Armageddon (15 page)

This time his foot flew in a whirling windmill kick to my face.

This was cage fighting without the cage. And I would need every kick, punch, and combination I could come up with.

Because my father was trying to kill me.

Literally.

He leaped into the air, scissor-wrapped his legs around my neck, and slammed me down to the ground. One second before my skull hit a rock, I countered with a grunting head roll that brought his ankle down on the boulder instead.

Dad screamed in agony when his bone snapped.

Free from his leg hold, I sprang up into a star jump just as he spiraled into a flying twin-knuckle
tsuki
that socked me in the stomach so hard I thought my lungs would never hold air again.

Clearly, he had completely recovered from his ankle fracture.

“Overconfidence will kill you, son.”

No. My
father
was going to kill me!

Revved up on adrenaline, I flew into a fight frenzy.

My father and I exchanged a wicked series of blows and counter blows, kicks and counter kicks.

And then we tried to strangle each other.

This went on for at least an hour. A couple of my ribs felt as if they’d splintered like chicken bones. My legs were turning to rubber from sheer exhaustion and the drain of all that adrenaline. And my father wasn’t letting up.

Now that I knew he was definitely trying to kill me, I decided it was time to return the favor.

“Be careful, son,” he taunted as he swaggered around me. “Focus. Fight with your head.”

“Thanks for the suggestion!” I said, hurtling at his gut headfirst, like a battering ram.

But my father became a matador outwitting a charging bull and sidestepped me before I made impact. For good measure, he fist-jabbed me hard in both kidneys as I breezed past his hip.

Dazed and totally embarrassed, I could feel the rage rising up through my neck to scorch the tips of my ears.

“Do not give sway to the negative way,” said my father.

I guess he learned that little ditty from Xanthos, back in the day.

I couldn’t care less. My father was the one who had dragged me into this mess in the first place. He was the one dumb enough to let Number 1 get the drop on him, and then he did absolutely
nothing
to save my mom. It was
my father’s fault that I ended up an orphan, and then what did he do? He left me my inheritance—the stupid List, plus the ridiculous mission to protect an entire planet from all sorts of creeped-out alien invaders, even though I was only a kid. Which, I have to say, seriously screwed me up. Wouldn’t it screw
you
up? Heck, I couldn’t even have a girlfriend without her getting kidnapped by drooling interplanetary delinquents. And to add insult to injury, every now and then, just for chuckles, my father seemed to pop back into my world so he could boss me around and kick the crap out of me.

So, here and now, all I wanted was to kill my deadbeat dad for all he had done to me. Like ruining my life.

Yeah, I seriously wanted to kill the guy. I wanted to finish this whole stupid Alien Hunter thing right here, right now.

My father relaxed his fists and let his arms hang loosely at his sides.

“I recognize that look in your eye, Daniel.”

“What about it?”

“It is hate, pure and simple. Hate fueled by rage.”

“So?”

“Making his targets slaves to hate is how Abbadon wins, son. It is how he has
always
won.”

MY FATHER TRANSFORMED the walls of the barn into movie screens onto which he projected a series of extremely graphic and grisly scenes, all of them rated H for Horrible and Horrifying.

And Historical.

Genghis Khan and his Mongol hordes devastating Central Asia and Russia.

King Herod the Great ordering the execution of all the young male children in the village of Bethlehem so he wouldn’t lose his throne to the “king” whose birth three wise men had read in the stars.

The horrors and tortures of the Spanish Inquisition, including the burning at the stake of all those whom the church declared heretics.

Robespierre and his Reign of Terror. Sixteen thousand people losing their heads to the guillotine.

King Leopold of Belgium’s atrocities in the Congo.

The murders of the Romanov family by the Bolsheviks in Russia in 1918.

The mass murder of many millions of people in the Soviet Union under Lenin and Stalin.

“Do you see him, Daniel?” my father asked as we watched Nazi soldiers wiping out the Warsaw Ghetto in 1941.

“No.”

“Look carefully. There. Skulking in the background.”

I stared beyond the hate-filled Nazis and the terrified Jews, and saw two glowing red dots.

