Evil Origins: A Horror & Dark Fantasy Collection (70 page)

The women giggled and continued to stroke Sully’s hair.

“What’s the plan for tomorrow?” asked John.

“The plan? I told you guys. Let society fucking die. We live
on the fringes and this shit don’t affect us. The more of our brothers we can
get to return to the ‘Saw, the better. But that’s all we’re about. We’ve got
enough to keep us stoned for a long time. We’ve got enough pussy to keep our
dicks wet, and we’ve got enough guns to blow those motherfuckin’ Bible freaks
to hell. I’ve got a couple of prospect vests at my pad. If you’d like to take a
shot at being a Keeper, we’ll give ya a fair shake. How about a patchover?”

The women kissed each other while winking at the men.

“Thanks for the offer, Sully,”replied Alex. “We don’t need
cuts. We need to figure out what to do.”

“Suit yourself, boys. I’ve got ladies to service.”

Sully and the two women walked off toward the back of the
stage. Alex and John looked at each other and laughed.

“I’ll bet he passes out before they unzip his fly,” said
John.

“Doesn’t look like it’ll stop their good time if he does,”
replied Alex.

“What are we doing, man?” said John. “Maybe this ain’t the
best time to be talking. Ya know, after a night of drinkin’ and all. But what
should we do? Do you think they’re alive, anywhere?”

Alex took the last swig from his bottle of beer. The warm
hops stuck in his throat. Alex felt queasy and feverish. He closed his eyes to
a spinning room, and opened them again to ward off the ride.

“I’m sure there are pockets of survivors all over the city. That’s
not the challenge. The hard part is going to be finding them and communicating
with them. Your wife could be holed up in a basement two blocks from here and
you’d never know it. You could spend weeks, months, looking and never find each
other. You get what I’m sayin’?”

“Yeah, I do. But part of me can’t give up on Jana. I know
she’s alive, and I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t do everything in my
power to find her.”

“I haven’t given up hope, but I think the prospects of me
finding my family alive are very low. I see those fucking blasts of light every
time I close my eyes. I can hear their screams and the pops of the rifles, over
and over. I plan on stabbing Father in the throat with a fucking crucifix. That’s
what’s keeping me going. I can’t even deal with the grief yet.”

Both men stood up. They stumbled to the bar and walked
around behind it. The moon lit the glass block with a low, gray light. As Sully
promised, a stack of cardboard boxes stood beneath the taps, and tattered
moving blankets lay in a heap opposite the boxes. Alex and John pulled them out
and placed them on the plastic mat that kept the bartender from slipping on the
wet floor. The bar reeked piss and cigarette smoke. The stress of the day and
the alcohol pushed both men into an instant sleep.

Chapter
20

John took a deep breath. The leaves grabbed at his ankles
as the soft breeze pulled them across the forest floor. Many of the trees had
given up their life for the season. The maples remained a vibrant orange. They
fought the encroaching winter with all their might. John sat up and pushed his
hair from his face. The moss underneath him covered most of the exposed rock,
creating a lush and natural sleeping mat. The midafternoon sun peeked over the
barren branches of the tallest tree, struggling to get to the height it did a
few months ago. The golden rays warmed him from the inside out.

He stood and walked toward the sound of moving water. The
dry leaves crackled under his boots, throwing the aroma of autumn into the air.
John ducked underneath low-hanging branches and came to a rocky outcrop. He
looked straight down eighty feet to Euclid Creek. The water rushed over
limestone steps, cutting a thirty-foot path in the ancient rock. High above the
creek, on the opposite shore, John saw tags that teenagers painted on the rock
face. The disrespectful symbols intruded on the natural surroundings.

John looked downstream and saw the creek disappear around
a bend. Upstream, he watched it emerge from another. He picked up a rock and
tossed it into the water below. The stone fell and tumbled for five seconds
before bouncing off the rock just below the surface. It skipped down another
piece of limestone and came to rest under the water. The creek, shallow at this
time of year, would be raging with snow melt in early spring. John thought that
his could be the last human hand to touch the rock for thousands – possibly
millions – of years.

