
Apocrypha Sequence:
DIVINITY
Shane Jiraiya Cummings
Copyright © Shane Jiraiya Cummings 2011.
ISBN: 9780987076847
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. Except in the case of short-term lending, if you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
All characters in this book are fictitious.
No reference to any living person is intended.
\*
Memoirs of a Teenage Antichrist
\*
Welcome to the Apocrypha Sequence, a collection of themed stories outside the continuity of my 'regular' collections, Shards (flash fiction) and the forthcoming The Abandonment of Grace and Everything After (short stories and novellas). The stories in the Apocrypha Sequence lie somewhere in between. There is some overlap between the Apocrypha stories and those in my collections, but this is because I have cherry-picked stories from my body of work to suit the themes present within the Sequence. For each book in the Apocrypha Sequence, I chose a story or two from my collections, a couple of previously uncollected stories, and the odd original or two. Each volume in the Sequence is a remix. You might find a story from this volume elsewhere (by itself or in one of my collections), but its inclusion in the Apocrypha Sequence gives it a more appropriate context---and in some cases, demonstrates its place in a shared world of directly-linked stories.
Apocrypha Sequence: Divinity explores the fallibility of the gods. The realms of mythology and religion are often open to interpretation, and humanity's belief in wise, benevolent, and all-seeing deities is sorely put to the test in these stories. Imagine the story of Moses and the exodus of the Jews from the perspective of an Egyptian commander who has lost everything to the ten deadly plagues. With the gods themselves using humans as pawns, who can claim true righteousness? Can solace be obtained from a religious manifestation that appears only to mock? And in a world of shifting moral values, who is to say the Antichrist isn't just a decent guy dealing with his own issues? The gods are here, right now, and their goals may alarm you.
Read on and enjoy this volume, and if you crave more, please seek out the other three volumes that comprise the Apocrypha Sequence. Details about the rest of the Sequence and my other e-books can be found at the end of this volume.
--- Shane Jiraiya Cummings
\*
"On that same night I will pass through Egypt and strike down every firstborn---both men and animals---and I will bring judgement on all the gods of Egypt. I am the Lord."
--- Exodus 12:12
I suffered through the plagues of Moses's God. Boils scourged my skin. Locusts and frogs invaded my house and destroyed my fields. I drank unclean blood in my thirst while praying to the Gods for fresh water to return to the Nile. I have endured hail and darkness and the rotting of my animals.
All this I suffered in the service of my Pharaoh. Despite my suffering and the suffering of the people of Egypt, I obeyed Pharaoh and offered sacrifices to the Gods. Then Moses and his Hebrews took the last shreds of my life away.
That tragic night, his God ravaged my house and stole the life of my brother and father. My brother Tol-Ahnet was a captain of Pharaoh's army. Face down in his sleep he died, not knowing the chance to face the honourable death of a brave man. Father was old, a soldier in his first autumn of retirement---a retirement he had earned through blood and sacrifice. Many more seasons should have passed before their hearts were to be judged by the Gods.
The God of Moses was complete in his work. My young son, Annan, also died that night. His green eyes, which had once burned with life and laughter, were empty, abandoned by the light. His eyes were blessed by the Gods, the priests had once told me. The blessings of Ra and Horus and Thoth became dust to me as I watched his naked body taken for embalming.
The sight was too much for my beloved Netra. Heartbroken, mad with grief, she stole my dagger and plunged it through her breast.
Nothing was left to me but my grief and the sword in my hand.
I barely noticed the slaves leave the city, for my grief overpowered thought and sense. When the order came to ride with Pharaoh, to run the slaves down, that haze of grief narrowed into a ball of rage.
With vengeance in my heart, I rode out to butcher the murderers of my family and cast down their God.
"Not all the Gods had abandoned you, Makhet. I was watching." The words resonated from the murky waters beyond the shore, words filled with menace and reassurance.
"Yes. Yes you were." Makhet absently rubbed the mud from his shins.
"Misery is etched into your heart. Tell me all." A large midnight-black eye bobbed out of the water and stared at him as he continued his tale.
I was an officer of Pharaoh's rearguard and had ridden with him to many victories over the Libyans, the Canaanites, and the tribes of the sands. We charged in well-practiced formations after the Hebrews and cornered them on the banks of the Sea of Reeds. My heart rejoiced when I saw the vile, ragged mass of Moses' people. As Pharaoh led his army---thousands of chariots and bowmen---striking for the heart of the Hebrew encampment, my orders were to lead one of the last companies onto the battlefield.
Two hundred chariots I commanded, fierce and loyal men all. We were to crash into the foe as fresh reserves, to slaughter the last pockets of resistance. With blood and grief staining my heart, I yearned for butchering. My sword was eager for retribution from these heretics.
I thought my eyes betrayed me when the sea parted for Moses. In turn, I prayed to the true Gods for strength, to Set for savagery in battle, and to you to shield me in the shadow of those strange waters.
The God of Moses unleashed a ravaging storm and a wall of fire that held us at bay while the Hebrews escaped. Even these acts of sorcery could not stop us. As the wind and fire abated, we rushed across the sea bed in pursuit of the cowards.
My company was but half a league from the shore when the wall of water collapsed. Before the torrent struck, I heard the cries of thousands of doomed men. Water engulfed the shrieking horses strapped to the chariots. Man and animal alike were battered and pummelled by the seas and pulled down by the weight of the armour entombing their bodies.
Having cast my armour aside, I was carried off by the turbulence. For endless hours, I floated between life and death until I was washed ashore. Hundreds of bloated bodies, already turning blue, washed up beside me. I struggled through the mud on hands and knees, clambering over the corpses of once brave men, until I collapsed in exhaustion and despair.
The God of Moses denied those men the valour of dying in battle, as he had denied my family and every family in Egypt whose firstborn sons were stolen. Five-fold had I been cursed yet the Hebrew sorcery had failed, at last. I alone had survived.
It was the next morning, as I lay huddled in a muddy grove, surrounded by corpses, staring at the far-off fires of the slaves as they cooked and laughed and sang on the other shore, that I first met you.
"Of all those drowned men, you were the only one who prayed to me, Makhet."
Nodding, he said nothing.
"Did my appearance frighten you?" The voice drifted from beneath the lapping water.
"Fear had fled my heart by then. The nightmare of Moses' sorcery left me nothing but sorrow and rage." He plucked dried mud from his fingernails.
"How do you remember our encounter, Makhet?"
He sighed, casting his thoughts back to that day and the ramifications that followed.
The crocodiles puzzled me. Dozens of great crocodiles, larger than any I had ever laid eyes upon, crawled up the bank. I lay there numb, drained of fear, ready for their jaws to drag me under and end my torment, my failure. That they did not touch the fallen Egyptians clogging the shore bewildered me. Staring at me with their blank eyes, not claiming my sorry life was even more bewildering.
All became clear when you appeared in their midst, immense in size and as pallid as the corpses of my drowned brothers-in-arms.
I beseeched you, great Sobek, Crocodile God, sentinel of dark waters, for my vengeance. I renounced the other Gods in your favour, supplicating you for the means to exact my retribution.
And you answered me. For my father, for Tol-Ahnet, for Netra, for little Annan, and for all the men of Egypt who died in the dark waters, you answered me.
"Those were my last tears, Makhet. No more will the crocodiles weep for the actions of Gods and men. Our hearts are as stone."
