The Seventh Seal (19 page)

“So where is she?”

Sully glared at Byron.  The red beard pulsed on his heaving
chest while his finger tapped the safety of the machine gun.

“She is safe.”

“Fuck you and the girl.  I don’t need her to get to him. 
The man is on his way, and I’ve got the bait on the hook.  The girl would seal
it, but I don’t
need
her, and I don’t need you.”

Commander Byron grinned and stood up.  He placed a hand on
Sully’s shoulder and lowered his tone.

“You are right.  You don’t need the girl, which is why I’ve
already shot her.  She got under my skin.  Her body is rotting in a park
roughly two miles from here.  Send your Worms out there to retrieve it if you
like.”

Sully removed Byron’s hand from his shoulder, and looked the
older man up and down.  A smile took root under his tangle of weedy beard.

“Oh, you piece-of-shit foreigner.  You really think I’d
believe that.”

Sully fought back laughter, trying to maintain his composure
while lifting the barrel of his gun to the commander’s temple.  He pressed the
weapon into the old man’s skull.

Byron’s face slackened, and he dropped his head as he spoke.

“She is in the basement.”

From his seat on the dining-room floor, John had followed
the kitchen conversation, and a shock reverberated through his muscles when he
heard Byron’s last sentence.  During the course of the palaver, the distracted
Keepers of the Wormwood, who’d piled their firearms in the living room once the
house was secured, did not notice the blood lubricating his wrists, allowing
John to pull them from the hastily fastened zip ties.  The bikers also didn’t
spy the strap of a machine gun sitting barely a foot from John, or see him
slide his foot through the strap until it was inches from his hands.

Now John’s hearing faded, replaced by an accelerated
heartbeat.  In the next room, he saw a tuft of Sully’s hair glide to rest on
the collar of his vest.  For John, time wound down until it risked dying all
together.  In his adrenalized mind, it took John several minutes to get his
hands around the weapon, and even longer for his finger to slide under the
cool, smooth trigger.

The first bullet from John’s gun spiraled from the end of
the barrel and slammed into Commander Byron’s soldier.  The puff of red mist
levitated above the man’s chest as the force of the impact yanked him backward
into the wall.  John saw the man’s head penetrate the dry wall, leaving a cloud
of white dust and a crescent-shaped hole.  The second, third, and fourth
bullets hit the man’s chest in rhythmic purity.  Before the corpse of Byron’s
soldier could slide down the wall, John had already turned to face Sully’s troops.

Time lurched back into reality as the stench of blood and
smoke infiltrated John’s senses.  His ears rang, and he heard shouts as if he
stood in a deep cave.  John swung his weapon toward several stunned Keepers of
the Wormwood.  The gun responded to John’s gentle finger with another barrage
of burning death as John ran for the living room.  The last of the outlaw
bikers were still scrambling for their weapons as John dropped them to the
carpet.

The only survivors in the house, Sully and Byron, stumbled toward
the open door leading from the kitchen to the driveway.  They stumbled over
each other, terrified by the pitched fever of John’s assault.  Sully shoved the
old man to the floor and lunged out the door.  John fired at the patch on the
back of Sully’s vest and when the smoke cleared, the leader of the Keeper of
the Wormwood was gone.  Commander Byron sat up to stare down the barrel of
John’s machine gun.

“Where is she?” John asked.

“I am dead man.  So fuck you,” Byron replied.

John grabbed the man by the shoulder and dragged him down
the steps and onto the driveway.  John slammed the butt end of the gun into
Byron’s head.  After the commander passed out, John pulled exposed wire from an
electric receptacle in his kitchen.  He cut the wire with a knife and secured
Byron’s wrists to his ankles.

Meanwhile, Sully, who’d run down the driveway and returned
through the front door, picked up an assault rifle from one of his fallen
brothers and threw the stock up to his shoulder.

Before John could decide what to do, he heard Sully’s voice
calling out from the living room.

“Listen to me, John.  You both will not make it out of this
fucking house alive unless you drop that gun.  Got that?  You’d better hope you
go first.  I don’t think you’d want to hear what I’d do to your little
sweetheart before I cut her throat.”

“Father is going to be here.  You don’t have time to make
those threats.  I suggest you run now while you still have a chance.”

“Fuck you, John.  I’ll put a bullet in him and you.”

From his outpost in the kitchen, John felt the minutes
sliding away, dropping over a cliff into nowhere.

“I’m going downstairs to see if Jana is in here or whether
Byron was lying.”

There was no answer from Sully.

John bolted down the steps, shutting a door behind him.  He
pushed through the chairs and debris accumulated at the bottom and opened the
door into the furnace room.  Darkness devoured the tight space and John did not
have a flashlight.  He began to scream.

“Jana!”

There was no answer.

Sully stood on the landing and yelled down to John.

“That son of a bitch Father is here.  As soon as he finds
out his men are dead, this place is going to go up flames.  Last chance to come
up here and surrender to me.”

“Best of luck getting past Father and his goons, Sully.  See
you in hell.”

