Apocalypse Soldier (18 page)

The demon soldiers, features distorted by the darkness raging inside them, closed in. Talon faced the approaching horde, knowing it would be a short battle. But at least he’d go down fighting instead of being a helpless spectator. He was ready to meet his maker.
 

As he bent down to scoop up an AK-47, the second miracle occurred. Once again, he was pretty sure Nicole was the one who was pulling the strings behind the scene. Chanting voices began to rise in the chapel, growing in volume with each passing second.
 

The demon soldiers paused in their approach, startled.
 

Talon spotted the source of the voices. The laptops had all come back to life, and the six exorcists were back online. The chanting and powerful prayers filled the church, weaving an invisible power. Talon remembered Cabrera’s earlier words: The ritual is to make the demon vulnerable, the cross drives them out, and the blade severs their link to our reality.
 

As soon as the thought passed through Talon’s mind, Cabrera’s cross flew from the priest’s hand, shot across the nave of the church, and landed in Talon’s bloody left palm. His crimson fingers closed around the holy relic and found the switch that sprang the blade at the bottom of the cross.
 

He faced the horde, the crossblade in on hand, an AK-47 in the other, and a savage smile on his face. The odds were still against him, but he was armed now with both steel and magic.

Before he could close the distance to the demon horde, a loud thumping sound rattled the giant skylights in the chapel. A large shadow fell over the windows, blotting out the sun. It was a sound all too familiar to a soldier. The buzz of an approaching helicopter could mean only one thing: Agent Doyle!

The next moment the skylights shattered and a team of gasmask-wearing SWAT team members in heavy tactical gear exploded through the chapel’s windows on rappel lines, submachine guns blazing.
 

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-S
IX

AGENT DOYLE KICKED open the doors to the chapel and joined the battle. Smoke from an onslaught of gas grenades was everywhere. His breathing amplified by the gasmask on his face, he flashed his weapon, ready for some payback. Three SWAT officers flanked him, sporting the same take-no-prisoner attitude. The red beams of their laser-sighted guns speared the dense smoke and found their targets.
 

It was the mirror image of another raid that had changed his life forever twenty-two years earlier. Back then, he was just a scared kid—and he hadn’t had the luxury of wearing a gasmask. His mom had told him to press a wet towel against his face, but he’d still struggled with each breath while a terrifying cacophony of gunfire and screams had filled the ranch. During those horrific minutes of the FBI assault, young Doyle had become convinced the apocalypse their cult leader had foretold was upon them. As much as he had detested cult life on the ranch, Armageddon had seemed a far more terrifying alternative.
 

Doyle forced himself back to the present by unloading a number of rounds into the AK-47 wielding cultists. The apocalypse soldiers went down in a shower of red. Unleashing an unrelenting stream of bullets, Doyle advanced deeper into the chapel. After the assault on the police convoy, no one as taking any chances. Their objective was clear-cut: take out these bastards with as little collateral damage as possible. The barrage of automatic fire continued for another minute and only died down after all the cultists were on the ground.
 

Doyle approached one of the downed soldiers. The chest of the man was shredded, his AK-47 laying impotently next to him in a pool of blood. These terrorists had taken out over twelve police officers, and Doyle felt nothing for the bastards.

He was about to turn away when the bullet-riddled corpse stirred. The figure sprung to its feet with preternatural speed, eyes behind the ski mask flashing red.
 

Before Doyle knew what was happening, the figure launched into him. One blow sent his submachine gun flying, and it vanished in the lingering carpet of smoke. The next punch sent him flying. He crashed into a wall with a bone-rattling crunch, slammed to the ground, and lay still. The world went fuzzy around the edges, swimming in and out of focus. Damn it, he couldn’t allow himself to pass out. Not now. Not in the midst of a conflict between life and death.
 

He gasped for air, centered himself, and his vision cleared. He blinked and saw that the same horror was repeating itself throughout the chapel. The gunned-down cultists were rising from the dead and striking back at the FBI agents with inhuman savagery. AK-47s cut a bloody swath through the team. It was a replay of the terrible freeway attack. A slaughter of good men.
 