"No stonier than mine." Makhet opened a clawed hand. Inside his palm, already scaled and leathery, two pinpoints of brilliant silver glimmered.
"Egypt is waning." Sobek raised his pale, ridged head from the water to regard Makhet. "Like men, the fortunes of Gods rise and fall. The God followed by Moses knew this. His betrayal has scarred us both."
Standing on the river bank, covered in mud and dried gore, Makhet's eyes were as blank as the crocodile's.
"Tell me the fate of my tears. Tell me of your revenge," Sobek said.
Makhet clenched the remaining tears in his taloned fist, shut his eyes, and remembered.
Your tears sparkled like jewels as I plucked them from the water, dozens of rare and beautiful gems. I stuffed them into my pouch to keep them safe for my journey.
Your servants took me across the sea, landing me not far from the slave encampment. I bided my time, planning to hunt for food to gain strength before I fell on their camp. My fortunes departed with the crocodiles, as food and clean water were scarce. By the time I reached their camp, the Hebrews had gone.
It was not difficult to track them. They numbered in the hundreds of thousands. A vast host that scoured the land as it went. I could not kill them all, but I only sought the deaths of their leaders---in particular, Moses. For his crimes, I vowed to parade his head on the altar of his God.
My strength waned as I trailed their exodus. The Hebrews left nothing in their wake. Soon, maddened by sun and thirst, I drifted back to the shores of the Sea of Reeds. There, remembering your words on the power of your tears, I devoured two of them.
"You knew the consequences, even then," said Sobek.
"I cared not for the consequences. In time, I will be judged in the Underworld." He looked at the scaly skin on the back of his hands.
"That may not come to pass, disciple."
Makhet stood silent, perplexed by the cryptic Crocodile God, watching the sun ripple across the Nile.
"My tears invested strength into your human body. More than you had ever possessed," prompted Sobek.
"Yes," he whispered, losing himself in the ripples on the water.
I awoke that night, stronger and more refreshed than I had felt in a hundred moons. The power coursing through my body contrasted with the emptiness in my heart. I walked along the shore, shadowing the slaves. Soon I was running, running for hours without end.
As dawn approached, I arrived at a sand-blown oasis. Behind me, far off on the horizon, I beheld the sight of thousands of campfires. In my frenzy of haste, I had outpaced the slaves.
I tested the water knowing this oasis to be an ideal encampment for them. It was clean and invigorating. Drawing my fill of the water, I then cast another of your tears into the oasis, with a foul and ruinous desire. The tear was dazzling as it struck the water but soon dissolved. Moments later, I took another draught but spat it out. The water had become bitter and undrinkable.
As I bent over the pool, I caught sight of my reflection. No longer was my face my own. Skin that was once tanned and smooth was distorted into greenish leather. I knew, then, the power of your tears. In spite of my ugliness, my dead heart held no pity for myself.
I retreated nearby and waited for the Hebrews to arrive. A day passed before all the stragglers settled at the oasis.
Sneaking to the outskirts of their camp, I killed one of their outriders and claimed his robe. Disguised thus, I freely wandered amongst them, my rage seething with every step. Eventually, I found Moses and his advisers near the oasis. Much to my satisfaction, the people complained to him about the water and tore their hair in frustration. They named the oasis Marah, meaning 'bitter' in the tongue of the Hebrews.
Moses invoked his God and hurled something into the water. Soon, the people surged forward with their buckets and bowls, praising Moses and their Lord. It was then that I knew my plan had been undone.
"Yet you stand before me, covered in Hebrew blood," rumbled Sobek, tilting his immense head.
"Moses took everything from me," Makhet spat. "My vengeance had been delayed, but I remained undaunted."
Swallowing my wrath, I infiltrated their camp. Remaining on the outskirts, I travelled with them to the oasis of Elim. Every night, I stalked the dwellings of Moses and his henchman Aaron, but they were always zealously guarded. Watching them and listening to the campfire talk of the slaves, I came to understand more of the nature of the Hebrews. Your tears provided insight and clarity. Their hopes, fears, and deepest desires were as clear to me as fish in a shallow pool.
With the tears sustaining me, I grew quick, agile, and voracious. By day, I learned their secrets and how to survive amongst them. By night, I claimed a victim at a time, dragging them away and tearing them apart. A scourge was I in their midst, a black shadow sowing fear and reaping death. My sword, once my faithful defender, was unsuited to the savagery I craved.
I grew insatiable. Fed by revenge and bloodlust, I consumed more of your glistening tears. The more I devoured, the more I yearned to devour. For a time, the power of the tears and the taste of blood was all I knew.
"You acquired the hunting instincts of the crocodile, that is clear." Sobek dipped low in the water again.
The sun drew close to the horizon, lengthening the rays rippling across the river. Chirping insects started their dusk mantra, hidden amongst the reeds.
"It was inevitable." Makhet was still intent on the shining water.
"I sensed your kills---I savoured each of them. Rarely does the crocodile's reach extend into the barren desert."
Makhet stared beyond the river, watching the sun as it slowly ebbed from the afternoon sky.
I remained lost from myself for weeks, no better than a cunning predator. The Hebrews travelled further into the desert, eventually settling at Rephidim. My bloodlust peaked when the Amalekites attacked the encampment. Fighting like an animal, I cared not for tribe or bloodline, only prey.
The sun set on that day with the sands stained red and the Hebrews victorious. As night fell, I crawled among the dead and dying, eating without prejudice the corpses of men from both sides. I clambered over a sand dune, bloated on human flesh, as much a carrion eater as the vultures that had descended on the battlefield. I had become the creature that stands before you.
Seeing my blood-stained fingers in the moonlight, now iron-hard talons, covered in scales, I realised, then, that the justice I craved was slipping away---as remote at that moment as my humanity.
The next day, amid the aftermath of the battle, I slipped back into the Hebrew camp. I curbed my animalistic ways and returned to studying my foe, travelling as close as I could without arousing suspicion. The temptation to slaughter was near-overpowering, but I kept it controlled. Justice for my family, for the sons of Egypt, was paramount. Soon enough, the camp moved on from Rephidim to Mount Sinai.
Moses' adopted father, Jethro, joined the Hebrews before we reached Mount Sinai. With him, he brought Zipporah, the wife of Moses, and their two sons, Gershom and Eliezer. For me, they were the final pieces of the puzzle. At last, I hatched the plan to exact my bloody vengeance.
I watched and waited, praying to you for the opportunity to strike true and avenge my family. With impatience threatening to drive me mad, I practised my craft by killing Hebrews under the cover of night. Many deaths marked the passage of days before my chance appeared.
Moses vanished up the mountain to commune with his God, remaining there for many nights. In his absence, the people grew restive and faithless. Strike the head from the serpent and its body writhes and twitches, just as these slaves did. They fell into anarchy and debauchery.
I claimed my chance while the people fornicated and drank themselves into a stupor. I picked off the few remaining guards around the tent of Moses. As a crocodile, I lurked, motionless in the shadows, close at hand to the young wife of Moses.
Not long after, Moses returned from the mountain. Furious at the idolatry and disobedience of his people, he gave no thought to his family as he set about punishing the slave tribes. Amid the chaos of that night, the jaws of my trap closed tight.
As the immense black eyes of the Crocodile God studied him, Makhet tore his gaze from the dusken sun to study the pair of remaining tears in his palm. Their sparkle was mesmerizing.
