NOTHING REMAINED BUT DEATH beneath a blackened sky, as a fierce and unholy wind blew like a haunting omen from the west—an omen of dark things to come. As the torches which lined the massive temple rippled in their mounted chalices of fire, their glow barely touched the countless empty eyes that now peered this way and that, unblinking and eerily still. Mounds of human meat were scattered throughout the Wastelands and within the grand satanic temple that towered high above a sea of mutilated despair.
Though the brutal war between light and darkness had began with a vicious roar, it had ended with a whispered dread, as the last of the cloaked soldiers of darkness fell at the blade of a single police officer in an unsettling silence. He looked up from his gaze of conflicted madness, his body covered in blood and sweat, a piece of an ear sliced off and a huge bite mark on his shoulder, which saturated a deep crimson though his shirt.
A cleansing rain fell from on high, but did nothing to sooth the grief of a noble leader, as it was in his nature to feel responsible for all who had sworn an oath under the Chief's leadership. The sole survivor stepped over the corpses carefully, for he roamed through the lost dreams of the finest men and women he'd ever known. His heartbroken gaze met their haunting glares in erratic flashes of lightning from above, each strobe a scattered reminder of once lively brethren, silenced forever in blood and merciless mutilation. Each face he knew well, brothers and sisters both through profession and Masonic fraternity.
Chief Saunders wept as he looked into the lifeless expression of a rookie cop he had hired not a month prior, fresh out of the academy and barely able to grow a beard. Saunders had hired him over the other applicant because he was a newlywed with a child on the way—a fatherless child after this night. A decorated sergeant lay near, a known crack shot aim awarded many metals for her bravery and talent in the line of duty, now stewing in a giant cauldron of blood and organs, her body ripped from neck to pelvis and her innards pouring outward onto the floor. A charred man lay burnt to ash on his left, his badge somehow still reflecting against the crimson sky, clinging to the black sooted remains of Leonard Dawson, a dedicated officer who had only just made detective a few days prior.
Every turn of his hairy cheek was another promising future laid to waste—another cluster of happy memories slain in the face of an evil he could not comprehend.
As the clashing of swords and screams continued from on high, he flopped down exhausted on a pile of still red cloaks. His bitterness toward the damned justified their cursed vessels to be used as furniture. They were all sick and murderous villains, worthy of nothing more in his mind. He could piss on them all and not feel a damn thing.
He caught his breath, dabbing the blood and sweat from his face with a section of red fabric, and feeling the sharp sting of his severed earlobe. He then spit on the still face of a traitorous city official to thank him for the loan.
Reaching forth with a tired groan, Chief Saunders grasped an officer's radio, being ever so careful not to disturb the body, and engaged the button on the side of its casing, but there was nothing but silence—not even the calming hum of radio static. Bloody fingers rotated the power dial on, Timothy fully expecting nothing but silence, but he was suddenly grateful that the tiny green power light had flashed on and the static lightened what little remained of hope. His fallen officer was vigilant enough to wrap the battery in electrical tape, as Detective Jenson had suggested.
'Is there anyone out there?' he waited for a moment, but could hear nothing but the low hum of static. 'Anyone at all? This is Police Chief Timothy Saunders requesting immediate assistance.'
Nothing.
For a devastating moment he thought the whole of Belleville's finest had been out there, each and every one laying dead all around him. Even if he could, there was a part of him that would hesitate sending even more of his brethren to slaughter. He swallowed this thought with great difficulty, knowing the fight high above wasn't over, and the whole of humanity must not suffer their fate.
'Go ahead, Chief.' He sighed with relief as he heard the tone of the department's dispatch officer.
'Send everything you've got.'
'There's not much left to send, Chief.' she replied. 'I got a few units currently engaged, but no one else is responding. Where the hell is everyone?'
'Dead, Janine . . . their all dead.' A moment of silence ensued as a single beam of bright red light somehow cut through the blanket of blackness above. He glared into the strange phenomena and gulped. 'Whoever's left, get them to drop what they're doing and get here right away. Then get on the phone with the OPP and the RCMP, and get them down here ASAP.'
'Copy that, Chief.' she replied, her voice cracking, grieving the painful news of the many souls that had been taken that fateful night.
'Oh, and tell them to bring gasoline, kerosene, turpentine . . . anything that burns.' he requested, knowing they were running short on anointment oil and holy flammables. There was a moment of pause, as if Janine wasn't sure what to make of the request, but she replied without question.
'10-4.'
He dropped the radio to the thick pools of blood at his feet, and listened as the static went silent, the radio shorting out with moisture. Timothy leaned forth, crouching over several bodies and pulled a gun from a nearby holster, making sure the mag was fully loaded and the bullets slick with holy oil. It was tucked under his belt at the small of his back as he stretched to his feet, on the lookout for something specific.
The Chief's gaze locked on another fallen officer about twenty feet ahead, recognizing him right away. The man was a tactical expert who was known for his annual Canada Day barbecues. His wife put together boxes of freshly baked Beaver Tails for the precinct every Christmas, his two children now in college had volunteered for countless charitable causes long before Saunders was made Chief of the BPD.
It was a dark and horrible moment, as it would be up to him to deliver the news of so many deaths to grieving wives, husbands, children and parents alike, and the very thought felt like having his chest ripped open and his heart ripped out.
His was a position of municipal authority, certainly not a General. Police officers had no business in a war meant for soldiers, yet still he moved, knowing what must be done. The Chief squatted next to his tactical friend and began unstrapping a half-used grenade belt from his still body, hoping the destruction of the temple would bring an end to the madness. This would not be the first of his collection, as the thick concrete supports which held up the towering platforms would take many more to demolish than a half dozen grenades, and so his search continued as quick as he could move in his exhausted state.
~
Upon the fifth level, the Black Pope Benjamin Shackleton hurried through the spell as best he could, knowing one wrong word—a single mispronunciation could easily botch the whole thing, and seal his fate in the lake of fire for all eternity. The pressure was mounting as he lit the six black candles which were mounted around the bound chosen womb, each a representation of every continent the Prince of Darkness would soon rule. With every wick lit, he could feel the air thicken around him, as though an unseen, profound evil salivated in the light of their flames.
'Please stop this.' Chelsea begged, the slight pause in agony allowing her to protest, if only for a moment. The dark clergymen did not so much as look in her eyes as he ignored her most sincere pleas of mercy. His glare remained vacant as he continued reciting the complex spell in his strange foreign language, splashing a vial of blood in the form of an inverted cross. 'What have I done? Tell me what I did to deserve this!'
Just then, his language switched to English and she took a moment to listen and understand what was happening to her. As the meaning of these words fell upon her like a death shroud, Chelsea's eyes widened in utter shock.
'Our supreme and infernal lord Baphomet, Prince of Darkness, Son of Perdition, desecrate this child of refuge and curse her essence in mind, body and spirit; separate mother from womb, blood from blood, heart from soul. Sever all divine connection as we corrupt and sew the soil of the damned, so that your infernal seed may grow, and rise from the ashes of man's intolerance and hatred—'
'How could you?!' Chelsea spit on him, but Shackleton continued regardless, his focus impeccable. Years of experience as an exorcist had prepared him well to keep his focus, a tactic now turned against the holy. Several more sentences were completed as she wiggled, stretched and cried for him to stop, if anything to distract.
'Cardinal Merrill, you will stop this madness at once!' an aging priest stepped forward, holding a crucifix in one hand and a gun in the other, his tone commanding and cemented with courage. 'You will release this child of God, or so help me, clergy or not, I will put a bullet in your head.'
A twisted smirk responded as he completed his sentence, but not yet the spell, then turned his gaze to the rebellious priest.
'Father Theron, I'm afraid you are too late.' he checked his watch. 'The Witching Hour is upon us. You cannot stop the inevitable.'
'I can bloody well try.' he replied before a shot was fired. Even though the target was less than ten feet away there seemed no result. Another shot was fired, and another, until the gun was empty, but there wasn't a single bullet hole to be seen, the only evidence the gun was even fired was a smoking barrel in his grip, as if the weapon had been loaded with blanks. The Pope wore a look of indifference, a single eyebrow raised in annoyance of a futile effort.