John heard the pounding of Sully’s feet climbing the short
flight of steps, crossing the kitchen, and exiting out the door.  John felt in
the dark and found the slide bolt on the storage room that used to lead to the
coal chute.  Somehow he remembered that he’d left a flashlight on top of the
furnace the last time he changed the filter.  He fumbled through the dark as
muffled voices approached the house.  He slid the button on the flashlight and shone
the beam around the room while his eyes fought to adjust to the changing
light.  He pushed the coal-room slide bolt over and pulled the door open.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he said.

Crystal wiped Alex’s head with a cool towel and then put a
thermometer in his mouth.  The biker chick set off on a daydream of warmer
climes and peaceful times.  Several minutes later, Alex’s eyebrows bunched up,
reminding Crystal that it was still under his tongue.  She shook her head and
then removed the thermometer.

“Looks normal so far.  If you can make it through the first
night without spiking, I think you’ll be fine.”

Alex smiled.  He reached for a bottle of water near his cot
and froze.  The pain radiated throughout his entire body.

“I owe you everything.”

Crystal smiled and kissed his forehead.

“Rest up.”

Alex fell back into a solemn sleep.

The ride through the decimated city did not shake Father. 
He considered the Holy Covenant a rebirth, a new beginning from a violent end. 
They drove down crooked streets filled with the shells of automobiles and the vestiges
of lives past.

The young men in the troop transport did not say a word. 
They looked into each other’s eyes like souls facing the Styx.  The eldest of
the group, the driver, communicated with Father.  He asked for clarification
several times, but managed to navigate Mayfield into South Euclid without too
much assistance.

Father stopped the vehicle at the intersection of Mayfield
and Plainfield.  The men emptied the truck and checked their gear.  The snow
subsided for the moment, although renegade flakes still danced from roof to
roof.  Father studied the pristine snow on the road, the unbroken seal on a new
winter.

He led his group down the middle of Plainfield Road,
concentrating on John’s aura.  As they pulled up to the house, Father inhaled
the mystic scent until his eyes locked onto an irregularity in the blanket of
snow.

Pink and lavender splotches mottled the ground covering near
the house.  Broken glass lay on top of the accumulation, not under it.  Father
saw the front and side door swinging, hammered at the mercy of the southwest
wind.

“Secure the place.  Something is wrong.”

The young soldiers fanned out and took up positions. 
Numerous of sets of footprints circled the house and scattered in various
directions.

Father remained in the truck, lit a cigar, and gave the men
time to secure the structure.  He heard shouts of “clear” as each man rummaged
through the various rooms.  Father exhaled the smoke and watched it float
toward the barren trees.  The driver exited the house first and delivered the
status to Father.

“Father, the place is empty.”

Father continued chewing on the end of his cigar while the
lit end flickered.  He motioned for the man to continue with his explanation.

“There are at least twelve bodies in there.  We found
Commander Byron.  He is unconscious and bound, lying on the kitchen floor.  All
the others are dead.”

The man waited for Father’s response with clenched fists and
a furrowed brow.

“Have the men make Byron comfortable, and get him whatever
medical attention we have here.  I wish to speak with him as soon as he is
lucid.  Is there any sign of John the Revelator or the woman?”

“No, sir, we have not found either.”

“I would like to see it with my own eyes,” replied Father.

The soldier locked his weapon and led Father through the
living-room door.

The place reeked of gunpowder and burnt flesh.  Evil, black
eyes stared at Father from where bullets penetrated the drywall.  Father’s
troops cataloged the dead bodies.  They took pictures, detailed the numbers,
and stole anything of use.

Father cast a sideways glance at the black body bags
containing his soldiers.  He walked past corpses wearing the vest of the
Keepers of the Wormwood.  Two of the soldiers carried Commander Byron out the
back door as Father stepped into the kitchen.

“You have cleared every room, every closet, everything?” he
asked his escort.

“Yes, Father.”

“I can feel him.  He is here.”

Father turned and climbed the steps to the second floor. 
The furniture in each bedroom had been tossed multiple times, every closet door
open or ripped from the hinges.  He proceeded up the steps and into the attic. 
A couch sat against the right wall, and a desk fit under a window looking out upon
Plainfield.  Father moved the computer monitor out of the way and stared into
the dead neighborhood.  He saw the roof of the nearest neighbor and the
freezing mix of snow and leaves in the gutters.

He pulled the couch from the wall and pushed open an access
door, which gave way to a crawlspace – too narrow for adults to hide.  The cold
air rushed in, along with brown leaves and balls of dust.

Father returned to the main floor, where the men stood in a
circle.  They’d secured the place, tagged the bodies, and waited for their
spiritual leader to give them the next command.

He stopped and looked at them, and then continued down the
steps into the basement.  The darkness consumed everything.  Father shouted for
a flashlight, and one of the men brought it to his side.  He swung the beam
around the basement to get a closer look at more damage.  Father stepped into
an empty laundry-room area and a workroom.  He opened the door into a pantry. 
The garlic from the broken jars of tomato sauce caused his stomach to rumble.