I looked harder.

I saw him. The two points of throbbing red were his hideous, burning eyes.

“It’s Number 2! He was there?”

My father nodded. “Throughout history, whenever humankind, fueled by ignorance and hate, turns against itself, you will see him.”

And I did. Now that I knew what I was looking for, Abbadon was easy to spot. His appearance always changed, but his eyes never did. They burned like stoked embers in a hearth under the blast of a bellows whenever humans committed atrocities against other humans.

At the Jallianwala Bagh massacre of unarmed Indian protestors by the British in 1919.

In the killing fields of Cambodia, when the Marxist Khmer Rouge regime murdered more than two million of its fellow Cambodians.

He was there when Saddam Hussein gassed the Kurds.

He gloried in Beijing’s Tiananmen Square massacre in 1989.

He cheered on the holocaust in Rwanda when a million Tutsis were butchered.

“He is always there,” my father said. “He triumphs when hatred overpowers all other human emotions. Study him, Daniel. Study everything he does—and I mean everything. Every movement, every gesture, every telling smile. Look for his weaknesses.”

“I don’t see any!”

“Look harder.”

I did, but all I saw was the crimson-eyed fiend lurking in the background, delighting as human beings turned on one another. I watched until I couldn’t watch anymore.

I turned my head away from the carnage flowing across the barn walls just as Colonel Gaddafi was sending foreign mercenaries into the streets of Tripoli to murder his fellow Libyans.

“Focus, Daniel! Focus!”

I refused to look at the horror displayed on the walls any longer.

“Who is this monster?” I demanded.

“Focus, son!”

“No. Tell me. The List can’t, but you can, can’t you?
Who is Number 2?
”

My father heaved the heaviest sigh I have ever heard in my life.

“Very well, Daniel. You leave me no choice.”

I couldn’t believe it: my father was finally ready to tell me
everything
!

MY FATHER’S FINAL lesson for the day was a shocker.

“This was the battle
I
had been preparing for, Daniel. In Kansas.”

“When Number 1 came for you and Mom?”

My father nodded.

“But why were you training to fight Number 2? Why not Number 1? If you had concentrated on the top gun…”

“It was my mission, Daniel. It was why your mother and I came to this planet.”

“To fight Number 2? I don’t get it.”

“Daniel, Number 2 is the one humans call the Prince of Darkness. He is Satan.”

“The devil?”

Now the walls of the barn were filled with fiery images. Michelangelo’s fresco
The Last Judgment
from the altar wall of the Sistine Chapel, showing Satan as the boatman Charon ferrying the evildoers down to hell. A snake hissing
in the verdant undergrowth of a garden. The cloven-hoofed, twin-horned fiend of legend and horror films.

My father turned to gaze at the devilish imagery writhing across the walls.

“He is the great pretender,” my father said. “A fallen angel fighting for souls, hoping to lure them into the darkness. He is the one Muslims call Iblis, a demon created out of smokeless fire. He is Beelzebub, who can cast evil suggestions into the hearts of men and women. He is the one ancient Zoroastrians called Angra Mainyu, ‘the destructive spirit.’ And you, Daniel, must fight him.”

“Why?”

“Because this is the beginning of the Apocalypse. The final, cataclysmic battle between the forces of good and the forces of evil; the ultimate struggle between the creator and the destroyer; a clash that is written about in holy texts on every planet in this universe because the devil—the one who thrives on evil, hatred, and destruction—is everywhere.”

“Wait a second,” I said. “If Number 2 is the devil, who or
what
is Number 1?”

“Something much worse,” said my father. “He is a deity, Daniel.
A god.
”

WHEN I WOKE up, I smelled pancakes. It was quite a contrast to the horrors I’d learned about the night before from Dad.

I rolled out of the bed in the Judges’ guest room and made my way downstairs to the kitchen.

I was relieved to see that the walls in Agent Judge’s house displayed the usual sort of framed pictures—not the horror show I had witnessed when my father turned the walls of the barn into the multiplex from hell. But seeing so many pictures of Mel—riding a pony in the paddock, winning her first horse-show ribbon, crossing
our
creek on horseback—bummed me out nearly as much.