Father Theron dropped the weapon and lifted his crucifix, now positive that the practical approach was a waste of time, and any hope remained in spiritual warfare alone.
'What nidorous power hath been granted for the bargain of your eternal soul, Cardinal Merrill?'
'I have no time to argue with you, Priest.' replied the sinister clergyman. 'And it's Pope now.'
'I recognize no such authority, Cardinal.'
'I'm shocked.' His sarcasm lacked the least bit of emotion.
'Is the appearance of youth really worth all this?' Theron gestured downward at the countless bodies which now covered the majority of the temple floor below. 'Does old age really frighten you that much?'
'This is bigger than mere immortality, Shawn—bigger than either of us, despite our trivial quarrels.'
'Ah yes, the seat of power he has promised you.' he shook his head with a hopeless sigh. 'I'm sure you began your path to the throne with the best of intentions; perhaps even convinced yourself that once Caine has delivered on his promises, that you would serve the people well.'
'My reasons are my own.' Merrill's eyes narrowed with suspicion.
'The path to Hell is paved with good intentions, Cardinal. Could you have possibly imagined at the moment of your indoctrination into the church that you would one day spawn the Antichrist of Revelations?'
The sinister Pope's lip curled with hate.
'One learns many things along their path to knowledge, Priest. God does not grant practical gifts. He could not place me in the seat of power no more than he could reverse the aging process. The Papacy itself has taught me this truth. While you whither and age, spouting your lip service prayers with blind devotion, Caine grants me everything I could ever wish for, and all it cost was to turn from the lie you call faith.'
'A loving father provides that which his children need—not want, and for good reason.' he tried to reach his colleague. 'Look how far you have fallen with the rank of Cardinal alone; see how power has corrupted and poisoned your soul. God denied you the throne because it suits you ill, brother Merrill. How much more innocent blood must be spilled so that the baby can have his bottle . . .'
As the clergymen spoke, Chelsea's eyes roamed in a panic for any sign of help, someone brave enough to come to her rescue. A familiar face approached an unseen woman, Teresa just out of view as she rocked her slaughtered niece in her arms, but the disturbed look upon the detective's face gained her no comfort.
'Jen.' she barely whispered. Chelsea had gotten to know Jennifer well over the years, back before the affair had ripped her sister's family apart. They had spoken many times at family barbecues, Christmas gatherings and whatnot, and seemed to be the only familiar face amongst them. She could only hope that Jenson was there to stop the horrific ritual, given her noble profession.
Though she could not see Teresa holding the dead body of her niece, as the edge of the upper platform blocked her view, what had caught her attention was a slight glow emitting from somewhere beneath the detective. Something monumental was happening, but she knew not what.
'What is biblical prophecy if not a warning of not which may come to fruition, but what must come? The end is inevitable.' Merrill replied as a flash of steel revealed a ritualistic dagger from his cloak, and the good priest feared he could do nothing to stop him.
'Yes, but who are you to determine when, Cardinal?' he replied, the priest's eyes locked on the weapon in Merrill's grasp. 'The prophecies of Revelations could indeed be fulfilled in our time, or a thousand years from now. No one is arguing that the end is inevitable, but God's gift of free will has allowed mankind to determine when the end will come, not you or I. Caine, ever the schemer, has used these vague prophecies as a formula to trigger the End of Days, and if completed correctly, the Almighty will respond, this much is true. His plan to call God down from the Heavens will not end in his victory but utter devastation, dragging billions along with him . . . you must see this. But we can put a stop to it right here, right now—just you and I. All you have to do is put down the dagger and walk away.'
'Please listen to him.' Chelsea pleaded as the Black Pope watched her struggle and suffer, listening to Father Theron's calming voice of reason.
There was a part of him that agreed, and wanted nothing more than to do exactly that: walk away and never look back. But he was in too deep—far too scarred and indebted to his masters at this late stage in the game. The best he could hope for was to rule in Hell, as serving in Heaven was no longer an option, he was positive.
He raised his brow and looked deep into Theron's eyes. In that moment, a different life presented as a mere thought and nothing more flashed though his mind. An alternative reality reminded him of what could have been, had he only chosen a different path. He thought back to the early sixties, when he was even younger than he now appeared.
There was a woman he once loved, and a child that swelled her belly. She had wanted a big family with many more children, a life of humble roots and simple pleasures. A whisper of a vision haunted him; that of a flourishing family filled with laughter and grandchildren—great grandchildren, each of them merely happy to be by his side.
In this hint of a dream, he would picture them all opening presents on Christmas morning, the excitement of the moment the closest thing to inner peace he had ever known. The faint odour of burning logs in a fireplace, and the sap of a decorated tree were real enough, though like his family, had never really existed. As he held his youngest in his arms, beaming with the newest member of his ever expanding family, his hands became stained with blood, fingernails caked with dried fluids and matter. The family that never was vanished from sight—erased from existence in an instant. Laughter and playful frivolity churned and warped, and the festive atmosphere turned dark and empty as an all-consuming isolation became him.
The once wiggling and vibrant newborn in his arms grew still and eerily quiet, once wiggling limbs now lifeless. As he looked upon the baby, breath was yanked from his lungs as he gazed upon a tiny rib cage opened and exposed, and the taste of an infant heart burned the back of his tongue like a ghost pepper, reminding him of what he had done, the terrible price he had paid for infernal immortality. But this was not the child he lost so long ago.
The still child turned to ash in his grip, and blew away like dead dandelions between his fingers. It was then that he looked upon a still woman—his disfigured wife broken upon the base of the stairs. Benjamin could not remember what had caused the argument—probably something trivial, not important enough to recall. But the impact of his knuckles against her flesh would never leave his mind, far too powerful for such a fragile woman to endure. When she fell, it was not a simple flop to the floor as he expected, but a tumble down a long and steep staircase.
I was atop that very staircase that he stood for what felt like forever, locked in utter horror as he looked upon the expanding puddle of blood beneath her, neck twisted and head turned at an unnatural angle. Her eyes were full of tears—the last she would ever shed, as he rocked her gently, repeating his apology over and over again as he slipped into a state of madness.
Dead and empty eyes, an open-mouthed look of shock and horror frozen on her face had been imprinted behind his eyelids, as was the stretched skin of her swollen belly when his unborn son pushed the inner walls of her womb.
The unborn child knew his mother was dead, but the boy remained with little time to live. And so, the distraught man cut her open, unwilling to let the infant die with her. Her body lay in the ground beneath a chestnut tree at the rear of his estate, the very same stormy night the infant was brought and left on the doorstep of a convent in the heart of England. Merrill sold his estate and left the country after that, looking to Rome for sanctuary. The broken father disappeared into the ranks of the Vatican, and left the family that might have been dead and buried, but never forgotten.
'Consider it mercy, brother Merrill.' Shawn continued as the Cardinal snapped himself out of his trance, though the strange look in his eyes had not been overlooked. What was a reminder of what could have been was mistaken for consideration, Theron hoping that he had somehow reached him. 'History will record you as the savior of mankind, a single heroic act of mercy granting us countless years of prosperity—'
'Do you not see!?' he yelled, his frustration with the priest reaching boiling point. 'If not me, it would be someone else in my stead. You haven't a clue of what he is capable of . . . of what I have done—'
'Brother,' Theron let out a sigh. 'You know what he does—what Caine is known for. He takes the worst of us—the absolute horror of our innermost guilt and sorrow and turns it inward, manipulating truth and using you as a tool to obtain that which he desires. It matters not what you have done, only that your heart be genuine in repentance. There is hope for you yet, but you must abandon this evil pursuit.'
~
Meanwhile, on the third level below, far out of earshot of the Infernal Harvest, an exhausted Templar Knight fought hand-to-hand with a Living Demonic. His bones ached from the thirteen-foot tumble they had taken together moments prior, his left shoulder throbbing with pain, sure that he had broken or dislocated something. Steel clashed with hardened Black Matter, dense and solid like tempered stone. Glistening with sweat, Abraham panted feeling his age catching up to him with every exhaustive block and blow, the impact of each firing pain up his arms like a vibrating church bell, inflaming his injury. Bearing his teeth and fighting through the pain, their blades suddenly slinged off one another with a might thrust, and the knight backed away, standing at odds with the vile man they called Klaus.
