due for all they had been forced to endure. It was an easy hook for Maddock to bait.
The donations to his “religion” started small, then gradually gained traction. Soon he was able to leave those meaningless jobs behind, with enough income to sustain him while he focused on expanding his growing influence. The donations were enough to keep him comfortable, but he had to continually preach to his online masses and keep them engaged, constantly needing to fire their conspiracy theorist minds with all kinds of laughable junk he found in the darkest corners of the internet.
It wasn’t enough though. His natural apathy started to creep in again, his work ethic waning as the donations remained steady, but not enough to warrant his continual level of effort.
Until fate finally smiled upon him.
After a “sermon” about the need for readiness, posted online to his ever-growing followers, Maddock received a private message from a young man named Oliver Hargrave. Heir to a vast fortune of old Cheshire property money, Hargrave had lived a life of privilege, but still felt like an outlier. He was socially awkward despite all his advantages in life, laughed at by his peers, and paranoid that those befriending him – or those seeking to court him - were only interested in his pending fortune. The tragic irony of his dilemma was not lost on Maddock, as Oliver Hargrave gift-wrapped himself to one interested in him for that exact purpose.
Oliver wanted to be part of the new order when the pillars of society crumbled. He wanted his wealth to do something good when those end times came and begged to help Maddock with his readiness.
He had a site in the Cheshire countryside that could be donated to the Children of the Resurrection and renovated at his cost. He would install solar power, drill wells, have water treatment and filtration in place, fields for agriculture and animal farming, gather resources such as dried foods, fuel, vehicles, even weapons and ammunition from a vast network of contacts. If you had the funds, anything was possible.
Hargrave, in his social isolation, had studied preparation for the end times, and knew what they needed with a promise to project manage and fund it all.
His sick father was dying of terminal cancer, inoperable with only months to live, and Oliver Hargrave was heir to a fortune worth in the region of four hundred million pounds.
Maddock had laughed long and loud, dancing for joy in his one-bedroom flat, air-punching at finally achieving his heart’s desire. Oliver Hargrave was his golden goose. A few years of milking it, watching the community grow and gather, giving sermons, being magnanimous, and manipulating the impressionable young man was all Maddock needed. After two or three years, Hargrave would be his loyal dog and sign the purse strings of the Hargrave fortune to Maddock, and the false prophet would disappear into the night, taking all that wealth to some non-extradition country. Sun, sea, and sand would be his future, finally living the life of perpetual comfort he knew he deserved.
Moving north from his tiny flat on the outskirts of London, Maddock had watched the Children of the Resurrection grow these past three years. The purposefully renovated site for his expertly crafted cult was now populated with almost five hundred people. Agriculture, animal husbandry, engineering, medical staff, and a working infirmary. They even recruited trained security specialists from former veterans unable to find a place in the civilian world, or army reservists who would unlikely pass a psych evaluation for professional soldiers. They had it all.
The site was surrounded by purpose-built farmsteads tasked with specific crops to rotate, and dairy farms with cattle, sheep, swine, and their main site even had an old-school windmill constructed for milling grain, and silos to store their output. Maddock had marvelled at the infrastructure in place, Hargrave’s near-savant level of planning and organisation a wonder to behold. Disaffected souls from across the country began to arrive at the commune, giving their lives to a cause he had fabricated, and one he would ultimately betray.
A year earlier, in 2009, Maddock had gathered his followers together and proclaimed that the end of days was nearing. By the end of 2010, the world would die and be reborn anew. It started the clock ticking on his machinations with Hargrave but the young man, his father long since dead, was alone in the world. Maddock had insinuated himself as the young man’s surrogate family and confidante, having been ever-present in his life for three years as they watched their community grow. The time was approaching when Hargrave would finally, “cast off the chains of his wealth, and truly be ready for the Resurrection.”
Maddock had inwardly laughed to himself when he spoke that line. He was quite proud of that one, and Hargrave had looked thoughtful, as though realising that he was finally ready. The Resurrection was upon them.