Mel was still missing, of course.

And now I knew who had her: the devil himself. Going down the list of baddies you could be kidnapped by, it doesn’t get much worse than that.

I stepped into the kitchen.

“Good morning, Daniel.”

It was my mother, cooking up a storm. Like my dad, she is a total manifestation of my imagination and shares his uncanny ability to show up exactly when I need her most. And, like most moms, she also knows exactly what to make for breakfast when life gets tough. In addition to the pancakes I had already sniffed out, there were a dozen eggs sputtering in a skillet; bacon, sausage, and ham sizzling on the grill; cheese grits simmering in a pot; biscuits and cinnamon buns in the oven; pitchers of juice (orange, apple, grape, and grapefruit); and, of course, toast.

Hey, it’s just not breakfast without toast.

“Erm, are we expecting company?”

“No, dear. This is all for you. Your warrior’s breakfast.”

It’s a tradition in cultures everywhere: Before you go off to do battle, you pig out with one last feast. Either that or you fast in the desert to give yourself a lean, mean edge. Personally, I prefer the feast to the fast.

I settled in at the kitchen table and secured a checkered napkin in the collar of my T-shirt. Then I tucked into the mountain of food Mom had piled on my plate. When I was halfway through my second stack of pancakes, my mother sat down at the table with me.

“Daniel, do you know why your father never did battle with Number 2?”

“I guess because I was like three years old and he didn’t want to risk losing his death match with the devil, which would leave
you
a single parent and
me
a fatherless child.
Of course, the way things worked out, I turned into a total orphan instead.”

My mother smiled and shook her head. “That’s not why he refused the fight, Daniel.”

I put down my knife and fork. She reached across the table to touch my hand with hers.

“Going up against the devil is not a task to be taken lightly. You only get one chance. If you lose, the consequences are dire.”

“Wasn’t Dad ready? Was he afraid?”

“Your father has not been afraid of anything or anyone since the time he was two years old and his mother accidentally dropped him in the middle of an elephant stampede during mastodon mating season.”

“So why didn’t he take down Number 2 when he had the chance?”

“Because he knew a stronger warrior was coming along. One better suited to the task than he.”

“Who?”

“You, Daniel. You have more powers than your father and I combined. You are the one whose destiny has always been to deal with Number 2. I sometimes think creating
you
was the reason fate decreed that your father and I fall in love. Now we need to pray that you are ready for this fight.”

Then, right there at the kitchen table, my mom and I locked hands and bowed our heads to pray.

Hey, if you go up against evil alien baddies on a regular
basis, prayer can be extremely useful. Sometimes you just need to call on a power greater than yourself—even if you, yourself, have all kinds of great powers.

But I never prayed like this before. And my mother? Her intensity was off the charts.

When we were finished I couldn’t help but ask, “Why did you pray so hard, Mom?”

“I’m trying to prepare you—and me—for the possibility of your death.”

“You think I’m gonna die when I go up against Abbadon?”

“Death is always with us, Daniel. None of us is immortal. Eventually, we must all depart this realm and move on to the next.”

Okay, even after biscuits and slabs of ham, that was probably the heaviest thing my mom could have served me for breakfast. And she wasn’t finished.

“Someone close to my heart
is
going to die soon, Daniel. I can feel it. The feeling is so strong there is an aura of certainty surrounding it.”

Something else you should probably know about my mom?

Her “feelings” are never, ever wrong.

“GOOD MORNING, DANIEL,” Agent Judge greeted me as I entered the barnyard. “Sleep okay?”

“Yeah,” I lied, deciding not to go into the bit about fighting my dad nearly to the death.

“You hungry? The cook set up a mess tent in the paddock.”

“No thanks. I’m good.”

“Okay, then.” Agent Judge looked impatient. “We need to move out. Now. It’s time to take the fight to Abbadon.”

“Yes, sir. I was thinking we should double back to that abandoned coal mine in West Virginia. The bat cave might be some kind of an entrance into the underworld where he’s holding Mel hostage.”