Though the eerie German appeared the elder, he had yet to lose his breath or flag in the slightest sign of exhaustion. His demonic blood granted him supernatural strength, and an endurance of which no mere human could possibly compete. It was an uphill climb to defeat such evil, this much he knew, but the Templar Knight valiantly stood his ground, knowing defeat was more than probably, but borderline definite.
'It won't work you know.' Abraham stalled, hoping someone would come to his aid before he was overpowered. His wrinkled and completely bald enemy towered a foot over him, streaks of greasy black oil zigzagging on saggy pale cheeks like a map of two winding ravines and a hook nose in between. 'Your digital identification program . . . all of it . . . it won't work.' he took the break in combat to catch his breath but remained at the ready.
Klaus merely smirked, then replied with his thick German accent.
'It would appear in ze current state of ze world you are correct, my Templar friend. What you lack is ze vision to see ze potential of ze human race; how easily fear can be willfully exchanged for submission and ze illusion of safety.'
'No one will take your mark, Klaus; the world is not nearly that scorned.' he replied, keeping his enchanted sword gripped tight in hand as his enemy calmly kept his distance.
'Not quite yet, but you would be surprised what ze people of ze world will agree to when threatened. You forget how many willing souls signed up for ze military after Pearl Harbour and 9/11, ze thirst for vengeance and a desperate cry for security on ze tip of a nation's tongue. A simple formula can be observed in zis; terror equals submission of freedom if ze threat is palpable. Ze more fear, ze more control we have over ze population of the ze world.'
'But not nearly enough to get them to agree to be chipped; am I right?'
'Ze fall of ze towers was an isolated disaster, merely inflaming ze Americans, but a valuable experiment nonezeless. In order for our equation to work on a global scale, a new threat must be worldwide and inescapable. Ze human race has rested too long without fear, my friend. It would take merely ze threat of a viral disease or sickness to have ze people of ze world comply, I assure you. There will come a time, very soon, when brother will turn against brother, when loved ones will be separated and divided from one another, ze once strongest nations of ze world terrified to leave zeir homes for fear of infection. Most will agree to just about anything under ze pretext of getting back to normal. Give zem just a slight hope of returning to zeir silly little habits and empty existences, and we will be worshipped like gods merely for granting zem basic freedoms—'
'You speak of the Horsemen.'
'It appears your education has not been wasted.' he grinned. 'After all, we must follow ze prophecies of scripture in order create our New World Order and bring about ze end of your time, and ze beginning of ours. Ze first horseman will be Pestilence of course, at which time my people will unleash a virus zat will plague mankind for a short while, covering ze world in a shroud of fear, panic and uncertainty. Zen we will force a vaccine upon zem zat will weaken ze immune system, so zat any further viruses can easily infect and destroy zem at our leisure.
'When ze Red Horse is summoned, we will turn ze people against one another with ze use of ze media and political ideology. Freedom will be rendered hatred, justice a social endeavor, concepts of race and culture turned against ze people in a glorious flood of chaos, as ze world becomes topsy-turvy and blood flows though ze streets like ze days of ancient Rome. Black will become white, up will become down, as false news media confuses the average mind, until no one is trusted and ze line between truth and lies becomes skewed with mistrust and all-consuming hate for one another.' he stopped to take a euphoric breath, as though his own words were like the hit of a powerful drug. 'A global civil war . . . such a beautiful sight to behold.'
'Boy, you really like to hear yourself talk, don't you?' Abraham finally caught his breath, but let the man continue. Every word was a peek behind the proverbial curtain, allowing the Templar to see what their schemes would soon entail if the Infernal Harvest be successful that night. 'I suppose you believe people will just agree to be marked amidst this so-called chaos?'
'Urban society will be weakened by a mass identity crisis fueled by mere popular opinion, and intolerance disguised as compassion, merging politics with science, and forcing each and every human to choose a side and be marked as such. Zose who refuse to comply with ze Mark will be deemed hostile, a fringe minority of non-compliant deplorables socially shunned from civil society. Patriotism and freedom will become a poisonous ideology of ze old ways, and so ze controlled populous will look ze other way when a cashless society emerges. The implantable chip will be ze only means to buy food, or even work a basic job in ze new world, but no one will care when ze only ones suffering and starving will be ze new Nazi's of zis age . . . ze Christian.'
'It's about the fucking chips isn't it; this bullshit RFID system you pieces of shit have been working on for years?' Abraham pushed, trying to keep the conversation flowing, and it seemed Klaus was more than willing.
'A council of elite technology firms and health organizations paved our path to ze new order. Social media was ze blueprint for ze Mark. After all, why go through ze painstaking trouble of creating billions of profiles for every human being on ze planet, when we can let ze people do it for us?'
'The social media companies, you mean?'
'Ze people, of course.' Klaus replied, feeling quite accomplished and proud of his deceit. 'Ze people already document every miniscule detail of zeir meaningless lives, starving for approval; zeir meals and locations, plans and political views, zeir friends and religious views, all well documented for us with the simple click of a "Like" button. Why would we go though ze trouble? Ze RFID technology merely links zeir profiles with zeir government documentation, bank accounts, tracking applications and what not. Zey trust us much more zen each other as it is.'
'How so?' Abraham scoffed at the bold claim.
'Why do you think zeir only request upon death is to delete zeir internet history? We know zeir deepest darkest desires, secrets one would not share with zeir closest relatives, spouses or children. We influence and control zeir thoughts and ambitions; we know each and every financial and social transaction, what zey are planning with whom, where, how and when; WE OWN ZEM ALL!'
A mad look of ultimate power burned bright red in the demonic man's eyes, as Abraham stood frozen in shock for a brief moment, allowing his emotions to calm.
'You're a mad man and a tyrant, Klaus.' Abraham narrowed his glare.
'Correction, my friend: ze true madness would be to continue zis failed experiment you call freedom, when ze meek are so easily ruled. So few hold true value—even ze basic ability to think for zemselves. You and I share much more in common zan you realize; though we remain on ze opposite sides of ze coin, we are awake and aware. Those caught in ze middle serve no purpose but to work and consume in this world. Your God said it himself, "You are neizer hot no cold, and because you are lukewarm I will spew your from my mouth." Zey no longer matter, Abraham, and zere is no place for ze weak after ze Great Reset.'
'I suppose there's no way of talking you into walking away from this bullshit?' Abraham took a blind shot in the dark, already knowing the answer.
'Ze conquering of ze human race is inevitable and quite certain, my Templar friend. All paths lead to slavery or destruction of ze weak, and your pathetic little rebellion will only delay zat which must occur.'
'We'll just have to see about that.' Abraham braced himself, sensing the coming attack. 'We aren't down and out quite yet, though I am rather curious as to why you seem to be stalling.'
The sinister man laughed as a black blade suddenly came at him with cat-like speed, but the Templar gritted his teeth, and steel rang as he swung his sword like a gladiator of old. His aging muscles swelled, and his bones ached with every blow as steel clashed against what looked to be two swords made of slick black stone. For his age, Abraham moved surprisingly quick, though his strength was beginning to dwindle and drain much faster than he would have preferred. The blades sang like tuning forks along their lengths as the crusader pushed back with a desperate thrust, swiftly dodging and ducking out of the way.
'And what of your chosen strong . . . those who survive your poison?' their blades were held up and at the ready, the two enemies circling one other, a death blow inevitable at any given second. 'Surely your select soldiers will be weakened by these injections as well.'
'Zat is where you would be wrong, Templar. Ze cocktail we have designed is much more complex zan you give us credit. Within ze ingredients of ze final boosters will be a small fragment of Black Matter merged with stem cells, innocence slaughtered in sacrifice on a manufacturing level—'
'Blood Benediction . . . on a mass scale?' the Templar's gaze wandered for a moment, the very thought of a global army of the damned utterly terrifying to behold, each and every human on the planet marked and thinking like a demonic being.