For a moment, Doyle only made out shadows, the black-clad devil soldiers indistinguishable from the members of the SWAT team. The shrill screams of his men told Doyle that the tide of battle had turned.
 

What are we up against?

As soon as the question shot through his mind, he received his answer. A red-skinned, horned devil rose from the roiling smoke, his immense physique eclipsing a frozen SWAT officer. The demon’s clawed hand snatched out, closed around the SWAT member’s throat, and lifted him into the air. The officer jerked like a puppet. There was a sound of bones snapping, and the beast flicked the lifeless SWAT guy aside. The dead man vanished in the smoke.

Doyle was reminded once again of his years spent at the cult’s compound. No matter how hard he’d tried, those formative memories had been burned into his soul. Fire and brimstone speeches had dominated daily life with the cult. Demons and devils walked the earth, corrupting unbelievers and spreading sin, all in preparation of the impending apocalypse. Now, as the demon creature unleashed a bellowing roar, Doyle was eleven years old again and knew that the day had come.
 

The apocalypse had arrived.
 

The demon spun toward him, and Doyle snapped a fresh magazine into his submachine gun. His rounds struck the beast’s massive chest but did nothing to halt the slow, even steps. The muzzle flash of the spitting gun illuminated the advancing monster, revealing details that would haunt Doyle for as long as he’d live. Razor-sharp teeth gleamed in the monster’s open mouth, promising agony and death.

The monster’s shadow engulfed him, canceling out the desert light streaming through the shattered skylights. At the same time, crackling static broke over his mike, a soundtrack that underscored the horror show. The officers outside the church were asking for an update.
 

We’re being massacred by demons from hell
, Doyle thought crazily. He wondered how that news would go over back at Langley. Part of him was almost relieved that he’d never have to fill out a report on this case.

Body rigid with fear, Doyle stared up at the beast and waited for certain death. The creature was almost upon him when it paused, its black eyes fixed on something to the right. Doyle craned his neck and spotted the reason for the demon’s hesitation.
 

A new yet familiar figure had arrived on the scene. It was the stranger who’d pulled him out of the burning cruiser. He was bare-chested now and armed with a machine gun in one hand, a large golden cross in the other.

The man who’d saved Doyle’s life earlier that day raised his weapons and attacked the demon.
 

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-S
EVEN

THE CHAPEL HAD become a warzone. Bullets lashed the air as the SWAT team engaged the demon soldiers.

Talon’s heart thudded in his ears as he sought cover behind the altar, intent on not getting caught in the crossfire. There was a blinding flash of light and an intensely loud bang. Talon shielded his eyes and pressed his hands against his ears, but he still went blind and deaf for a few seconds. Even when his senses started to work again, he could only make out vague shapes and strobelike flashes in the billowing clouds of smoke.
 

At first it seemed that the SWAT guys were defeating the demon soldiers but appearances could be deceiving. Bullets might slow down these monsters, but Talon doubted they’d be sufficient to stop them. The demonic entities would protect their hosts. Only one weapon could truly destroy them, and that weapon was in Talon’s gore-smeared left hand—the crossblade.

His suspicion was confirmed moments later when the demon soldiers rose back to their feet and returned fire. The stunned SWAT guys were caught off guard and proved to be no match for these possessed soldiers of the apocalypse.
 

The team was being slaughtered. The time had come for Talon to join the fight. He scanned the chapel for Father Cabrera and Nicole, but they had vanished in the clouds of gas and human chaos. He hoped they were safe.

As he sprung to his feet, he recalled Cabrera’s description of Nicole’s exorcism back at the hospital. The cross drove out the entity while the blade destroyed its physical manifestation. Normally this meant pressing the cross against the bare skin of the afflicted victim, since the goal was to avoid harming the innocent host. But these soldiers weren’t innocent. Talon would be able use the knife with lethal force.