"The Hebrew God is jealous and possessive, yet he hides, remaining nameless." Sobek drew his attention from the tears. "During your bloody crusade, did you not wonder at this?"
"I know his names. Craven. Despoiler. Murderer. These are but a few. Beyond that, the affairs of gods are nothing to me."
The insects along the banks ceased their droning, plunging the Nile into twilight silence. Shapes appeared in the water, ominous and black.
I crossed the threshold of Moses' tent as an avenging beast, more animal than man. Hebrew blood covered my arms and blade as I confronted my enemy. He stood before a makeshift altar to his God, in council with Aaron and the elders of the tribes. His family was cosseted nearby. They rallied to Moses at my entrance.
Two men confronted me but I cut them down in my stride. Power coursed through my body as I had consumed another of your tears. The elders were cowed, yet Moses and Aaron remained defiant.
Assailing me with petty curses, naming me demon, they did not surrender to fear. In the face of their arrogance, I named myself Makhet of Abydos, son of Egypt, and instrument of vengeance. I spat their crimes in their faces, charging them as murderers and cowards.
Even bearing my accusations, Moses quibbled, defending his people and his God. Ignoring his futile words, I cast a fistful of your tears at them and the altar to their God.
Blood for blood, murder for murder, I cried, cursing the people of Moses to an eternity of strife and torment. To suffer as I had, till the end of days, knowing neither peace nor happiness for as long as they followed the bloody God of the Hebrews.
The tears exploded in a firestorm of light and swirling mists. The Hebrews stood there, shaken. As they trembled and muttered, I strode over and claimed Gershom, the firstborn of Moses.
I dragged him away as recompense for the lives of my son, my wife, my brother, and father. I spared Moses' life, although my blade wavered over his neck. I chose to leave Moses an incapable, broken father. Instead of death, I condemned him to live the span of his days with one child less, remembering always his crimes against my family.
I marched through their camp amid a river of blood, slaying all who opposed my flight. None dared the folly of pursuit. For days after, I dragged Gershom through the desert, oblivious to his pleas.
"You have served me well, Makhet." Sobek advanced onto the shore, displacing mud and reeds.
Sobek's huge head was greater in size than a man's body. His gargantuan bulk trailed into the water, longer than the grandest obelisk and as white as the snows of the desolate lands to the far north.
"I served myself, Lord Sobek, but honour you for your aid when all others turned deaf ears to my pleas."
"You have served and honoured me more than you could know. Finish your tale, disciple."
Makhet nodded and recalled the last leg of his journey. Nightfall loomed as the sun dipped low.
I struck for the Sea of Reeds and was soon forced to carry my prisoner. Barely feeling the heat and stinging desert winds, my strength remained constant but Gershom's flagged. When I arrived at the coast, he had wasted away and was barely conscious.
Even his pitiful condition did not sway my heart. I looked out over the sea and knew you would answer my prayers. Again, I was not disappointed.
In your honour, I cast the boy into the sea. Into the waiting jaws of your children. I watched his death with a joyless spirit and knew at last my bloodlust was spent.
Blackness fell upon me as I trekked across sea and desert, knowing my task was complete. With no family to return to, I journeyed to the banks of the Nile, in the surety we would meet again.
Here I waited, brooding and unfulfilled. With two bloody hands I had exacted my vengeance and yet the Hebrews endure and I am left with nothing. Even my face is gone, altered by your sorcery. With my family dead and no heir, it is as if Makhet of Abydos was never more than dust.
"Makhet of Abydos is dust now. Makhet, my disciple, is what you have become. For your service, take your honoured place by my side," rumbled Sobek.
Makhet again studied the two remaining tears shimmering in his hand. With eyes firmly fixed on the receding sun, he placed the tears on his tongue. They were cold like ice, numbing his tongue and lips, and yet they burned his throat as he swallowed.
"This is my last day as a man?" Makhet asked.
"Yes."
"Then I have a final question."
"Ask it, disciple."
"Why did you shed your tears, great Sobek. For whom did you weep?"
"I wept for the people and the Gods of Egypt. That was my sacrifice and you were my instrument."
Makhet clutched his stomach and doubled over in pain. His already leathery skin began to harden, losing all semblance of humanity as it transformed into a grey-green hide.
"Know this, my disciple," Sobek continued, oblivious to Makhet's agonising transformation. "Mankind has drifted away from worshipping our creator, lord Ra, instead choosing to worship the younger Gods. Ra has been usurped in his weakened state by Horus and Osiris. His refusal to honour the ascendancy of the younger Gods became precarious for God and man alike."
Doubled over on hands and knees, Makhet could only gape at the God as he continued.
"Ra's spite knows no bounds. Nor do his machinations. Do you really think the God of Moses, some nameless Hebrew God, had the power to sunder Egypt and wrest the slaves from its very heart?"
"But ... who?" Makhet stammered.
As Makhet struggled with his misshapen body, Sobek opened his jaws in a jagged, reptilian smile---or grimace. The God's black eyes remained unreadable.
"The father of the sun and the heavens is also the father of guile and cunning," the Crocodile God answered.
Makhet's torso and limbs expanded and thickened. His grunts of pain deepened as his body grew and sprouted ridges and scales. His few remaining rags of clothing tore away and fell to the mud.
"I wept for broken Egypt, knowing we, the Gods, would fade with Egypt's decline," Sobek said over Makhet's grunts of pain. "I aligned my fate with the younger Gods and the people of Egypt. Yet, my tears were filled with rage as well as sadness. Your tenacity in striking at the heart of the Hebrew camp, and the God they followed, could yet save us all."
Belly down on the muddy shore, Makhet's face stretched into a snout, jagged with teeth. Grunts rattled into guttural growls as his tailbone wriggled and squirmed into a long, ridged tail.
"Nothing is more powerful or more resonant than a curse, bound in blood, with the focussed will of the Gods behind it. Through your retribution, Makhet, and the conduit of my lost tears, that is what you achieved. The Hebrews will suffer endlessly until they renounce their so-called nameless God. For Egypt's sake, hope they realize their suffering is bound to their God and overthrow his worship with all haste."
Regarding Sobek with black eyes, Makhet slithered into the water, another giant crocodile on the Nile. Numb to the pain of his grief now, like all crocodiles, he would shed tears no more.
\*
She appeared in the mist of my bathroom mirror, her eyes haloed by the light, her face on the cusp of a scream or a prayer. My faith was strong when I told Father Morales about her. His faith was stronger when he told the Vatican.
Now the queues of worshippers, with their candles and incurable diseases, have taken over my house. Poor as I was, I now live on the streets---pushed out by droves of fanatics. All desperate for a glimpse of their vision or clutching for 'holy relics' like my bathroom tiles. Anything to be close to her. The pilgrimage line to my bathroom fills the streets.
They run my hot water all day for a glimpse of the Virgin's face. And they get it---her eyes ablaze in the fluorescent light, reflecting their convictions, their need. Like Father Morales, and the Vatican Cardinals, they wonder at the expression on her face.
When I still cared and still had a home, I had asked the first pilgrims what they saw. They had offered only fervour, vagueness, and prayer.
But I know now. Life in the gutter has made it clear.
She's laughing.
At me.
\*
Memoirs of a Teenage Antichrist
January 28
Crows gather at my window, especially at night.
It's a full moon tonight. Thirteen crows are there, staring in at me from the tree. One of them scratches and pecks at the glass. The rest caw amongst themselves. Sometimes, just sometimes, I think I know what they're saying.