'Ze human body is naturally designed to reject any and all foreign objects, and biometrically linked technology is no exception. But with ze right combination of stem cells and Black Matter, ze chips can be implanted quite harmoniously, and ze Mark of ze Beast becomes a reality in our time.'
'Black Matter doesn't merge harmoniously with human cells, Klaus; even I know that.' the knowledgeable knight replied, knowing full well that Black Matter hinders the ability to reproduce.
'You're talking about the end of humanity. No children can born if the mother is infected; how will your kind feed to survive?'
'One particular strain remains ze exception—a pure strain discovered over a century ago zat is both demonic and divine . . . Grey Matter, if you will.'
Abraham's eyes widened, knowing exactly from whom they had extracted said strain. Suddenly the very real possibility of the end became a reality, and the Templar's blood boiled like a steaming tea kettle.
'The Bishop boy.'
'Ze evolution of ze human race is upon us.' he replied, confirming his suspicion.
'Abomination!' the Templar swung forth in offence, Klaus's words piercing him sharper than any blade's point. Caine really had pieced together every minute detail, and his anger reflected the fierceness of his attack. Blades blurred between them, back and forth, up and down, and all around, his elderly vessel moving as quick as cheetah and as fierce as a cornered tiger sensing its end.
Black Matter flowed from every orifice as Klaus caught himself ill prepared, underestimating the pure skill of the seasoned warrior. As the enchanted blade brightened with every swing, their weapons began to spark upon impact, colliding with strobes of flashes like metal on flint.
'Why . . . won't . . . you . . . DIE!'
The Templar steel suddenly slashed along his sagging cheek, and Black Matter shot out from Klaus' face as his large heel lifted and hit Abrahams square in the chest. The demonic man keeled over, crying out in agony as he bled upon the stone floor, and the Templar Knight was jolted backward, fumbling until he landed awkwardly on his side, winded and out of steam.
~
Just below, a much younger Knight fought with all his strength against an inhuman and unfeeling man. Unlike his aging counterpart above, Jax possessed a much more resilient stamina and almost equal in skill. Though the sinister madman he knew as Justin seemed to be endowed with great demonic power, there was a passion which drove the Templar, no less than the fate of his fellow man behind every thrust of his blade. Seven of his brethren had fallen, brothers in arms he had known most of his life, but now was not the time to mourn.
'There are more of you, aren't there Templar?' asked Justin, their blades locked as each pushed against their might, the sharp edges of their steel cutting into one another with the sheer force, but Jax wasn't nearly as strong. 'I had hoped there would be an army of you, so that we could slaughter your entire regime—finish you off once and for all.'
'You know . . . the prophecies . . . better than most.' he replied, holding his strength against the politician, who seemed to not break a sweat. 'Only nine . . . were permitted.'
'Such a shame; your people have waited in hiding for so long, only to surface when the end is nigh. I have been trying to track your movements for years. Your ilk have done a remarkable job keeping off my radar—'
The blades slid off one another as Jax's sword slinged in a circular motion, and the Templar backed away, still on his guard but getting tired.
'We're quite accomplished at watching from a distance, biding our time for the perfect moment to strike, I'm sure you can relate.' Lunging forward, three solid clashed and a swift shift of foot put the knight right where he began. 'A Templar has no digital connection to a physical world, hence we cannot be traced and tracked like those whom you prey upon.'
'Then you have no place in our future, I'm afraid.' Justin smirked cockily, which boiled the Templar's blood. 'An untraceable citizen is a rebellious and dangerous citizen. Terrorists will not be tolerated in the new world; this you must know.'
'I will die a hundred deaths before I allow you to inject me with your poison. You can shove your tracking chip right up your ass—'
'You're out of your league little man.' he grinned as a second blade of black stone was formed of his own cursed flesh, and the smirking man lunged forward, two blades against one. Though his eyes leaked demonic blood he had yet to break a sweat, which made the Templar wonder if such a corrupted vessel was even capable, or if the black oily substance was the equivalence of demonic perspiration.
The encrypted blade of the Templar moved like a blur, each blow of his enemy met with an endurance that had not been anticipated. Jax danced around him, well educated in the art of fencing, but as the fight raged on he was beginning to think his opponent could overpower him much easier than he was letting on. A swift jab to the ribs caused him to stumble backward, but he caught his footing and bore the pain well.
'Are you just toying with me?' he asked, bracing himself for the next blow.
'What makes you say that?' the devil man grinned, eyes black as coal.
'If you're playing with me, I suggest you get on with it.'
They continued the conversation as Jax dodged his blades, seemingly on the defense during the entire fight, the rare offensive move snuck in between.
'I want you to feel you have accomplished something. I'd hate to see a lifetime of devotion end so abruptly; such a waste.' he shook his head in mock empathy. 'Imagine what you'd be able to accomplish if you joined us.'
'Fighting against ultimate evil is a noble pursuit—a life never in vein, no matter how quickly it may end.' As he finished his sentence, he suddenly noticed his opponent's gaze turn slightly, as though he were checking on the progress of the Black Pope high above them. 'Or am I meant only to be delayed?'
The question seemed to throw Justin off guard, and the Knight took the opportunity. A swift duck and dodge, and he rolled to his opponent's left, managing to slice his leg open just above the knee. The first sign of pain came with a brief sense of hope, as the evil politician bore his teeth, letting out his pain and frustrations. Jax stood with a military posture, proud and quite sure of himself as he watched his opponent stagger slightly, black blood sizzling on the blade that had cut a good four inches into his flesh.
'You aren't permitted to kill me, are you Justin? Our prophecies state there must be nine Templars to enter the temple—a ritualistic number of significance. I'm willing to bet it works in reverse according to Caine's version of the same prophecy.' Jax curved one corner of his mouth with the realization. 'Seven must be slaughtered in battle, a holy number . . . you can't kill us until the proper moment.'
The answer came with a fierce attack, both of his blades lunging toward him, moving in hazes and blurs, each met with all the strength the Templar could conjure. One over his head, another directly at his heart, but each were dodged with incredible swiftness of foot and speed. As their weapons clashed, the warrior had not noticed the lettering upon his own blade glowing brighter with every impact. Somehow, he could feel himself grow stronger and significantly quicker the harder Justin tried to finish him off, until two blades locked with one mighty clang that seemed to ripple through the air, and both opponents pushed back with equal strength.
'Then again, I've been wrong before.' he managed a smile as the two forces pushed. Suddenly, Jax noticed much more black oil flowing from his enemy's eyes, and even his mouth, coating his perfect teeth. 'Now, that's more like it.'
'Just fucking die already!' Justin screamed in a fierce and desperate rage, breaking his perfect posture and annoying patience for the first time. With a sloppy fit of wrath a powerful blow landed the knight onto his back, but as the dark soldier sprung upward, his black blade drawn back in mid-air, a blinding light flashed before him.
Before Justin could feel his body hit the stone floor of the platform, his skin ignited in holy fire, and burned like dried paper in a campfire as he let out a horrific cry. His smoking vessel had landed in the opposite direction of what was supposed to be a death blow, and as he lifted his head, furious beyond rational thought he could feel half his scalp scorched, his skin melted and sizzling with the exposure of the mysterious white light that had come from nowhere.
'MY FACE!' he bellowed, which only made Jax smile in his torment. His great sin had always been vanity, so to watch his face singe and smoke brought a sense of divine justice to the fight. 'What did you do to my face?' the scorched man suddenly froze, realizing what had happened. He panted hard, his rage withdrawn as a shawled woman in white stood before the exhausted Templar Knight.
'You!' she looked into his infamous persona, a man she had voted against in the last election. 'I'd say I'm surprised, but who are we kidding?' said Meredith with a disgusted curl of her lip.
'The mother is . . . a Magi?' Justin staggered to his feet curiously, whatever magic she had used on him much more painful than he was letting on. 'Interesting.' his stare turned brooding and mischievous, as though the information was piecing together a grand scheme in his burned and melted head.