With this thought in mind, Talon lunged, his machine gun spitting cruel fire while his crossblade cut through the air. Warding off two demon soldiers with a spray of lead, he whirled toward a third and drew the crossblade across his torso. The demon’s body shook and contorted, the cross’s power in full effect. His mouth foamed as a black scorpion emerged from his lips. Before the demon could skitter away, Talon lanced the scorpion with the blade. It evaporated into thin air, the relic’s magic sending it back to whatever dark void it had crawled from.
 

Talon barely slowed down as he spun around, repeating the same attack with the next two devil soldiers. The knife slashed the cultists and speared their supernatural parasites, while fire from his machine gun drove them back. As soon as the entities evacuated their hosts, the soldiers succumbed to the mortal wounds Talon had inflicted upon them.

A force of nature, he continued to demolish the horde, one after another, until he fought his way to Amon. The apocalypse soldier loomed over Doyle, ready to strike at the FBI agent.
 

Each one of these soldiers had returned from the war with a demon inside of them—a demon born from the horrors they’d faced and the hard decisions they’d made. Failing to overcome their darkness, they’d embraced it and chosen to become demons themselves. Talon had a demon too. It had been infecting his life ever since the darkness had claimed his Michelle. But he wouldn’t let this darkness consume him. He’d been given a rare opportunity most men never receive.
 

A chance to face and slay his demon.

Michelle’s face flashing in his mind, he emptied a magazine into Amon. The bullets ripped through the massive muscles with ferocious force and punched the monster back. Then Talon was upon him, the crossblade zeroing in on the fiend’s heart. All he needed to do was drive the knife home and wait for the parasite to burst forth.

Amon was expecting the attack.
 

A massive paw snapped around the hand holding the incoming crossblade and stopped it inches before it would’ve pierced his flesh. Retaliating, Amon lunged forward, burying gleaming razor-sharp teeth into Talon’s bare shoulder.
 

Talon cried out and backed away, blood streaming from the bite wound. Amon glared at him, his inhuman teeth rimmed red. He bellowed and grabbed Talon, lifted him into the air like a ragdoll, and tossed him across the length of the chapel. He crashed into the altar with devastating force, the impact knocking the wind out of him and sending the AK-47 flying.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Amon rushing toward him with thundering steps like a nightmarish offensive tackle. He was somewhat slowed by the exorcism prayers but still powerful enough to destroy him upon impact.

Forty feet separated the apocalypse soldier from Talon.

Spent, part of him wanted to just stay put and await the inevitable but the memory of what this beast had done to Michelle spurred him on.
 

Thirty feet.
 

Talon picked himself up, a man of blood.

Twenty feet.

He climbed onto the altar.

Ten feet.

Stumbled erect on the altar, now towering over the incoming demon.

Five feet.
 

He discarded the AK-47 and closed both hands around the crossblade. Ready to face his maker, Talon leaped at the incoming monster as if he was stage diving at some heavy metal concert.

He crashed into Amon, and the impact sent man and demon flying. As they rolled over the church floor, Talon brought up the blade and drove it deep into Amon’s gut. Before the monster could dig its teeth into him again, he rolled away, bolted to his feet in one smooth motion, and whirled, crossblade up…

Just in time for the black scorpion to dig itself out of the knife-wound in Amon’s stomach. As the scorpion shot across the floor, Talon rammed the blade into it with a satisfying splat. The demonic insect dispersed into thin air, emitting a keening wail.
 

Amon stumbled backward, hands clawing his bleeding gut. His transformation was already reversing, details obscured by the tendrils of smoke. One moment he was a monster, another he was merely a man who dreamt of being one.

Realizing what was happening to him, Amon retreated into the roiling smoke. Talon picked himself up, every part of his body aching. Finally the smoke had cleared enough and he was able to spot Nicole and Cabrera. She was crouched over the the unconscious priest, keeping him close. Was the demon still inside of her? The answer would have to wait. Amon was getting away. Talon was about to run after him when the sound of a magazine being snapped into a machine gun gave him pause.