The Seventh Seal (15 page)

God is profane.  A loving God does not punish his
creations.  He does not send war, pestilence, and disease.  He does not ravage
the faithful.  God is for fools and the weak, those unable to think for themselves
.

Byron lit another cigar.  He stepped on the sidewalk and
pulled the collar of the wool coat around his neck.  The awakening spirit of
the winter solstice opened an eye from its deep slumber.  December would bring
the beast completely out of the receding autumn.

A plastic bag danced down the middle of the road.  It spun
and twisted as if part of a silent ballet.  Commander Byron lifted his hand and
curled his finger inward, a gesture summoning his hovering guards.

“Yes, sir!” they said.

Both men snapped to attention.  Byron tried to avoid gazing
at the two silver crucifixes hanging from their necks.  He shuddered and pulled
his coat together at the neck.

“The woman is secure.  I will need to update command on our
situation.  Move into the ground floor of the building across the street.  Put
your crosshairs on the door of this shop.  If anyone but me tries coming in or
out, shoot them dead.”

“Yes, sir,” they said in unison.

He watched the men trot across the street and step into the
yawning hole of the front door.  Byron pulled the satellite phone from his
breast pocket.  He dialed the number and waited for a series of clicks and
beeps to pass from the earpiece to his head.  A groggy, disconnected voice
crackled through on the other end.

“What do you have to report?” it asked.

“I’ve found her,” he replied.

“Bring her to me,” the voice said.

The morning broke over drifting snow and barren trees.  Alex
fumbled through his bag in search of soggy cigarettes.  John stood in the frame
of the window, a single silhouette in the exterior wall of the factory.  He
blew smoke into the frigid air, sending a puff of nicotine toward the low, gray
ceiling.

“I hate November in Cleveland,” said Alex.

John turned and offered a battered pack of cigarettes to his
partner.  Alex’s eyes lit up.  He reached for a smoke while pulling a lighter
from his pocket.

“I can’t tell you what I’d do to you for a grande chai
latte,” said John.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t involve getting to second base.”

“I dunno know, you’re kinda hot.”

The joke fell on near-deaf ears, as Alex was preoccupied now
by thirst.  John hitched his pants up and straightened his jacket.

“When do you want to move out, Alex?”

“Soon.  This place smells like death.  You got any more
soda?”

“Yeah, three cans left.”

Alex walked back into the gloom.

***

Streaks of powder blue slipped from underneath the heavy
canopy.  Crystal flakes tussled and spun their way to the frozen asphalt.  Alex
and John abandoned the factory and scurried like roaches through the urban
wreckage, hiding from their pursuers.  They decided to move back toward John
and Jana’s house on foot.  Walking six miles might prove to be difficult, but
it would keep them concealed better than a vehicle.  John hid the keys of the
dump truck under a sewer lid a block from the factory. 

John led the way through the remains of Little Italy. 
Mayfield Road ran through the immigrant community and proceeded up Murray Hill
into Cleveland Heights.  During the festive summer month of August, the Church
held a carnival for the Feast of the Assumption.  Restaurants and bakeries
pulled tables onto the sidewalk and sold their wares to smiling and hungry
pedestrians.

With the Holy Covenant in control, John and Alex
avoided the blocks surrounding the parish on Mayfield.  They stopped for a
moment behind a two-story apartment building.  The bell tower of the church
loomed over the top of the building, keeping a watchful eye on their movements.

John ran through the parking lot and entered the
back of a playground, as Alex followed his lead.  The swings moved back and
forth, as if propelled by the spirits of children who used to ride them.  Snow
accumulated at the bottom of the shiny, metal slides. 

“Let’s take a breather,” Alex said.

John nodded and pulled a bottle from his bag.

“We’re really in the open here,” said John. “How about we
move towards Murray Hill?  If we can get to the top, we’ll be about halfway
there.”

Alex looked around, surveying the area, not sure what to
expect.

“Not trying to creep you out, but maybe we should climb
through Lakeview Cemetery rather than going up Murray Hill.  The rock on one
side and the condos on the other create a nice little tunnel where we could end
up being fish in a barrel.”

John nodded his assent.

“Yeah, I was thinking the same thing.”

The two men set off from the park, navigating through back
alleys until they came to a black, wrought-iron fence.  It stood seven feet
high, with a three-inch space between bars.

“Now what?” said Alex.

“Follow me.”

John led the way through heavy underbrush to a break in the
fence.  Amidst a slew of empty beer cans and plastic bags that littered the
area, the fence stood mostly intact.  Delinquent teenagers had dug a hole
underneath it, allowing unauthorized access to the graveyard.  Though an easy
opportunity for vandalism, most Goths used it only as a location for midnight
readings of H.P. Lovecraft.