'It's time to go, Justin.' Meredith stood boldly before the knight. 'There's nothing here for you but death.'
'You don't know what you're doing, Ms. Rhoads—'
'That's Mrs. Rhoads, you piece of shit!' she barked back with anger. 'I'm a widow because of you and your bullshit friends. You're little games cost me everything, my only son, my daughter—'
'Don't forget your dear sister, Chelsea.' he interrupted with raw nerve, rather pleased with himself for reminding her, and ignoring the Magi's shocked expression. 'We had a great time breaking her in, you know. And if you really think I am nearly finished slaughtering those you care for—'
'Man, you really don't know when to shut that fat mouth of yours, do you?' Jax had gotten to his feet, and he and Meredith positioned themselves on either side of him, cautiously advancing as the fight was now two against one. Justin's eyes darted from one to the other like a lizard, now rather confident he would lose against both a Templar Knight and a Magi, as the former had proven himself tricky to defeat as it was.
'Two pillars of a dead faith in hiding for a millennia.' Justin almost admired. 'I'll give you this . . . your kind certainly doesn't disappoint. You lot were more difficult to kill than we anticipated.'
'Yeah, we have that effect.' Jax grinded his teeth itching to take him out.
'The war has only just begun. I'll see you soon, Templar.'
Jax lunged forward in anger, but before he could reach his frustratingly irritating target, the demonic man suddenly burst into a cloud of thick black smoke, nothing but a quick flash of a cocky grin before he was gone, leaving only a dark fading mist and the lingering odour of brimstone behind.
'Run, you coward!' yelled Meredith, her cheeks flushed and hands shaking. 'Run and hide!'
Before she could allow her emotions to overcome, Jax grasped her by the arms and turned her toward the upper levels.
'Do not lose focus, Meredith. This night extracts a toll too heavy to bear for most people, but hope must not yet dwindle, as faith is the fuel of God's chosen few.' he peered into her soul with his piercing eyes. 'We are not most people.'
'Right.' She nodded, righting her thoughts. The two warriors looked into one another's eyes, taking deep breaths in unison, and calming their composure as one.
'Better?'
'Much.' she replied, holding what little composure remained.
'Good . . . now, let's go get your sister.' he encouraged as they turned and picked up in stride.
'Hang on Chelsea,' Meredith mumbled as they moved toward the stairs. 'Help is on the way.'
~
'You have already lost, Abraham; but not all hope is gone. I can make you stronger, you know . . . younger and more vibrant zan ever before. Look at you, my dear fellow, you can't even stand on your own two feet.'
'Because you're . . . standing . . . on . . . my neck.'
'I'm sorry, what was zat?' said Klaus as he pushed his weight on the Templar's throat. His long beard was caught under the minion's boot, a cursed black blade lodged deep into Abraham's arm. Although he could have killed him at will, for one reason or another the dark tyrant had refrained. As more pressure was applied on his neck but nothing fatal, he began to wonder if this fight was meant to be sustained and not necessarily won . . . not yet, at least.
Suddenly, his evil glare changed to that of shock and worry. The sizzling open slash upon his sagging face struggled to heal as a once delightfully entertained expression turned gravely worrisome.
'Did you . . . leave . . . the . . . oven . . . on?'
Klaus' demonic vessel then burst into smoke, leaving his enemy alive and wounded on the floor. Abraham lay upon the stone platform exhausted, every muscle searing with pain as he let out a great sigh of relief.
'Oh, thank God.' he looked into the funneled storm clouds above as the cleansing rain fell like drops of divinity upon his brow. The old man reached blindly into his pocket and quickly popped a couple of pain killers as he lay there catching his breath. Tired eyes to the sky, he spoke directly to his Maker, taking a moment to collect his thoughts and rest. 'You know . . . I think you may . . . ask a bit too much of me . . . from time to time.'
The warrior let out a broken chuckle as he allowed his head to hit the floor if only for a brief moment. He grasped his wound tight, searching for the strength to get up and push on. As he took in a much needed breath of fresh air, he allowed the rain to cleanse his fatigue for but a few seconds.
In this moment he thought of his daughter, the sole remaining survivor of a horrific demonic massacre long ago, when she was no older than the Oracle who had led them to the temple that very night. He remembered the last time he had seen her with his own two eyes, when young Urielle McKinnon was just a small child bouncing on his knee; he wasn't even sure if she knew he was alive.
Tears filled his eyes as he smeared the drops of rain into his beard, remembering his promise to her; that only his little girl would be permitted to see his face without its grizzly cover. In order for that day to come, he would have to survive the night, he convinced himself.
"So, what are you waiting for? Get off your ass and move." he could almost hear his wife's voice, echoing from a time long forgotten. He tilted his chin sideways for a moment, and could almost see her there, tapping her foot impatiently. "Haven't got all day, Abe."
'Yes dear.' he replied to no one with a spousely sigh.
Though every muscle in his body ached, and every bone was brittle with wear and old age, he forced himself to move, knowing that if he failed this night, he would most likely never hold his little girl in his arms again.
As lightning flashed violently from on high, his strength gave out and his knee hit the floor. He let out a cry of agony, barely able to move, but as he pushed upward yet again, a gloved hand suddenly grasped his waist and pulled him to his feet.
'Come now, brother Abraham.' the younger Templar held him up, bracing the only other surviving knight of the battle. 'There is still work to be done this night.'
'Where did he go, that son-of-a-bitch?'
'I imagine they are rounding their forces to protect the chosen vessel.' said Meredith Rhoads, who joined them from behind. Several had accompanied her, including Josh Davidson, Miranda, Hamish and Felicity Hanover. Christine had been left with her mother just outside the widespread Stonehenge pentagram which took up the majority of the Wastelands, hoping she would remain clear of the ritual, as even the wisest of them was uncertain of her fate.
'I fear I am too frail to keep up, M'boy.' Abraham spoke in all honesty, hoping the painkillers would soon kick in.
'Since when is the great Abraham too tired to fight?' he asked, half-serious. His mentor had never shown his weakness in all the years as his protégé. It was a strange sight to see him so fragile and battle worn.
'I'm afraid I might just be a smidge past my prime.' he said humbly.
'I cannot leave you behind.' Jax insisted.
'I am in good company. Go . . . the strong few need you above.'
'I must confess, I fear I am not strong enough to endure on my own, brother Abraham.'
'You are not alone, Jax. This you know above all others.'
Jax gave a quick nod, quite certain he would be marching to his death, and the young Hamish stepped forward to prop up the aging Templar, bearing his weight on his shoulder.
'Keep him safe, young man.' Jax lifted his master's sword from the floor and handed it to the boy, but as the long-haired metal kid grasped the enchanted blade, a slight glimmer of light seemed to ignite the lettering upon its blade. In this brief moment, the two knights looked to one another curiously, reading each other's thoughts.
'Did you see that?' Miranda watched curiously.
'You're wasting time.' Abraham insisted he move on, and Jax gave a slight bow and turned toward the ascending stairs. Meredith Rhoads, Josh Davidson and Felicity Hanover moved in, and huddled together in what looked to be a group hug. Though Abraham felt a bit uncomfortable, he was grateful for the shoulder to lean on.
'You guys keep close together and protect one another.' Meredith encouraged, and then broke the huddle as she hugged Miranda tight and placed a loving hand on Hamish's free shoulder. 'You both new my boy well, his best friend and his love. Honour his memory by protecting yourselves, and don't let his sacrifice be in vein.'
'Never.' Hamish nodded determined, but Miranda couldn't find the words. She was trying her best not to think of James, but there was a part of the broken mother who understood her silence, and nothing more needed to be said between them, it seemed. As she turned from the group, the young lady reached forth and grasped her arm.
'Just . . . come back, okay?'
Meredith nodded, forcing a smile that convinced no one. In all truth, she didn't want to come back. She need only die in the coming fight to be reunited with her children. She didn't want to think of life without them, and so death seemed the only proper path in that moment, though she would not voice this aloud and worry the children.
Josh stepped forth, leaned in and kissed Miranda on the forehead ever so gently, and a swirling mix of fear and admiration filled her heart.