He turned and walked back toward the moss bed to discover
a six-pack of soda, bag of snack chips, and a can of chewing tobacco. John
devoured the chips and chased them with three cans of soda. Although he gave up
dipping twenty years ago, he shoved the can into a pocket, already savoring the
salty, bitter sting of the snuff.

When he set the soda down, John noticed an MP3 player
next to it. He surveyed the empty woods. John placed the buds in his ears and
pushed the power button. A woodcut from the twelfth century appeared on the
display. John recognized the figure seated at the banquet table. Vlad the
Impaler, the historical Dracula, wore a long beard and robes with his head
thrown back in laughter. On the other side of the banquet table stood tall,
wooden spikes. Each spike held a writhing, naked figure who had been impaled
from the anus to the mouth. Above the woodcut he saw “Killer of the Sultan” in
a gothic script. An ominous bass guitar growled, followed by distant cymbals. The
song lurched into an hypnotic riff.

When he looked up, a figure stood before him in a white
robe. Father held a Bible in one hand and an incense burner in another, the
kind Catholic priests used for the Stations of the Cross or funerals. As the
flame leapt from the burner, John recognized the unique aroma. It overpowered
the natural, earthy smell of the forest in autumn.

He pulled the buds from his ears and dropped the MP3
player to the ground. The leaves swallowed it whole. John stood and faced
Father from five feet away. Father had not moved since John first noticed him. His
fierce eyes penetrated John’s awareness. Father’s mouth remained closed, but
the corners tilted up, giving the impression of a faint smile.

John looked down and noticed that he’d shrunk. A child
now, his jeans and T-shirt had been replaced with a white robe tied at the
waist. He stood with both hands holding the crucifix, and the forest blinked
out of existence. A blinding light filled John’s vision. When it subsided, he
stood in the vestibule of St. Bernadette’s church as the twelve-year-old altar
boy at Sunday Mass. Father took a step toward John and placed his hand on
John’s right shoulder.

“She is alive.”

“Who?” asked John.

“Jana. She needs you in this difficult time. Do not
abandon her.”

“How do you know?” John asked. His voice broke.

“He has provided the Holy Covenant with all the tools and
weapons necessary to prepare the way for the return of His son.”

John looked out across a sea of blank stares. The
parishioners sat in the pews of 1983. He saw Brett and Chris from his
seventh-grade class. Next to them sat Jacquie, the first girl to make his
stomach flutter. He saw neighbors and friends from childhood, his parents, and
little brother and sister. The entire congregation moved their mouths in unison
to a hymn, yet the church remained silent except for the conversation between
John and Father.

“Why am I here?”

“To remind you, John. We are a part of you. You cannot
forsake your faith. You cannot forsake your past. All sheep wander from the
path, but God is still shepherding you. Come back to us, John. You are the
Revelator. He needs your help.”

“I’m dreaming. This isn’t real. It’s been a long time
since I was an altar boy at St. Bernadette’s. Those people out there are grown
up, moved on, or dead.”

“A dream has its own reality. The feelings of safety,
comfort, and assurance you had as a youth can all be yours again. Serve the
Lord and He will save your soul for all eternity.”

John flushed with anger. He saw through the shallow eyes
of the Father and the deceptive illusion of his past. John heaved the crucifix
as hard as he could toward the tabernacle. The cross twirled through the air
with the long handle spinning underneath it. The solid-silver crucifix smashed
headfirst into the tabernacle, shattering the top with a wretched crash. The
golden chalice of a long-forgotten priest rolled out and fell to the marble
stone beneath. John looked at the faces of the parish and yet they did not
change. Mouths opened and closed in silence, like hungry fish groping for food.

His altar-boy robes disappeared and he grew back to his
adult height, dressed in the jeans and T-shirt of reality. Father never moved
and never uttered a word. Flames burst through the floor of the church and
wooden pews erupted in golden and blue heat. The faces of John’s past began to
melt. The apparitions continued their silent chant as skin and muscle slid from
bone. The only thing John heard was his own panicked breathing.