Everything was in place. Maddock had played the role of benevolent prophet for a little over three years, passing his fortieth birthday during that period. He wanted to enjoy what remained of his life and though he lived in exquisite comfort with his every need attended, his life as their “prophet” had always been stamped with an expiration date. Plus, it was exhausting having to play his role to keep his followers engaged. Eventually, they would expect a commitment from him, an undeniable and tangible truth to the sermons and promises he had delivered, so 2010 was the platter of knowledge he served to satiate their hunger. This was their last year of preparation for the coming apocalypse, and as their excitement was reinvigorated with his revelation, Maddock began the process of planning his exit strategy while they were distracted.
However, on 23rd June 2010, the world did end.
And that was not part of his plan.
“It’s happening!” beamed Oliver, bursting into the dining room of Maddock’s house as he was eating breakfast. Naturally, the prophet had his own living quarters, attended by acolytes eager to please their revered leader, usually young women that could serve multiple needs. Recovering his poise at the sudden interruption, Maddock turned and raised a single imperious eyebrow in the young man’s direction.
Oliver was animated, his eyes bright with wonder as he placed the laptop on the table in front of Maddock.
“Look!”
Maddock released a small sigh of displeasure at his morning peace being disturbed but indulged his wealthy benefactor. He turned his gaze to the screen as Oliver switched the volume on.
It took all of Maddock’s considerable acting skills to keep his expression and body language neutral, as he spent the next fifteen minutes switching between channels, reading online news releases, and staring at images of violence across the globe. Aerial pictures of cities in chaos and flame were shown on every continent, in virtually every country. Video footage from ground level revealed white-eyed people tearing at their fellow humans with their teeth, biting bloody chunks from them like monstrous savages.
The most terrifying of all the releases were those who openly said that the dead were rising. What the hell did that mean; the dead were rising?
Confusion reigned over all the channels. How had this happened overnight, in every country, on every continent, across the globe? No terrorist organisation could pull that off without some cells being detected along the way. It was just too big to contain, too perfectly orchestrated to come from nowhere, without some form of detection from paranoid intelligence services. And what virus could do this in a single night to the whole world? Any pandemic would still have a lag time from ground zero to spread across the globe. It just didn’t make any sense.
This was everywhere, all at once.
Oliver hung at his shoulder, eyes dancing between the images on the screen and Maddock’s blank expression, waiting for some visceral reaction from his spiritual leader. All his sermons, all the promises he had made to them, had come to fruition. It was the end of days, and John Maddock, Prophet of the Resurrection, had spoken truth.
“You were right, Revered Prophet,” whispered Oliver in breathless wonder.
He never uttered Maddock’s title in private and it gave the false prophet pause. Oliver only used it in public among the other Resurrectionists. Maddock had been sure to reinforce his image of family and confidante with Oliver in private, building that intimate trust and making him use his name, talking as close friends, and making the young man feel part of his secretive world. For Oliver to say it now, when it was just the two of them, and with such reverence only reinforced how the world had suddenly transformed.
“You were right about it all!” laughed Oliver, a sound of exultant disbelief, like someone below the poverty line staring at a winning lottery ticket in shaking fingers. “And now, thanks to you, we are prepared for this dark resurrection!”
Dark resurrection.
The words sent a wave of foreboding through Maddock’s body, rippling like freezing meltwater through his veins. The dead were rising; it was a dark resurrection, and he had foreseen it all.
Yet they were all lies. All of them.
He had never been specific about the method the world would end, only that society would collapse. Specifics were a dangerous game to play, and the disjointed souls that had slipped into the cracks of society would find their own theories and answers. He had fed them all manner of conspiracy theories to highlight the pervasive corruption throughout society, spoon feeding their confirmation bias, and anyone could spend hours looking at the horrors that humanity inflicted upon itself and the earth to draw conclusions from where “the Fall” would inevitably originate from. It was often the topic of discussion among his followers and he let them debate their theories amongst themselves, retaining the stance of a perfect politician and never committed. Instead, Maddock merely offered words of praise and recognition for their freedom of thought and fascinating ideas. He had only predicted the resurrection itself, not the agency that would bring about its genesis. They should have been debating it still as he absconded with Hargrave’s fortune.
But the dead rising? Like some twisted version of a horror movie? Who could have predicted that?
“Prophet?”
Maddock recovered his poise and affected an air of false confidence as he turned his gaze to Oliver.
“Gather all our brothers and sisters,” he commanded in his most imperious tone. “I would address them all within the hour but for the moment, leave me alone to collect my thoughts.” He forced a smile to his lips and placed his hand on Oliver’s forearm in a reassuring grip, more to steady himself than for the younger man’s benefit. “Go now. Our time is finally here, my brother.”