'If I don't make it back, tell the girls I died protecting them. Tell them I love them more than anything in the world, and that goes for you too, daughter.' he pointed a playful finger.
'You . . . you love me?' she asked, the title fluttering like frantic moths in her stomach.
'That's what Dad's do, kiddo, we love our kids—'
Without a word she leapt into his arms and wouldn't let go. Josh closed his eyes and held her tight, letting the young lady bask in the moment. Miranda had never felt such a sense of utter completion, like her life was made whole in that perfect moment of acceptance. She finally had a dad, a mom, a sister and a cherished place in a loving family. Her life had been a series of vacant puzzle pieces, each a crucial lesson, forever reaching for something she never knew was so desperately needed. The biggest and most important piece had finally fit, and suddenly, nothing else seemed to matter all that much. It was the greatest gift she had ever received, which made letting him go all the more difficult.
"Love" was a word that was almost foreign in her world for as far back as she could remember, yet it was the last words her biological mother had said to her before taking her own life in a demonic fit of rage. This was so much different, as such a monumental word was only worth the actions that backed it, and Josh was nothing but active and attentive, the finest example of paternal strength she had ever seen . . . and he was hers. He would never use or abuse her. Miranda would never have to worry about locking her bedroom door, or lose sleep terrified someone would sneak into her bed at night, reeking of alcohol and her own mother's perfume. He would never fail to call her on her birthday or text her back when she needed him most. Joshua Davidson would protect her like his own, and even fight the hordes of Hell to keep her safe.
Josh was a Dad who had earned his title well, and wore it like a badge of honour—the Dad Miranda deserved.
'We gotta split.' said Felicity, as Meredith and Jax waited for them, knowing that time was of the essence.
'Please stay.' Miranda's tone was pleading and desperate, but as they parted, Josh took both her hands in his.
'A father's worth is determined upon his ability and willingness to protect and fight for his family. You will never be safe, and Christine will be left to these demons. You saw what they did to your sister and both of your mothers . . . I can't let that go unpunished.' Visions of bloodstains on his daughter's dress haunted him, boiling the blood in his veins as he tried desperately not to think of what had caused it.
'Sometimes you gotta fight when you're a man.' Miranda half laughed-half choked as the last of her tears streamed down her cheeks.
'Never too good for the Rog.' he beamed with pride, impressed that she would know of his favourite song, and even more so that she didn't roll her eyes like he was used to in his family. She didn't even know where the lyrics came from, as they seemed to just pop-up in her head just then.
'Come on, let's go.' Jax pushed.
'I love you too.' Miranda almost squealed as Josh turned to join the last of the crusaders, and Hamish reached forth and held her hand. She wiped her tears for the hundredth time that night and huddled in with her best friend and the injured Templar Knight.
As Josh turned to get one last look at his new daughter, the group seemed to shrink and fade from view. Where they were headed was merely a few storeys up, but it might as well have been the other side of the world. His girls were far from his reach, but the father's resilience was never more crucial, and if needs be, he would give his life to protect them.
'The heart of a young knight is matched only by the love of a parent.' Abraham let out a proud sigh, watching his young protégé move alongside the three parents, each fierce and unyielding in their resolve. 'A prayer or two might go a long way in the coming moments, young ones.'
'Whatever you say, Dumbledore.' Hamish shrugged.
'Tell me something, boy,' the seasoned knight turned to his youthful helper. 'Do you believe in God?'
'Never met the man.' Hamish shrugged again. 'But I'm pretty open to the idea. I mean, if all this demonic shit is real, then there has to be some opposing force, right?'
'Curious.' the Templar looked to the blade, the scribed letters in Procielus glowing brighter by the second. 'Then . . . you must be an artist of sorts.'
'How did you know?' Miranda asked with a curious glare watching the crusaders climb the stairs in the distance. Her question was returned with a confident smirk.
'Just a hunch.'
~
'How can I possibly help her?' asked Jenson as she stared heartbroken into the still child held tight by a weeping nun.
'It is as it ever was, Detective.' Teresa gestured Jennifer to her knees, and carefully placed Ashley's still body in her arms. The slaughtered child was much lighter than she had anticipated, like cradling a medium size dog. As the empty vessel rested peacefully in her grasp, Jenson could not bear to look upon her open throat, as she thought of memories from long ago.
Jennifer had held Ashley many times before, but none more memorable than the very day she was born.
It had been Jenson who had rushed her partner Jason Rhoads to the hospital that evening, years before either of them had made detective. The nervous father was far too excited and apprehensive to drive, his hands shaking, sweating and words stuttering from his lips. They had engaged the siren on the cruiser, the vehicle blaring and blowing through red lights to get to Belleville General Hospital in time for the birth of his daughter. Although there seemed to be no complications with the pregnancy, Jason did what every worried husband does: he thought of the worst case scenario, terrified something would go wrong.
'Relax, partner; Meredith and the baby will be fine.' She assured, and he nodded persistently in the passenger seat, trying to convince himself it were true. Of course, Jen was right; the labour did indeed go off without a hitch, much easier and quicker than their first child even.
It wasn't a particularly long wait, as Meredith seemed to be in labour for less than an hour. Jennifer was never all too good with children, which is why she never really considered having any of her own, but she tried her best to keep young James entertained in the waiting room. The boy was barely six years old, and so she took turns between herself and Meredith's sister Chelsea, who she had only met that very day.
The little sister was barely old enough to drink, a snarky attitude obvious in her piercing green eyes, dressed like a rock star, with arm bands, spikes and ripped fabric on every piece of attire she owned. Streaks of black and purple dye and several eyebrow piercings made her look the part, much different than Jenson who was all about professional image, still in her police uniform.
Nothing much beyond general niceties were exchanged between the two ladies, as there seemed to be nothing in common but the Rhoads family itself. James seemed to be the only real buffer between them as he moved from one lap to the other, beyond comfortable with both. Soon the awkwardness would alleviate as more family and friends began to arrive in anticipation for the birth of the new baby girl.
It wasn't long before the glowing father burst through the waiting room doors with the tiniest of infants bundled in his arms, sleeping sound in his grasp. She had never seen her partner so happy—so alive with joy and paternal bliss. Chelsea was the first to hold the infant, beaming as she held her niece in her arms for the first time.
'You will be her Godmother, if you would grace us with the honour.' said Jason, and Chelsea seemed taken aback. After all, she had recently dropped out of school, and wasn't exactly the most responsible example to a young lady, she thought.
'Are you sure?' she looked to Jenson. 'I figured you'd want someone with a bit more security.'
'Meredith wants our daughter to follow her dreams, no matter the cost, and I happen to agree with her.' Jason replied, and Chelsea held back her tears, not wanting to show weakness in front of her parents.
'I'd be honoured.' she lifted the baby girl and kissed her soft newborn head.
The baby was passed around from one relative to another, until someone finally looked to Jenson.
'Oh, no I couldn't.' she through her hands up. 'Something about other people's kids, right? I mean, I break everything I touch—'
'If you can carry a gun you can hold a baby.' Chelsea insisted and placed the infant in her arms.
'Uhm . . . okay.' For a moment Jennifer didn't really know what to say or how to act. She'd seen a baby before, obviously, but she had never felt quite right holding someone else's child. It was a weird feeling, as she had only been Jason's partner for a short while, and there she was like a close relative.
'Have you decided on a name yet?' asked Jason's mother as she watched the child sleep, her face lit up like the sun.
'Well, we had it narrowed down to two.' Jason replied. 'I say Jean—'
'Why Jean?' asked his mom.
'I don't know.' he shrugged. 'The name just came to me one day.'
'Pass.' said Chelsea with a rebellious teenage smirk. 'What else you got?'
'Meredith was thinking Ashley.'
They all looked to her at once, considering the name.
'So, how about it, then?' Jenson looked to the infant. 'Is your name Jean?' the baby did not respond beyond the most adorable yawn she'd ever seen.
'See, even she thinks it's a boring name.' Chelsea laughed.
'Is your name Ashley?' asked Jenson, and suddenly her infant tiny eyes opened for the very first time.