Stained-glass windows shattered, exposing the cold, black
nothingness of space. Hymnals fluttered through the air like birds of fire. The
roof of the church collapsed, dropping chunks of plaster upon the melting
bodies. Dark figures swooped down upon the scene, carrying corpses away in
taloned hands. The demons lifted those that had not yet burned and devoured
their flesh in mid-flight.

After what seemed like days, the church and all of its
parishioners of the past dissolved into a barren, rocky landscape. On the
horizon, John saw nothing but red-tinged rock, tendrils of smoke creeping
toward the black sky. He turned and saw Father standing in the same position he
had occupied since the dream began. Father’s appearance and halfhearted smile
did not falter through the grotesque transformations.

“It is never too late to come back to Him,” said Father.

His white robe stung John’s eyes by its brightness.

“But, John, do not waste precious time. You can save your
family, your friends, your love, and your past if you come back to us. We will
accept you with open arms and shower you with the love of God. I have spoken to
Him and He tells me you are our savior. You will lead us from this dark time
into a new era of shining faith.”

John rubbed his face and pulled the collar of his T-shirt
over his nose. The smell of rotting eggs made him retch. Distant screams of
agony and pain broke the silent façade of the dreamscape as lost souls departed
again for eternal solitude.

“Why must you wage war? Surely God sent His son to preach
the ways of peace, love for one’s brother.”

“You of all people must know the answer to that question.
You are the Revelator.”

“I am not!” John screamed. “Quit calling me that.”

Father’s face twisted in anger and his eyes turned a
shade of red.

“You are! God has written of the Final Battle. Through
you, John, He has shared His vision of the last war between good and evil. The
Infidels must be destroyed. The Warriors of Christ will cleanse the earthly
heaven in preparation for the return of the Son. All the souls of heaven must
be spared, and those innocent of the earth must join them in praise.”

“And God has chosen you to lead this crusade?”

“No. He has chosen you, John. You are His messenger, His
right hand. He has chosen me to be your protector.”

“That is bullshit and you know it. How many times has the
Church done this and then apologized for it later? How many decent, peaceful,
and innocent people perished at the hand of the Inquisition? How many bled out
on the sword of the Crusades? That is not God’s message. That is man’s desire
to force others to live as one.”

“The Infidels have raised the demons of hell and sat them
amongst us. They have lured Satan and all his minions to the table. They have
feasted on the God-fearing souls of the earth for too long. Ask yourself, John.
‘What shape is the world in today?’ Can you answer that? Illicit drugs steal
young people from their families. Women legally kill unwanted seeds in their
womb. Nonbelievers taint all of humanity, tempting them with sex and violence. Lucifer
walks with us. If we do not stand and fight in God’s name, we are all doomed.”

“I will not deny that we face challenges today that
threaten our entire existence. But, killing all those that do not prescribe to
your ways will not save us. You are mad with blind religious fury, and I will
not be part of it.”

“You may change your mind yet, young John. Your eyes have
not seen the extent of the brutality of the Infidels. You will come back to
your faith and fight alongside us. You will trumpet the return of the Son, the
banishment of Satan, and the beginning of the Thousand Year Peace. God’s love
will bring you back.”

“We have nothing left to discuss. Wake me or cut me free
from this vision and do not return.”

“Or what? Do you think you are in a position to threaten
me?”

John blinked. When his eyes opened, he sat inside a
three-foot by three-foot cell. The walls and ceiling of solid concrete left no
room for windows. Iron bars sealed the cell from the only opening in the
dungeon. A six-inch hole in the floor smelled of feces as flies circled the
opening of the pipe. Beyond the bars, a dark corridor spread out as far as John
could see. Meager torches on the moldy brick walls faded into the distance.

“I can put you here until the end of time.”

“This is a dream, you have no power over me.”

“Then wake up, John. Go ahead and do it.”