John crawled underneath the fence first, coming out the
other side with uneven brushstrokes of dark mud on his clothes.  Alex followed,
wearing a constant look of disdain on his face.

The headstones inside the fence crumbled under the weight of
time.  John ran his hand over a couple.  The ravages of the elements ate away
the carvings of an ancient undertaker.  An “R” or an “S” stuck out, but most of
the granite looked scarred with acid.

Alex followed John through the cemetery, through clumped
rows of gravesites and expensive monuments to the wealthy and elite.  The
cemetery held the body of a US President, as well as other famous and important
people of the twentieth century.  A bunch of crows flew to an ominous tree on
top of the hill.  Their fluttering and cawing grabbed John’s attention.

“What are they up to?” he asked Alex.

“Don’t know.”

“Aren’t you the vet?”

“Yes, and I can’t tell you how many crows I’ve treated.” 
Alex delivered the sarcasm with grace.

“Let’s keep moving, Alex.  I’ll feel better when we get to
the top of the hill.  That means we should be out of Little Italy and moving
towards Cleveland Heights.”

John saw the puff of stone before he realized what had happened. 
Four more clouds of dust burst from the headstone before he threw his body to
the ground.  The attack came in dead silence.  John saw Alex hit the ground and
pull up behind another headstone.  John felt the fatal spirit of each bullet whiz
past his head, and the shattered stone chips dropped into his hair like the
early winter snow.

An explosion brought the attack out of silent slow motion
and into brutal real time.  A moment later, Alex’s screams began to break
through the surreal attack.

Orgiastic flashes of bright red and orange appeared
everywhere, as though programmed by an erratic DJ at some nightmare rave. 
Clumps of frozen mud, rocks, and stone rained down on the men, while still more
explosions rocked the ground beneath them.

John reached over and grabbed Alex by the arm.  He dragged
Alex’s inert frame toward a towering mausoleum.  John saw the name “Wilson”
inscribed above the main door as he began pulling Alex inside.  The machine-gun
fire roared as bullets grabbed chunks of earth and spit them back into the air,
covering the men with debris.  John covered Alex’s body with his own and prayed
for protection from the remains of the Wilson clan.

Sickly candlelight danced on the yellow brick of the
church.  Father walked around and inspected each votive.  Lay members of the
Holy Covenant took up positions of responsibility in the new hierarchy of the
diocese.  Children swept and dusted like duty-bound Dickensian urchins, while
young adults helped move food and supplies into the basement.

Father thought back to the earliest days of the Faith.  He
saw his new flock functioning much the same way as villages did in medieval
Europe.  Entire communities gathered together and lived their lives in God’s
services.  Spiraling cathedrals and stone deities rose purely by dint of preindustrial
muscle.  Generations of Masons committed their lifetimes to erecting an eternal
house of worship.  Father felt the connection across time and space, overjoyed
to have permanent residents in the basement of St. Michael’s.  The cavernous
space encompassed and protected those of the Covenant, the new Masons of His
word.  Like their ninth- and tenth-century counterparts, they would construct a
return to the old ways of unwavering faith and dedication to the Lord.

A young boy startled Father from his reverie with a
question.

“Father.  Why do you continue to hold the flame to that
candle?  It’s already lit.”

He reached down and ruffled the boy’s wild, blond hair.

“So it is my young servant.  What is your name?”

“I’m Joey.”

“Nice to meet you, Joey.  What is your job here today?”

Joey pulled on the man’s robe, trying to monopolize Father’s
attention.

“I’m helping my mom.  She’s downstairs, making sure everyone
has a place to sleep.”

“You are an obedient son.  God will show favor on you and
your mother.  You should probably go back downstairs and make sure she has all
the help she needs.”

“I will.  See ya!”

The boy ran toward the steps and disappeared down the
staircase before Father could respond.

A cloaked member of the clergy stepped from the shadows in
the back of the church.  Father looked at the doors, certain they had not
recently opened.

“Father, may I have a word?”

“Please, follow me behind the altar where we can talk in
private.”

The hooded monk kept even strides behind Father, managing to
preserve a respectful distance.  They entered the back room on the other side
of the altar, where young boys stood washing towels in the sink.  With a wave
of his hand, Father dispersed them from the room, and assumed the role of good
host.

“Sit.  May I get you a beverage?”

“No, I won’t be staying long.  My name is Brother Cyrus and
I’m from the Internal Order.”

He paused, waiting for Father to confirm his knowledge of
the Order – or show his ignorance of it.

“I do not know of you.”