February 14
I've started having nightmares. Not your usual naked-at-school dreams. These are so vivid, I can practically hear the screams and smell the burning flesh when I wake.
April 2
Aunt Lucia believes I'll be ushering in the apocalypse in exactly 66 days. She told me so at dinner this evening. At first I thought it was some belated April Fool's gag, but no, she was deadly serious. She doesn't have a sense of humour. However, she did have a whole bunch of mouldy old scrolls and prophecies and mystical doo-dads to prove her point.
Word for word, she said, "ushering in the apocalypse". That's too much shit for a sixteen-year-old to take. A thousand years of Hell on Earth for Christ's sake! That's what she said. A thousand freakin' years.
April 3
I lied. I'm not sixteen. Not yet, anyway. It'll be my birthday in soon. June 6. I've been told all I'm getting is my birthright: fire and brimstone and the sum total of human sin. Nothing special.
All I want is to get laid. Is that too much to ask?
April 5
I call the crow at my window Abigail. The name just fits, somehow. She visits every night now. Her twelve brothers and sisters lurk in the tree, cawing at each other.
Abigail sang me to sleep last night. For the first time in a long time, the nightmare didn't return.
April 6
Aunt Lucia caught me praying in my bedroom tonight. She flogged me, the old witch, flogged me till I bled and couldn't sit down properly. She was scowling while she did it, but it looked like grinning to me, like she took pleasure in it. Then she lectured me for an hour about my "place" in the scheme of things. If there's gonna be a thousand years of Hell on Earth, I've got a nice little lake of fire in mind with her name on it.
April 9
I'm seeing things that aren't there. Black things, shadows, wandering the halls at school, moving between the crowds. Sometimes they pass through people, and when they do, that person faints or dry-reaches.
I thought I saw these things when I was younger, but it's happening all the time now. It doesn't freak me out as much as it probably should.
I hear things, too, like people's inner thoughts. Their 'soul murmurings' Abigail told me. I hear other sounds, too, but the less said about them, the better.
April 12
I still pray, usually in the dead of night, when Lucia should be deep in her hag sleep. Abigail watches over me, but I'm not sure about the other crows. If they hear me, and they must because their ears are damn sharp, then Lucia comes barging in to check up on me. Never in time to catch me but often enough to keep me on my toes.
April 13
People bruise when I touch them, skin on skin. Aunt Lucia and the nannies wear gloves and long sleeves. I remind myself of this because Brendan Amery, the new kid at school, grabbed me. He must have been trying to score points with the popular crowd by beating up on the weird kid. The moment he grabbed my arm, he recoiled as if he'd been bitten by a snake. The bruise sprouted from right beneath his fingers and leached out to the back of his hand.
He spat at me and said a few things I won't repeat (but I've memorised for later use), which made me do a stupid thing. I pushed him. By the face. He tumbled backwards, holding his face and screaming. I won't ever forget his puffy purple cheek bloating under his puffy purple fingers, and especially the way his eye drooped because of it. And the screaming. There's always the screaming.
I guess that's something extra to add to the nightmares.
April 14
If I'm supposed to be this big bad Antichrist guy, then why I can't I speak to God or the Devil? God must be too aloof to chat. Too cool for school to chat to his opposite number's brat.
"Dad" ... well, I never had a Dad, but he's flying under the radar, too. I've never had a father-figure (unless you count that sleazy old Brit who keeps sniffing around Aunt Lucia). If Satan is evil incarnate, I guess being a deadbeat Dad is something he has to do. It's part of his nature, right?
Anyway, it's Good Friday today. Nothing much good about it in my book---I've been sick all day. Speaking of books, I wonder if people will write a bible about me? It would be a pretty thin book!
April 16
Easter was a massive disappointment. I had to steal my only Easter egg. School organised a Sunday church service but I weaselled out of it. It's like they're trying to overcompensate for something.
My palms bled, just a little bit, at lunchtime. Lucia saw me wiping my hands on a napkin at lunch and smiled that tight, smug smile of hers.
April 20
I read the Book of Revelations tonight. I had to sneak the bible in from school and hide it from Aunt Lucia. She stared at me like I'd been wicked when I came home, but she didn't say anything.
Abigail sat on the window sill and watched me read---and what a load of shit it was! Revelations my arse! Dragons. Lakes of fire. False prophets. Plagues. That stuff is so last millennia. If I have my way, my apocalypse will be like all the horror movies come to life. Zombies, vampires (scratch that, vampires are pussies and can't hang in my apocalypse!), and that guy with the hockey mask from Friday the 13th.
I threw the stupid book into the wastepaper basket in my room. It caught fire the moment it left my hand. I scorched one of my pillows putting that damn fire out! Despite the smoke, Lucia didn't charge in. She never even mentioned it at dinner. I think all those robed loonies she calls friends are distracting her.
April 29
God's still not answering me. I stopped trying to talk to the other guy (my "Dad") a while ago.
May 3
I don't want to be the Antichrist, not after what Lucia and her friends told me. Bunch of robed freaks. I threw up and couldn't seem to stop. I think I fell asleep on the bathroom floor but I woke on my bed. I don't remember being carried. Abigail was there on my window as always. She sang me back to sleep.
May 7
With all Lucia's talk of New World Orders and smiting and punishing the do-gooders, I feel like a pawn in someone else's chess game.
If I ever have a say in these things, here's a note to self: robes are uncool. Seriously.
May 12
Christianity is shitting me. They tried to spring it on us at school today, some lunchtime prayer thing.
The visiting reverend started praying, but I think he could tell I was annoyed. In fact, he couldn't help but keep eyeing me off suspiciously. Beady little eyes he had, like coals. He ran screaming from the room shortly thereafter, clawing at those coal-like eyes. I think I saw smoke between his fingers. Seems appropriate, doesn't it?
Abigail was there, looking in, watching out for me.
We were all allowed to go home early. God really is forgiving.
May 17
It's not just the crows that hang around me like a bad smell. A pair of big black dogs (Dobermans, I think) are keeping tabs on me. When I first stumbled across them and they began growling, I thought they were going tear my throat out. They charged at me and I just froze. The world stood still. I mean really stood still, the drizzle shimmering in front of my nose suspended in the air. But the dogs didn't attack me---they ran past me and chased down a nearby guy in a robe. More goddamned robed freaks! A dagger clattered to the ground when this guy bolted.
I don't know how it turned out for the dude who dropped the dagger, but the dogs padded back to me with blood on their muzzles. They kind of looked content.
If I'm supposed to be this Antichrist guy, I want some danger money. Or at least some fringe benefits, you know, like getting laid. I think God's having a good chuckle to himself/herself/itself.
May 18
God must be a woman a lot like Aunt Lucia. A man couldn't have come up with such a convoluted scheme to screw my life over. Well, not any man I've ever met. At least I didn't see any robed freaks today. There were the dogs, of course, and the crows, always the crows.
May 22
I don't know whether I'm supposed to be AN Antichrist or THE Antichrist. Seems like a lot of work for just one person.
May 24
There's so much sin in the world. Wicked thoughts. Murderers. Rapists. Thieves. So much hate, I can feel it welling up, soaking into me so much I have to put my hands over my ears to shut the world out. People are seriously screwed up.
My birthday is in a couple of weeks. I just want to get laid.
May 26
I call the dogs Max and Rex. They let me pat them now. Lucia even allows them to sleep outside my door. I guess things aren't so bad.