Jennifer Jenson was the first sight Ashley Rhoads had ever seen in this world, and as her bright green eyes stared back at her, so innocent and full of life—so trusting and pure, Jenson suddenly felt her knees weaken. Her stare seemed to suck the air from her lungs, as everything suddenly went dark. Barely able to stand, she carefully handed the child off to Chelsea, as Jennifer felt beyond weakened but drained, and had to sit down.
'Are you okay, Partner?' asked Jason as he helped her to a chair.
'Yeah, sure.' Jenson lied.
There was something about the infant that seemed to take the breath from her lungs, though she knew not what or how, as though the tiny infant was somehow sucking the life from her. She did not question the strange phenomena just yet. Still in her uniform, she said goodbye to her partner and his family, feeling rather embarrassed and out of place as more relatives flooded into the waiting room to meet the new addition.
As they swarmed around the newborn baby girl, Jenson took one last hypnotic look at Ashley Rhoads. She bowed away awkwardly, leaving the joyful family to bask in the loving moment.
As she made her way back to the cruiser, Jennifer couldn't quite shake the unusual sensation that had come from her exposure to the infant. Perhaps it was a coincidence—or maybe the donut and coffee she had eaten that morning wasn't sitting right in her stomach, she wondered.
Only as Jennifer held Ashley's dead body in her arms did she now begin to understand the strange link between her and the Rhoads girl. She had grown in her eleven years to a spitting image of her mother, and Jenson had gained the odd wrinkle here and there. Atop the highest platform of the satanic temple, the same eyes stared back at her now lifeless and grim, the vibrant, innocent life that once filled the infant's bright emerald gaze was now vacant, replaced with a haunting emptiness.
'She is gone, Teresa.' she reminded for the second time, questioning the nun's sanity. 'What would you have me do?'
'I carry within me a divine essence, Jennifer . . . the power of an Oracle long since passed.' Teresa informed as she stroked the child's cold lifeless cheek.
'I don't understand.' Jenson replied honestly as Marc Richot arrived by their side, standing guard as Father Jeremy had instructed.
'An Oracle may only truly reach their heavenly potential after they have been martyred. Sacrifice is a necessary conduit to the divine, so that the chosen may lead others to the gates of Heaven.'
'Martyred?' Marc shook his head as a thin and drained priest lay upon the floor behind him, trying his best to stay conscious, as he had lost a lot of blood.
'Sacrificed for the will of God, and the Pattern of the Grand Design.' the would-be nun clarified. 'Your place in this design was set years ago when you first held the child in your arms. Even then, Ashley had chosen you for this task, knowing you alone would have the courage to see it through. The Oracle within her could sense your father's bravery, and the valiant principles of honour he had bestowed in you.'
Jenson said nothing to counter, but watched the limp child curiously.
'You had felt your divine link years ago, when Ashley rested safely in your hands. You knew then that she was different—someone rather special.' As Jenson recalled the memory she began to weep, somehow aware of what was coming. 'The mistakes you have made in your past, the affair with the girl's father was meant to happen. There are no coincidences, Jennifer Jenson. Your blessed father instilled in you the fierce will to stand by your convictions, to never run from your mistakes. Likewise, your Heavenly Father knew you would see this through, right to the very end.'
'But . . . I don't even know if I believe in God.'
'It is quite the cliché if I have to remind you that it matters not if you believe in Him.' she managed the slightest smile, which was no comfort. 'God does not call upon the righteous to serve, but the sinner—the wayward but strong. He believes . . . in you, child.'
'What does He want from me?' she asked, staring into the lifeless eyes of the slain child.
'Only what you have already given.' she beamed. 'Without the pain you had inflicted upon the Rhoads family, you would have never sworn your life to this crusade, to protect them at all cost. God does not make mistakes—only presents options. You have willingly brought yourself to this juncture, and so I must now ask of you a most serious question.'
'Which is?' Marc interrupted, not much liking where this was going.
'Will you now stand and finish what you have started? The moment has come to fulfill your vow, child. You need only surrender, and your divine purpose in this life will be fulfilled.'
'What purpose?' she asked, even though her gut was telling her everything she needed to know, but Jenson needed to hear it out loud in order to grasp the dense gravity of what was about to happen.
'Ashley is a Martyr, and she alone has the power to do what must be done in the coming tribulation. I hold within me the essence of the Oracle, the one history calls Joan of Arc, but the child has not the life force to bring her forth and stand.'
'What life force?'
'The spirit energy of a holy Martyr, destined to be sacrificed for the good all mankind.'
'Wait, what the hell are you saying?' Richot couldn't help himself, a worry churning sour in his belly like a witch's brew.
Teresa reached forth and grasped her hand.
'In order for the Oracle to rise and stand against the coming darkness, you must willingly give your life to her.'
Though Jenson was far from a faithful servant or a believer of the faith, Teresa's words were like the sound of distant bells calling the detective from afar. Like her father before her, she had sworn to serve and protect, and had already given herself to this noble cause. Unknown to her, every minute move she had taken in her life was but a single step in a grand staircase of divine design. As such, she could not see what awaited her until she reached the very top step, until this very moment.
'Free will is God's absolute, His promise to every living soul who has ever walked the earth since the beginning of time.' she continued as Teresa could see the moment of realization wash over her, bright eyes moistening with every passing word as the rain fell upon them. 'Your life cannot be taken for this purpose, only willingly given.'
'Are you out of your tree lady?' asked Marc Richot as Father Jeremy staggered to his feet beyond, barely able to maintain his balance. 'Am I hearing this right? You want her to die so that a dead kid can . . . resurrect?'
'I would not expect a non-believer to understand.' she turned to the man calmly. 'Those who know not the way of the Christ could not possible comprehend the importance of such a grand sacrifice—'
'Let's just get the hell out if here, Jenson. You don't owe these people a damn thing . . .'
As he protested, Jennifer remembered Meredith's final words to her in the mouth of the tunnel below, claiming she was family, despite her trespasses. She knew not what had become of James, but in her arms was a life she swore to protect.
'How?' asked Jenson, as the tears poured off her cheeks and mixed with the rain.
'The first time you held her in your arms, you felt her tiny vessel trying to absorb your life force. That is why young Ashley has clung to you above all others throughout her short years. Look into her eyes as you did then, and allow said life force fall into her. Then—and only then, will your purpose be fulfilled, and you may finally rest.'
Jenson nodded as she bent her shoulder, and Ashley's lifeless head rolled to face her.
'Hold on a damn moment!' Marc stepped forth to protest, but Father Jeremy suddenly moved in and held him back with what little strength he had.
'Free will, Mr. Richot.' the pale and boney priest reminded with the frailest of voice, but Marc jolted his shoulders away from his weakened grip and crouched before the detective. He took a deep breath, unsure of what to say to her, knowing just how stubborn she could be. If her mind was made up, there would be no convincing her otherwise. He reached forth and grazed his hands lovingly over her delicate cheek, wiping the tears from her delicate skin
'I knew your father well, Jen,' he forced a smile that was more like a straight line within his French goatee. 'Perhaps even more than yourself in some aspects.' he shrugged. 'Your father was there for me when all others had abandoned and thrown me to the wolves, a delinquent too far gone and unworthy of saving. Archibald Jenson was the brightest light in my darkest hour. Now, you ask me to watch as his only daughter—the one soul he loved more than anything in this world—gives her life for another, and I must do so idly . . . a shitty way to repay him.'
'It's my choice, Marc. You're just going to have to find a way to be okay with it.'
Marc nodded, unconvinced but accepting nonetheless.
'It has to be her?' he double checked with Teresa. 'Tell me I can step in, and I won't hesitate—'
'Yes,' the godly woman answered, though she admired his courage. 'Ashley has chosen her, and no other. Jennifer Jenson is the chosen sacrifice.'
Marc gritted his teeth and nodded once more, feeling the tears coming.
'You're a good friend, Marc . . . truly.' Jenson beamed, quite taken with his honourable intentions.
'If you must do this, allow me to say that your father would never be more proud of you than in this very moment.'