“Ah, but I know about you, Father.”

Brother Cyrus raised both hands, and dropped his hood onto
his back.  His brown, wool robe thinned at the elbows and frayed at the edges. 
Cyrus’ bushy eyebrows sat upon a haggard face.  Although in his early forties,
premature baldness stole any semblance of his youth.  Cobalt-blue eyes sat deep
in his skull and held Father with a tight grip.

“I have intelligence for you.”

“On the Revelator?”

Cyrus nodded.

Father stood and walked to a miniature refrigerator, like
one might find in a dorm room.  He took a cold bottle of iced tea and tilted
the top toward Cyrus, who held up the palm of one hand in polite refusal, then
continued.

“We have been able to tap into the government’s databases
and extract records.  Power is still spotty, and many servers are still running
on generators, so it’s not a complete picture.”

Father raised his eyebrows and took a quick swig from his
tea.

“This is information you have mined yourself?” he asked.

“I should hope.  I’m the Church’s main systems analyst.  I
can say that the Catholics protect their information much better than the
Federalists.”

The terms used by Cyrus stunned Father.  He looked at the
man, trying to read the past from his eyes.

“Please continue, Brother.”

Cyrus removed a manila folder from under his garments.  The
stained and torn envelope protected gleaming, pristine papers.  He placed each
item on the table with a precise and even motion.  With the pages spread out,
Cyrus spun each document one-hundred-eighty degrees, facing Father.

“John Burgoyne.  DOB, 03-24-74.  He lives at 2913 Plainfield
Road in South Euclid.  Last year he earned fifty-seven thousand dollars as a Web-site
designer.  At least that’s what he reported to the IRS.  He is married to one
Jana Burgoyne, age twenty-three.  She is, or was, a nurse at the Cleveland
Clinic.”

Father sat back and studied the man in the robe.  He sighed,
tugged at the hair on his chin, and pulled out a fresh cigar wrapped in
plastic.

“You say you hacked into the government’s database for this
info?”

The way Cyrus smiled chilled Father to the core.

“Hacked.  Hmm.  Yes, we hacked until we got this
information.”

“Would you like a cigar, Brother Cyrus?  My supply of Cubans
is dwindling.  This could be the last one you see for a very long time.”

Cyrus kept both hands on the table, evenly spaced from his
precise documents.

“What else do you want to know, Father?”

Father put the cigar back in his pocket and slid to the edge
of his seat.  He stared into Cyrus’ eyes, becoming lost in the dark vortex.

“Extended family?  Friends, and so on?”

“That is not information typically kept in governmental
records.”

“I thought that maybe you had ‘hacked’ that stuff too.” 
Father accented the word almost to the point of insult.

“I must be moving on to my new assignment,” replied Cyrus,
as he returned each document back into the manila folder without giving Father
the opportunity to examine them.  “I am sure you can go through the proper
channels should you wish to revisit this data.  The Vatican will only fund your
little escapade for so long before your claims of ‘The Revelator’ tire our
Brothers.  Everybody answers to someone, don’t they Father?”

Father stood, never taking his eyes off of Cyrus.  He did
not extend a hand or wrap up the conversation with common courtesies.  Cyrus
stood, as well.

“Father, there is one more piece of information I need to
pass on to you.”

“And what is that, Brother Cyrus?”

“The Second Cleansing is almost underway.  I suggest you
send a recon report with a detailed explanation of the First Cleansing as soon
as possible.”

Father stepped within inches of Cyrus’ face.

“I’m sure you’ll be able to extract that data whenever you
wish.  Good day, Brother Cyrus.”

The monk pulled the hood over his head and turned for the
door that led back into the church.  By the time Father walked out from behind
the altar, the servant of the Internal Order had disappeared.

Father descended the steps into the basement, where a throng
of parishioners tended to the needs of the new, pure community.  He summoned
the low-ranking soldiers to a concealed alcove next to the bingo board.

“I want twenty-four-hour surveillance on the grounds.  No
one except the Holy Spirit himself walks in these doors without my knowledge. 
Place two guards at every door and ground-level window.  Got that?”

Nods all around.

“Secondly, I need a task force of seven men.  They need to
get to 2913 Plainfield Road in South Euclid.  Get a two-way.  The man in charge
needs to be on that radio, channel number eight.  I want the band open and on,
twenty-four-seven.  If anyone, and I mean anyone, gets near that house, I want
to know about it.  Do not secure, attack, defend, or otherwise engage anyone or
anything, without my express permission.  Are we clear on this?”

The men scattered to find their gear and load for the drive
to South Euclid.  Father stared at the red light on the walkie-talkie and
prepared for the wait.