May 27
Every time I walk past a piece of glass, whether it's a mirror or window, it shatters. Always inwards, too, like I'm some cosmic glass magnet. After the third or fourth time this happened, I stopped to count the pieces while waiting for an adult to come and tell me off.
666 shards exactly. Coincidence? I think not!
I wonder if this shit happened to Jesus?
May 28
I thought about killing myself tonight. I cradled the pills for what seemed like hours. Abigail was watching me the whole time, her yellow eyes boring through me. And the dogs! They wouldn't stop growling the whole time! It made it hard to focus any kind of resolve.
Does the world really need an Antichrist? It's doing a fine enough job killing itself without some supernatural power twisting the knife.
I couldn't do it---the pill thing, I mean. Not with Abigail watching. Not with Max and Rex carrying on. As I was taking the pills back to the bathroom, Lucia caught me with them and gave me one hell of a thrashing. I think she drew blood. I can look forward to another night lying on my stomach and side. Bitch. Definitely a lake of fire for her. Or something with maggots. Everyone hates maggots.
May 29
A girl was waiting in my room when I came home from school today. Sexy-looking private school type. Long dark hair. She said her name was Abigail and that she was my half-sister. We talked all night and Aunt Lucia didn't barge in on me once. Hooray for small mercies.
June 1
Abigail (the girl, not the bird) visited again tonight. She was waiting for me after dinner, perched on the window sill. The window was permanently open because of the glass thing.
We talked for a bit, but then, oh my god (should I say "oh my god"?), the things we did! Tonight has been the best night of my life! She didn't even bruise when we touched!
I don't care if she's a bird, or my sister, or whatever. She's mine.
June 4
The way she moves is like magic. The starlight shimmers in her hair. We walked the gardens tonight and the crows circled above. I thought it was a bit creepy at first, but it was kind of romantic.
If the world is going to Hell, at least I'll have her here with me.
June 5 - 6.06pm
It's my birthday at midnight. The end of days. The big A. I'm not a bad person. I don't want to be. But the world is a sick place. It's in my blood like a disease. It needs to be cleansed. I need to be cleansed. I feel like I'm dying.
If I'm a deadbeat like my Dad, remember it's in my nature.
I hope the world forgives me. What will be left of it, anyway. It's all pre-destined, right? It has to go down this way? I'm not a monster, but if I turn into one, I'll always remember the few good things about life.
I hope people remember the good things about me.
June 5 - 11.53pm
This will probably be my last entry for a while. Abigail is waiting down stairs with Max and Rex. Lucia's there too, with a whole bunch of those robed loonies.
Maybe I can use them to practice on? The thought's only crossed my mind a million times since all this shit was laid on me. Finally, I think there might be some justice in the world!
If there's work to be done, then I guess I'll have to step up to the plate, right? I figure the first wave will be the horror movie monsters. Freddy. Jason. Pinhead. The dude from Chainsaw Massacre---Leatherface? They'll spread the message, good and proper. Then comes the zombies, not those wack-job sprinting ones but the shambling kind. Then there's the maggots. Maybe zombies with maggots for eyes? Everyone hates maggots.
Midnight approaches. I can feel it.
The crows are gathering.
\*
The convoy rumbled through the city in the dead of night, heedless of the storm raging overhead. Leading the way, two Humvees straddled the road, forcing stray motorists aside. Edgy soldiers in black balaclavas camped atop the vehicles. Their swivel-mounted machine guns silenced all protests as the truck sped past.
Another three Humvees trailed the modified eight-wheel troop transport. Their heavy calibre guns were poised for any signs of hostility.
The constant thunder, the lightning, and the lashing wind chafed everyone's nerves. The soldiers felt it, felt the pressure building. Something restless stirred in the air.
"The transfer at the airport went smoothly, sir," Corporal Ricks mumbled, careful not to antagonise the Major.
The truck's cabin was filled with tension. The epicentre of tense. And Ricks was right in the middle of it, stuck behind the wheel.
"Major?" Ricks interrupted some internal monologue raging within his CO.
"Yes?" The Major continued to stare out the window.
The streets blurred by in a haze of glare and lightning. The reinforced glass of the windshield distorted the flickering light, twisted it into sharp, ugly shapes. Fortunately, the rain held off, saving Ricks from dealing with smudged, ugly shapes.
Beads of sweat formed along his hairline as he studied Major Douglas from the corner of his eye. The Major was fidgeting and distant, intent on something outside that only he could see. This was the first time Ricks had served under Douglas and he knew little about his new CO. Drowning in this tense silence didn't help.
"How many of these runs have you done, sir?" He tried to take the edge off the tension.
"More 'an I care to remember, Corporal," Major Douglas removed his hat and smoothed greasy strands of hair. "It's Rooks, isn't?"
"Ricks, sir."
"Whatever," the Major said, appraising him.
The spell was broken, the tension relieved, even if by just a fraction.
"You're new here," the Major went on. "So I'll cut ya some slack. How many rigs like this you jockeyed, son?"
"Two years in the Engineering Corps driving these rigs, sir. Another six months in East Africa. Humanitarian drops mostly," Ricks answered. "You learn how to handle one of these babies pulling ten tons of grain across a minefield at speed, that's for sure," he added, cracking a grin.
"How many convoys like this?" The Major appeared nonplussed.
"This is my third, sir. Pulled two loads through Detroit before they transferred me here."
"Two, huh? You must think you're some kinda hotshot."
"No, sir." Ricks fixed his eyes on the road. This was his fourth posting in as many years. He knew a power play when he saw one. He'd learned fast to keep his head down and play the runt. There were too many Major Douglases in the world, but at least they were predictable.
The dashboard nav computer lit up again, with a helpful arrow on screen reminding him to take the next right. He had to hand it to technology. A compact LCD display hooked up to a microprocessor with satellite feed made the job of driving through a strange city, at night, in a storm, too damn easy.
The computer was programmed with the Nuke Route. With a payload this important, this deadly, you couldn't rely on following your point man. The consequences could be catastrophic if he was compromised or simply took the wrong turn. No, the Nuke Route was carefully planned and pre-programmed into the truck's little black box. Anonymous men in suits had stalked the streets days and weeks earlier, calculating every potential risk long before the cargo was even considered for moving.
Every city he'd been stationed in had a Nuke Route. The surest, safest way to get nuclear and other hazardous materials through the city without arousing suspicion.
Following the Humvees into the turn, a tingle buried itself into the back of his neck. As he steadily wrenched the oversized wheel to the right, the hairs rose on his arms.
"You know what we've got in back, Ricks?" The Major snatched his attention away from properly finishing the turn. It took years of trained reflex and a psychological leaning toward composure to keep the truck steady enough to escape the CO's ire.
A gust of wind buffeted the truck as more lightning bolts flashed across the sky.
"No, sir, not exactly." He was careful to remove any edge to his voice. The driving lapse flooded his body with adrenalin.
"You can feel it, can't you?"
He noticed the Major was smoothing the hairs on his arm in short, sharp motions, like a man cleansing a violation.
"Yes," he paused, "yes sir."
The tingle fluctuated, but as he concentrated on the intangible pressure at the base of his skull, he swore he heard the faint crackle of electricity. His whole skeleton, from skull to toe, was alive with unwelcome latent energy---surging through his flesh.
"I feel like a friggin' battery." The Major echoed his thoughts while scratching at himself.