Oliver was radiant as he nodded, moving to pick up the laptop, but Maddock stayed his hand.
“Leave it,” he ordered. “I would look upon the Resurrection a while longer.”
Oliver bobbed his head. “Of course.”
As the young man left, he was still smiling as he closed the door, leaving the newly crowned Prophet of the Resurrection alone.
As the door clicked shut, Maddock’s eyes drank in the unfolding apocalypse on the device. Sucking in a deep breath, he exhaled a single word.
“Fuck.”
Exhausted by maintaining his façade for that first day, Maddock collapsed on his bed, waving away the two young women desperate to please him. With his exalted status now confirmed, they were sexually ravenous, eager for his divine touch. He had neither the strength nor the will for sex, no matter how their lithe bodies might stir him.
What he needed was a plan.
He had never accounted for being an actual leader through a genuine apocalypse. John Maddock was not cut out to be a true prophet and divine icon to five hundred people through a real apocalypse. His goal had been a long con, with the only aim to steal Oliver’s fortune and live a luxurious life of hedonistic comfort. The future of the people he intended to abandon had never been his concern.
Now, everything had changed. There was no escape to a sun-drenched tropical getaway, with lazy days spent by his private pool, being waited on hand and foot as a lauded socialite, renowned for hosting all the best parties. He wanted adulation, but not the type he had to work for. Responsibility was not a game he desired to play.
Right now, sleep was all he needed. In the coming days, he would have little time to himself. He would have to craft some new aspect to his false religion, some great pretence to maintain his illusion, and try to figure out if there was any way he could escape this twisted nightmare of his own making.
Lady Luck had baited her hook, and like a fool he had taken the bite. He should have known better, thinking he had the perfect plan. What a grand cosmic joke his life was.
Exhaustion finally claimed him. Without even kicking off his shoes, Maddock collapsed into the oblivion of sleep.
It was cold. So very cold.
This was not the cold of winter though, a mere absence of warmth that could be banished with the blaze of fire. It was a bleak darkness that seeped through every pore, icing the blood, as though frost was gathering on the very marrow of his bones.
It was a dream, he knew. He was lucid, aware that his body was sleeping off the numbing exhaustion the end times had wrought upon him. There was no chaos here though, unlike the jumble of clashing thoughts and emotions raging in his mind during his waking hours. It was just dark, cold, and endlessly empty.
He was alone.
“John Maddock.”
The voice in the dark was a challenge for his mortal senses to experience. It didn’t lap into his eardrums as a gentle wave of sound but reverberated in every molecule of his being. A sickening whisper of pure malice invading every part of him, finally manifesting in his mind as something his mortal reality could comp
rehend.
Sibilant, with a demonic rasp clinging to the malevolent hiss, the inhuman whisper sounded in his mind like the moist crunch of footsteps in wet gravel. Paralysed with a terror that threatened to snap his sanity, he was unable to even shiver as the voice’s dark caress slid down the nerves of his spine.
“You have sinned, John Maddock,” it breathed. “You have led these people with empty promises, made yourself into a false prophet and idol, and your only true intention was betrayal.”
Maddock desperately wanted to beg for forgiveness, but he remained motionless, petrified by the demonic presence violating every fibre of his mortal body and soul.
“Humanity is judged from this day, John Maddock. Judged because of those like yourself, who live only for their own comfort, their own needs, at the cost of their fellow man. Today, John Maddock, your dead have awakened, and they will judge you all.”
Tears rolled from his eyes, freezing solid in the biting cold that clawed at his dream-flesh. There was nothing to see, just an empty blackness in which he floated, devoid of sensation save for the crippling dread and the frozen tears upon his cheek.
“Lies, greed, hatred, deceit, betrayal, cruelty, murder,” continued the malice. “This is all your kind know, so the children of my dark resurrection will be humanity’s end. Your time upon this earth is no more, John Maddock. Humanity is irredeemable.”
Desolation, soul-deep and crushing, pervaded every atom of Maddock as his dream-self hung alone in the silent, eternal abyss.
Was this his fate? Oblivion? Perpetual darkness until time itself died? His sanity threatened to shatter with the concept.