The furnace-room door stood open, revealing boxes and
plastic bags, but not much else of value.  He was about to head back upstairs
when the beam of light caught hold on a set of hinges.  Father moved in closer
and discovered yet another door, composed of panels of wood.  Its rusted hinges
looked as old as the house.  The open slide bolt in the top, left corner of the
door avoided the creeping rust.

Father pointed his flashlight at the ceiling and put a firm
grasp on the handle of the door.  The curved, metal handle stunned his palm
with an icy touch.  In one motion, he yanked the door open and aimed the beam
inside.

He saw nothing but brick and mortar.  Cobwebs hung from the
ceiling, and the dirt on the floor showed a recent disturbance.  Father shook
his head and tried not to breathe in the musty air.  He backed out and slammed
the door shut.

He stormed back up the steps, where the men snapped to
attention.  One of the younger soldiers stepped forward.

“Sir, there appears to be a set of tracks leading through
the backyard and into the adjoining house on Winston.  It might be him.”

“No, it isn’t.  However, it is another thorn in the Lord’s
crown.”

Sully kept his head down, disguising the puff of warm breath
sitting on the chilled air.  He watched as Father’s men flooded the house. 
Their lights and laser beams pulsed through every room.

He wiped at his eyes and brushed the memories of fallen
brothers aside.  Sully thought of those left at the safehouse, and of the news
he would have to deliver.  

Sully checked the clip, making sure that he had enough
rounds to take on Father’s men and take out the leader of the Holy Covenant. 
Sully drifted back through childhood with the cascading gusts of falling
flakes.

Fucking mother pretended like she didn’t know it was
happening
, he thought.

Tears began to well up in Sully’s eyes.

Sully appeared to have the childhood of Silverstein poems
and Rockwell paintings.  He grew up in suburban Cleveland, the son of an auto
mechanic and a teacher’s aide.  Sully’s dad made enough money to support the
family, so his mom worked just to help “settle the rough edges”, as she used to
say.  Sully spent many days playing football after school, doing homework, and
attending church like the rest of the families in the predominantly Irish
neighborhood.

When Sully turned seven, the pastor of their parish, Father
William, made an appearance at school before recess.  The man had eyes of steel,
and his words grabbed hold with the abrasiveness of sandpaper.  Most of the
women of the parish, and the nuns that taught in the school, feared and
respected their pastor, in that order.

“You are all now of age to formally serve the Lord,” he had
announced.

The girls sat still but did not pay much attention,
forbidden to serve as altar boys.

The priest followed the statement with fiery rhetoric
straight from the Old Testament, brimming with holy vengeance.  Several of the
boys in Sully’s class raised their hands and promised the pastor that they
would attend the orientation on Sunday morning.

The nun, Sully’s homeroom teacher, ushered the class out of
the room and toward the playground, where games of tag and kickball would
consume energy and renew fierce rivalries.  Except for Sully.  The priest put
his hand on Sully’s shoulder, and told Sister Ann that he would be staying
after with the young man.  She bowed her head and pulled the door shut.  Sully
watched his fellow classmates run and shriek in anticipation of the big game. 
He bit his bottom lip, eyes darting back and forth between the door and the
clock.

Father William pulled the blinds shut on the classroom
windows.  He turned the lock on the door.  Sully thought about all of the rules
he had broken, none of which would warrant a visit from the pastor.

“You can be of special service to our Lord,” said Father
William.

Sully did not respond, mindful of the wooden paddles wielded
like samurai swords.  Father William sat in the desk next to the young man.

“I need you to expel Satan from me.  You can help cleanse my
soul of evil and bring the light of our Lord Jesus Christ to both of us.  Can
you help me?”

“Um, yes, Father.”  Sully broke his silence, not wanting to
risk the disrespect of not answering an adult’s question.

Father William unbuckled his pants.  With his right hand, he
removed his penis, which jerked about in a haphazard way.  Sully’s eyes widened
in a mixture of shame, fear, and curiosity.  Father took Sully’s tiny hand and
placed it on his growing erection.

“If you move your hand up and down, the evil will be
dispelled from the top.”

Sully did as he was told.

For eight years, Father William visited Sully.  It happened
in the church basement, the rectory, the school gymnasium, and anywhere else
Father William could find that provided them time alone.  Sully told his mother
on his tenth birthday.  After three years of the abuse, he was convinced he
could not live with it any longer.  She slapped her son in the face and it hurt
worse than any punch or blow that Sully had taken his entire life.  He was
never able to look his father in the eye.

By the time he was fifteen, Sully considered stabbing the
priest.  What would they do to him, if he did…?  But the next month, the
organist made the announcement at the end of Mass.  The Catholic Church thanked
Father William for his service to the parish and wished him best of luck on his
new assignment.

A squirrel darted across the tree above Sully’s head and
scurried onto the electrical wire running toward the house.  The tears made it
hard for Sully to focus on the animal, while the spent ones froze in his beard.

Sully was not sure when Father dropped the “William” from
his surname, or how he had managed to return to Cleveland.  However, he did
know one thing.  He would face his abuser, speak his piece, and send the man to
Hell.