"I agree, sir." Unable to free his hands long enough to satisfy the rising itch all over his body, Ricks shifted in his seat. He tried focused instead on the dark roads ahead.
The office blocks lining the road had given way to the low rises of the inner suburbs. Wind swirled through the empty nocturnal streets. The ominous boom of thunder overshadowed the heavy machinery noise of the convoy speeding from street to street.
"Well, Ricks, I'll tell you a little secret." Major Douglas smoothed his hair once more.
Both men now dripped with unwanted sweat despite the coolness outside. The cloying stench of body odour and the Major's failing Brut deodorant filled the cabin. Steam fogged the corners of the windshield.
"We've got the biggest damn payload there is. The grand daddy of 'em all."
Ricks gulped, despite himself. He didn't know what that meant, but he could read between the lines: Don't screw this up. Get us safely home.
"Plugged in, we'll get the entire continent juiced up for the next hundred thousand years," the Major said, trying to sound sagely.
Not knowing what to say, Ricks nodded and fixed his eyes firmly on the road.
A beep from the navcom drew his attention. Another right coming up.
The lead Humvees disappeared around the corner. The road here was tighter than usual, hemmed in by residential blocks on both sides.
A double burst of lightning struck nearby. He flinched.
"The Devil's weather, this is," Douglas said. Convinced of his own wives-tale wisdom, the Major nodded like an idiot as he stared into the dark space beyond the window.
Ahead, a large crowd of people clumped together, cluttering the narrow two lane street.
"Oh, shit," Ricks muttered.
Major Douglas blanched.
The crowd clustered behind huge wooden barricades that blocked the road. Anti-nuclear posters fluttered from the barricades in the stiff midnight breeze.
The forward Humvees sped up, bearing down on the crowd and their blockade.
When they saw the vehicles approach, the shuffling mob burst into life. They waved their hands and chanted slogans. The wind tugged at their placards and snatched their voices away, but Ricks could read their lips as he slowed to a cautious crawl.
The lead Humvees closed the gap at speed. When the armoured vehicles didn't slow down, some of the crowd panicked and melted away. They hid in doorways and behind parked cars. At the last possible second, both Humvees executed hard synchronized turns and screeched to a halt just inches from the banners.
The leaders of the protest group---those pressed against the barricades---recoiled but stood their ground. There were easily two hundred people still on the street, a diversity of cultures and colours. They renewed their chants after the Humvees pulled up.
"No Nukes in our streets!" they cried, a ragged cheer that gained momentum as Ricks edged the truck closer.
The static of a loudspeaker cut through their incessant protest.
"This is a military operation," the driver of the first Humvee announced over the vehicle's speaker. Ricks recognised the voice as belonging to Lieutenant Anders, an intense guy about his age.
"Desist immediately and clear the road," Anders went on, his hoarse voice amplified by the loudspeaker. "Or we will open fire."
The crowd paused, stunned by the direct threat, but only for a moment. One of the leaders, a gaunt, bearded man in an orange robe, threw a fist in the air and renewed the chant.
"No Nukes in our streets!"
"No Nukes in our streets!"
Their placards waved defiantly in the stiff breeze, a sea of messages decrying the evils of nuclear power.
Ricks eased the truck to a stop, about a car's length behind the Humvees. He shifted the rumbling engine into neutral and caught sight of the rear Humvees closing in from behind.
"Holy mother! What in damnation are these people playin' at ..." Major Douglas's tirade exploded into a string of curses.
A hot flush rose through Ricks' cheeks. The wavering energy field intensified again, penetrating seat and steel to jolt down his spine.
"What do we do, sir?" He scanned the blockade for any gaps.
"Stow it, son," Douglas shot back, reaching for his walkie talkie. "Anders, this is Douglas. If this rabble isn't gone in thirty seconds, open fire, goddammit."
"Sir, you can't! They're innocent civilians!"
"If you had any fuckin' idea what's in the back of this truck, you'd have given the order to fire before we stopped!" Major Douglas screamed. "So shut yer damn hole and drive this damn rig when I give the all clear. Is that understood?"
"Yes, sir," Ricks said through clenched teeth.
He stared straight ahead, searching the faces of the gathered crowd, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. He refused to meet the eye of the hateful madman sitting next to him.
The chanting outside had reached fever pitch. All Ricks could make out was a raucous chorus of yelling.
Anders again ordered the crowd to disperse but the constant clap of thunder drowned out both him and the crowd.
Protesters broke the line, trickling around the barricades and towards the vehicles. The trickle soon turned into a flood as waves of people with placards spilled across the road.
A volley of heavy machine gun fire rocked the crowd, deafening even the constant thunder. Lieutenant Anders had opened fire across the swarms of people.
Ricks flinched at the sound. His heart almost exploded, thumping hard as he scanned the faces milling in confusion. Panic was rife. Seconds later, he came to understand the booming machine gun fire was just a warning. The spray had been fired into the air.
People screamed in the confusion, stumbling over each other and trampling the fallen as they fought to clear the street.
Amid the confusion, the gunfire, the wind and weather, Ricks noticed too late that an old bus had blocked the road behind.
"Sir, it's a trap!"
Rapt in the chaos infecting the crowd, it took long seconds for Major Douglas to realise what he was saying. An instant later, one of the forward Humvees exploded in a fireball. The whole world shook as thunder echoed the massive explosion.
A wide circle of people who had been milling around the Humvee were thrown to the ground, victims of the blast. Some groaned and rolled around. Many didn't move.
"Oh, shit!" Ricks fumbled as he shifted the gear stick back into first.
More gunfire, lighter calibre this time, erupted from nearby buildings. The staccato sounds punctured the wind and the screams of fleeing protesters.
The Humvee gunners returned fire, blasting away at the surrounding apartment blocks. Thunder boomed in chorus but failed to drown out the harsh sounds of mechanised war.
Amid the crowd, men in orange robes lingered. Ricks watched with horror as the wind snatched at their robes and revealed glimpses of weapons concealed beneath.
"Sir, sir!" he tugged at the CO. "The orange robes. Target them."
The Major was vacant, lost to some soul-crushing struggle weighing on him. The stress was obvious on his already-lined face.
Ricks snatched the walkie talkie from the Major and bellowed orders into the device. "Take out the orange robes. I repeat. Take out the orange robes."
The fierce sounds of Humvee machine gun fire had diminished. Searching his mirrors, he saw two of the rear Humvee gunners were dangling from their roofs like rag dolls. The same fate befell Lieutenant Anders' gunner as a spray of red mist burst from his back.
The remainder of the protesters had fled, leaving only the dead and wounded bleeding on the blacktop.
The robed men closed in on the Humvees, pulled out rifles, and blasted away at the vehicles.
Someone in Anders' Humvee kicked the vehicle forward and crashed through the barricades. Anti-nuclear banners were sheared off in the demolition, caught by the wind, and soared away like spectres in the night.
A rain of bullets shattered the Humvee's already damaged windshield, sending the vehicle crashing into a parked station wagon. The car buckled under the weight, collapsing as the Humvee came to rest on its hood.
Escape was impossible now. There were too many wounded bodies strewn across the road for Ricks to move the truck.
"Get out and defend the cargo," Ricks screeched at the Major, tugging at his arm.
Ricks grabbed his M16 rifle stowed by the door, kicked the door open, and jumped free of the cabin. Seconds later, Major Douglas had regained his senses, worked his pistol free, and jumped down beside him.