Jenson choked, unable to find the words, incapable of stopping the floodgate from opening. Her chin trembled, eyes glistening with the thought, as though Archibald Jenson was kneeling before her in Marc's place.
'You are now the brightest light in this child's darkest hour, a bravery that echoes from the most honourable man I had ever had the pleasure of knowing. I see him so very much in you, Jennifer. The hope in your eyes uncanny, the very same that inspired my life's work, and has changed the lives of countless youth. You truly are your father's girl, through and through, and now you get to tell him in person.' he gritted his teeth as his good eye moistened.
Jennifer gulped, honestly unsure of what she believed or what to say. She wanted to thank him for his loyalty—for being a familiar face in a flood of chaos and uncertainty. In that moment Jenson knew that she wouldn't have been able to do this without him by her side. Just then, she finally understood what Teresa meant by the "Pattern of the Grand Design." She was a strong and powerful woman, and always had been, but certainly not invincible. She realized that Marc had survived the battle for this purpose—to say the words she needed to hear, like a divine presence sent to assure her that she was indeed the hero she always strived to be.
'He waits for me?' Jenson looked to Teresa, thinking of her father and hoping with all her heart that Heaven was more than the pipe dream of millions of followers throughout the world, but she would not say with any real clarity.
'Death is only the beginning, child.'
'Godspeed, Detective Jenson.' said Father Jeremy with a nod of approval.
'Goodbye, old friend.' Marc leaned forth and kissed her on the forehead, knowing he would never see her alive again, then stood and turned from them all, unable to watch.
In that moment, a terrible cry of unbearable pain cried out from below, as the Infernal Harvest neared completion and a sense of urgency overcame them.
'I'm ready.' Jenson nodded and rolled the child's head upon her shoulder once more, looking deep into her lifeless eyes. Teresa reached forth and placed her loving hand upon the child's chest and closed her eyes in prayer.
Jenson gulped nervously, and then focused deep into Ashley's unmoving eyes. Just then, Jennifer found herself falling inward, as a lifetime of profound emotion ignited like an all-consuming flame within her—every memory locked into one heartbreaking cry of ultimate sorrow.
Memories flashed like strobes all around her, as Jenson's soul fell through an swirling abyss of anguish. She felt the crushing defeat the day she buried her father, and the devastating sense of loss and emptiness that followed her like a stalking predator for years to come; the soul churning torment in Meredith's eyes before she raised her fist in anger, a justified blow in the elevator days ago, knowing the pain Jen had caused her family; the utter despair she felt as she held the slain body of Leonard Dawson in her arms, a partner she had come to respect and care for, killed because she couldn't get to him in time.
So much pain—so much devastation all locked into one moment of utter surrender, as a foreign essence swept through her, washing away the torment like a rushing stream of divine water. As Jenson fell further and deeper into the eyes of the Oracle, she could feel no more pain—a sense of peace washing through every cell of her body.
Teresa rose to her feet, gasping and wide-eyed as she cupped her mouth, her skin now perfectly normal as Jeremy grasped her hand and pulled her close. Marc turned when he noticed the throbbing light beam like a beacon from his friend's vessel behind him. His jaw drooped as the strange glow that once inhabited the former nun now surged in Jenson's chest like a light tower in the densest of fog and darkest of nights at sea. Every hair stood erect on the spectator's skin—every heart glowing in faith and wonder as the martyr held the slain child tight, witnessing a genuine miracle of God.
The skin of Ashley's open wound seemed to tighten at the corners, and then slowly pull and stretch, somehow closing and healing on its own. The blood which saturated and stained her clothes somehow faded and bleached to bright white fabric before them, and the brilliantly shimmering shawl of a Magi covered her soft and wavy, chestnut brown locks.
'Behold.' Teresa spoke as she watched the life slowly drain from Jennifer Jenson. 'Saint Jean D'Arc.'
'Who?' Marc looked to her in sorrow, wiping the tears from his good eye.
Just then, the earth seemed to quake as an unspoken and unseen rage erupted like a furious volcano, and the trio held one another tight, unsure of what was happening as the rain began to fall much harder and plentiful from high above, as though God Himself wept from the sky.
Father Jeremy sighed as he looked into the massive funnel cloud forming above, then back to the increasingly vibrant child Magi in Jenson's arms, as he spoke with a weakened voice. ' . . . And a child shall lead them.'
Meanwhile, from beyond the veil, a scorned and furious enemy cried out in a horrific rage that tore at the very fabric of reality. Caine had brought forth a fury not known by man, as he watched the detective woman's life force fill the tiny vessel. His minions had fallen, those sworn to kneel to his will abandoning the cause upon defeat. Charles Orlok had retreated, severely wounded by the piercing of a divine blade, and had fled his cause mortally weakened and barely alive. Justin's cowardice was no secret, the talking head abandoning the cause just as the Dark Man had expected. Only the Black Pope and the powerful Living Demonic Klaus remained, as his legions of followers had all met their sticky end in the temple. Each of them were now screaming in eternal torture, trapped in an all-consuming hellfire deep in the most horrific crevices of the pit. All had failed, slain in vain to the might of mere humans; a pitiful thought to the living Caine.
In the demonic text, no fully fledged angelic being may intervene, and as it ever was, the human race must rise to save itself, each and every human accountable for their own survival or failure. Free will demanded this by the Creator, and so Caine watched, waiting for his moment to strike, knowing that Joan of Arc had stopped his reign of terror once before. The pieces had fallen one-by-one, and upon the proverbial chess board were but few . . . a pawn amongst them who had just reached the end of its long journey, and just as his Grandfather Samael had warned, a deadly queen now stood in its place, and checkmate was but one move away.
Oh, how he loathed the girl with every morsel of his cursed and immortal being. He hated her before she was even born, as her ancestor Emelia had thwarted his rise simply by being born deaf and nothing more. He detested her as he watched her condemned and burnt at the steak, snaking his influence through clergy and judges alike, the way he had done with the Savior Himself, and hated her even more when he learned of her survival only recently. He despised her as he watched her plead before the might of England on horseback, cringing as an entire army stood down, denying him the bloodshed he so separately craved, and he hated her now.
It seemed no matter how intricate the scheme—no matter how hard he tried, the little bitch just wouldn't stay dead.
The mysterious woman in the tower deep within Vatican City was now merely a fleshy meat suit who carried the memories of Joan of Arc, but nothing more. She has surrendered her immortality as a living instrument of God to the child before him, and would succumb to old age and disease like the rest of the pitiful human race. Though Caine had not known of her true identity until it was revealed by the Pope himself, a great fear now washed over him, once a festering wound now turned potentially fatal. Everything began to make sense as the Pattern of the Grand Design never failed to reveal itself in its entirety until the proper moment.
Since the days of Hamelin when he was better known as the Pied Piper—when he had first cast the evil spell and claimed the 665 souls needed to unleash the Baphomet, he was ever so careful to lay out each step with the utmost precision. Caine had worked hard for centuries, tracing the bloodlines to the chosen womb of Chelsea Ellis, which was a tedious task in itself. As it ever was, the humans were never alone, as God seemed to always find a way to throw a wrench in the system at the worst possible moment, and this night of All Hollow's Eve, exactly 666 years later was no different.
The last child was slain as planned, Emelia's unbaptized descendant taken by his own mother to ensure its potency. Victory was but a few words of infernal scripture away, but the Oracle had been resurrected, and Caine's ultimate revenge now dangled by the thinnest of threads.
'How could it have come to this?' the sinister man looked to the sky, beyond the crimson funnel cloud now stretching toward him.
Sickened by the sight of the meddlesome cop's eyes losing the light of life within, he hated his minions for not killing her while they had the chance. Jenson was never really a threat, but merely an irritation now turned lethal to his plan. Caine watched her from the neither world with ultimate hate and an unquenchable fury as her heart finally stopped, and her living vessel turned dark. Her body went limp, and from behind the veil the Dark Man could see her essence leave her cage of meat and bone but could do nothing to stop the inevitable.
Upon the topmost platform, as the rain fell hard upon the chosen few, the good detective faded from view, and Jennifer Jenson lived no more.