The noise was oppressive outside the cabin. Gale force winds made walking a struggle but both men managed as they headed for the truck's rear.
The Humvees were silenced---either hollow, fiery wrecks or riddled with bullet holes.
Two orange-robed men ran towards them, their rifles funnelling fire as they approached. Crouched by the truck, Douglas and Ricks returned fire. The wind made accuracy difficult, but Ricks and the Major were the truer aims, taking down the robed attackers in short bursts.
Huddled by the truck's rear door, bullets sprayed all around them. At least a dozen orange-robed men fired at will from all directions.
Pinned down by the gunfire, Ricks failed to see the robed man sneak up and release the door latch from the far side of the truck.
At first, wavering in the wind, the steel door crashed to the ground with a thud like localised thunder.
"No!" Douglas charged forward, firing his pistol with abandon.
He took out two orange robes but was caught in a withering rain of return fire. Major Douglas spasmed and collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut. His killers stepped from cover and pressed their advantage against Ricks, the only soldier still left on the battlefield.
Desperate to hold the truck from the attackers, Ricks was too preoccupied to chance a look inside.
More gunfire erupted from somewhere behind the encircling line of robed men. Ricks suppressed a cheer. One of his escorts had re-entered the battle.
Chaos ensued.
Continuous forks of lightning raked the clouds and threw off peels of thunder. Sporadic gunfire filled the street, resounding from a dozen different directions.
Amid the confusion, one face loomed. Charging at Ricks, the gaunt, bearded leader of the orange robes brandished a sub-machine gun. Ricks traded bullets with the terrorist, with the robed leader pressing forward until a lucky shot tore through Ricks' shoulder. The force of the blow threw him to the ground.
Stunned and sprawled on his back, pain blooming from his shoulder in waves and bile stinging the back of his throat, Ricks could only look on as the orange-robed man approached the truck. The terrorist ignored him, intent only on what lay inside the door.
Shivering from shock and the relentless wind, Ricks looked past the terrorist at the scene inside the truck.
Four bald men dressed in black robes and holding small, cryptic objects in their hands sat on the bench seats. Their mouths moved in wordless prayers, some citation he could only imagine. Without so much as a glance at what was unfolding outside, they guarded a shackled fifth man, who was seated in the centre of the truck's cargo bay.
Their prisoner was dressed in a simple sackcloth robe. A hood was draped over his head. Long strands of grey hair trailed below the hood.
The air was abuzz with electricity.
The black robes continued to stare at the prisoner and mutter, although it was obvious they were itching to turn away, to react to the looming threat standing six feet away.
Something appeared in the orange-robed leader's hand. Something small, round, and dark. The man tossed the object inside. It clattered at the feet of the black-robed men. Noticing the grenade, only one of the men tore his eyes away, recognising his impending doom with a shocked expression. The others remained stoic, muttering their little prayers with grim determination.
The terrorist retreated a few steps and turned away, leaving Ricks lying on the road in pain, holding his breath at what was to come.
A brilliant white flash and a loud bang erupted from the grenade, followed by a terrible sizzling noise that caused Ricks to wince. It sounded like lightning gone wrong.
Blinking the blindness away, Ricks lay there stunned, unable to believe his eyes.
A huge, powerful man stood at the brink of the cargo bay. He stretched his arms wide as though testing long disused muscles. His simple sackcloth was a contradiction to the power that radiated from him in waves.
His wild mane of grey hair was matched by an impressive salt and pepper beard. One of his eyes was missing. In its place was an ugly gouged hole that only added to his air of authority. The man was the embodiment of grim.
Behind him, still seated in their places, the four black-robed men were charred, smouldering corpses. Their limbs had been randomly rearranged. Blackened arms were macabrely repositioned as legs and vice versa. The charcoal and flesh smell caused Ricks to gag.
The fighting had died again. The only sound to be heard was the storm and the whistling wind. The orange-robed men had lowered their weapons and formed a reverential half-circle around the truck and the man astride it---the man they'd just freed.
Ricks crawled away, struggling against pain with every movement. Blood trickled between his fingers as he fought to staunch his shoulder wound. He propped himself against the bullet-scarred shell of the nearest Humvee. Guilt knotted his gut.
The grey-haired man waved his arms in a flourish and addressed the gathered terrorists in orange robes. "I am Odin, the Skyfather, King of the Gods, Lord of Asgard. Too long have I been forced into servitude."
Bolts of lightning crackled and streamed from his body as he rose into the air.
"Loki and the men of Midgard will pay for their treachery, now and forever! Ragnarok shall be your reward." Odin rose ever higher into the air. The god vanished into clouds as dark as midnight. His passage was marked by a blazing circle of lightning that danced across the sky before it, too, faded from view.
The heavens snapped; rain saturated Ricks and the men gathered around the truck.
"Aw, shit." The terrorist leader's gaze was fixed skyward. "I thought they had Jehovah in there."
\*
"And the LORD said, I will destroy Man whom I have created from the face of the earth; both Man, and beast, and the creeping thing, and the fowls of the air; for it repenteth me that I hath made them." --- Genesis 6:7
"I can hear the ocean, Mummy."
A roar shuddered across the city like waves pitched onto the shore at the height of summer.
"Are we going to the beach?" Jessica asked, excited by the abrupt change of routine. She shifted in her seat and fidgeted with the white veil covering her head.
"No, honey," Libby's voice was taut. "We're just going for a drive."
Libby scanned for signs of traffic as she gunned the car along the freeway, pushing it beyond the limits of safety. Barely a soul could be seen in either direction. An aura of abandonment hung in the air.
The people were ignorant as they toiled at work.
A stale, dusty breeze forced its way through the dashboard vents. The tiniest flecks of grey settled on Libby's sleeve as she jammed the vents closed. The cabin became a mausoleum, entombing them with stagnant air.
"Mummy, I wanna take this off." Jessica fiddled with the veil.
"No, sweetie. Leave it on for now. I'll tell you when you can take it off." Libby strained to keep the sharpness from her tone.
She threw the car into a loping turn as she banked up the off-ramp. Skidding onto the adjunct highway, she blew clear of the slip-lane and weaved through the narrow lanes. The traffic was minimal.
The roar grew louder as each second passed.
"We are going to the beach!" Jessica wriggled against her seatbelt. "I wanna see the ocean."
"No, Jess," Libby snapped, "leave the cloth on."
As she glanced back at Jess, the car wavered for an instant and threatened to fishtail out of control.
Libby tugged the steering wheel back to centre and regained control. A more cautious glance confirmed Jess was still wearing the veil, much to her relief. At least she'd be spared the worst. Hopefully no one would notice her face when push came to shove.
A tense silence engulfed them as Libby braved the narrow highway at speed. The road snaked upward, climbing steadily into the city's suburban foothills.
Knots of confused people gathered by parked cars, many more clumped into crowds by the side of the road. All eyes were fixed on the cityscape and the coast beyond.
Chancing a look in the mirror, Libby's stomach clenched tight. Her view, like the crowd's, was uninterrupted.
Dozens of cars from the nearby suburbs scrambled onto the serpentine double lane, ignoring the dazed crowds in their desperation. More and more vehicles joined Libby's flight from the city, forming slow-moving obstacles ahead. She weaved through the erratic traffic as best she could.
"Where are we going?" Jess's voice was tiny and distant, smothered by the roar as it gathered strength
"We're going to see your dad."
"Daddy Sean?"
"No honey. Your real dad." Her voice cracked. "Not Sean. He's at work."
Libby's eyes drifted to the revolver on the passenger seat. An expedient death within easy reach. She searched the rear-view mirror; her eyes drifted between her veiled daughter and the horizon behind.
The rumble reverberated through her skull and rattled the windows.
Her thoughts lingered on Sean, his gentle touch, his reassuring embrace. With tearful eyes, she ran the car through a flashing orange traffic light, oblivious to the chorus of car horns.
A glimmer of light beckoned from the hill's summit.
Her chest tightened at the sight.
She floored the accelerator, throwing the car around plodding vehicles, mounting the curb in her flight.
The sky ahead was cloudless. The corona of white light that capped the hill bled into the azure horizon. The blue sky behind her had darkened to black.
"Who's my real daddy?" Jess asked, ignorant of the people swarming the streets and their panic-stricken faces.
Libby closed her eyes for a heartbeat, struggling against the weight of Jess' question. The memories lurked behind her eyes. The painful light. Her skin afire under his touch. The cycle of mistreatment, and finally, the abandonment. In so many ways, Jess' true father was a pale shadow compared to the love and support provided by Sean.
The growing roar ate the sounds of crunched metal and screeching rubber as vehicles splayed across the road and crashed into one another.
"Hold on, Jess."
Every fibre of Libby's being was invested into negotiating the road ahead.
Within sight of the huge sphere of brilliant light, a jumble of cars choked the road to a standstill. Libby screeched to an ungainly halt, nudging into the rear of a stranded sedan. People crawled and clambered across the vehicles, a swarm of ants desperately fleeing a doomed colony.
The wind carried screams from afar. Agonized screams.
Libby kicked the door open and dived from the car. The pistol tucked into the back of her jeans was clearly visible. She raced around to Jess, wrenched the door wide and pulled her from the vehicle.
"Don't look, honey." She thrust a hand over Jessica's veiled face.
Libby looked up and paused, surveying the cityscape one last time.
The darkness swallowing the sea had struck the coast.
The horizon was unravelling as far as the eye could see. The spires of the city shook apart as the darkness surged forth on an endless front.
The mounting rumble shook the earth, reverberating through her until it threatened to shake her apart before the darkness arrived.
A black void now existed where once the ocean swelled. The sky too had soured to black, sucked into the insatiable void. Strands of the city---buildings, trees, streets, and people---broke apart, trailing long lines of chaos into the void as an immeasurable cosmic force ripped the world asunder. As the line of oblivion advanced, more of the physical world unravelled like innumerable threads pulled taut.
Libby's heart tore in sympathy as she watched the city sunder beneath the darkness. "Sean," she whispered.
Somewhere in that swirl of carnage, her husband was lost. The attempted phone call, an anguished effort to warn him, was dashed by a busy signal and an insane compulsion to get Jess away. She rued the compulsion and her impatience. Sean was forever beyond her help and her love.
The darkness pressed on in a relentless tide. Cries of terror merged with the roar and keening screams as flesh and bone were ripped apart. Like the earth around them, man and woman alike were shredded by the void as it engulfed all.
Libby snatched Jess' hand and yanked her up the hill. Scrambling over the jumble of vehicles congesting the road, they struggled toward the light---and hope.
Dozens of others, from every class and culture, merged together in their escape. The elderly, the young, and the infirm were pushed aside, left to fend for themselves as the crowd surged forward.
Libby and Jess were suffocated by the throng as they battled through the maze of car wrecks and elbows.
"You've gotta run, Jess! Run hard!"
"I can't, Mummy. I can't see."
Their escape slowed to a crawl. Hundreds of people clogged the street, clambered over cars, and poured from nearby houses. The rank odour of fear and sweat filled their noses.
With their escape slipping away, Libby pulled the gun free and fired into the air.
Two loud booms, piercing enough to penetrate the encroaching rumble, rocked the crowd. On instinct, most paused or ducked for cover. Libby bolted forward, dragging Jess with her to the forefront of the mob.
She snatched a fevered glance behind. The line of darkness had swallowed most of the city and was unravelling the first suburbs of the foothills.
Few people, if any, behind her would beat the advancing void.
The immense curtain of light scythed across streets and houses. It loomed just a short sprint ahead.
Knots of people ran, screamed, and clumped together, some running from the darkness, some running from the light. Many more stood agape, staring vacant-eyed as the world crumbled around them. Screams, shouts, and the overwhelming roar of oblivion echoed in Libby's ears.
A few steps ahead, a line elderly men and women stumbled forward---delaying their escape into the light.
The shrieks from behind intensified. The void swallowed the hill's base, wrenching the crowds into jigsaws of mist and pulp.
No time left. Libby checked Jess. Her veil was slipping off.
Libby levelled the gun and blasted away. An old couple, hand in hand, collapsed to the ground in front of her. Others hesitated at the fallen, but continued their frantic escape regardless.
Libby dragged Jess over the gunned-down bodies. They scrambled clear and dived through the radiant wall.
The terrible rumble peaked into an all-consuming shriek, only to vanish in an instant.
Silence.
The white light plunged Libby into blindness. The sting in her eyes contrasted with the pleasant warmth on her skin.
Tall, intensely bright figures loomed in her hampered vision---their cores brighter than the brilliant white background. Libby struggled to define them as they approached.
As her eyes adjusted to the intensity of the light, she noticed others---scores of wandering, lost people, perhaps even a few hundred.
The last remnant of the city.
The last remnant of humanity.
She fumbled for Jess. Her veil had slipped free. Luminous spheres of light shone from her daughter's face in place of her once enchanting green eyes. In this sanctuary of light, her glowing eyes seemed to belong.
"It doesn't matter what you see now or who sees you. The worst is over." Libby ran trembling fingers through her daughter's hair. Gunshots and death played through her mind.
Jess looked up at her but said nothing.
An impossibly tall figure appeared in front of them. Perhaps humanoid, parts of it merged with the light, others shimmered into random shapes. Its core was brighter than all else in this menagerie of light. Meeting its gaze stung Libby's eyes.
"Sammael," Libby said.
Closing her eyes, the memory fragments played through her mind. The visitations, the burning inside her, the fleeting euphoria and the lingering sense of exploitation.
Sammael declared in ultra-sonic tones that were more understood than heard, "You have brought my daughter."
Libby cradled Jess, unsure what to say or do. The desperate compulsion which had summoned her here burned away under the scrutiny of Sammael's glare.
Jess stared up at her father with intense nova eyes, evenly meeting his alien gaze. Their eyes locked for long seconds, burning brighter for the briefest of moments.
Dozens of other children stood apart from the frightened crowd. All possessed the fey lines and glowing eyes of their fathers.
"Come," Sammael motioned.
A shimmering, multi-hued portal appeared, framed by the formless light.
Stunned, Libby held Jess tight. Angels ushered children through the rainbow gate.
Jess disentangled herself from her mother's arms and drifted towards the glowing aura of her father.
"Jess, come here, baby," Libby said.
Her daughter looked over her shoulder. Jess wavered, Sammael crept closer.
"Jess." Libby extended her arms.
Sammael's eyes flared, matched by Jess' a moment later.
Jess turned from her mother a second time and wandered toward the portal.
Tears trickled down Libby's face, warm and unpleasant in the light. Her despair focussed into a ball of rage as Jess, the final shred of meaning in her life, began to slip away.
Aware of the weight in her trembling hand, Libby instinctively raised the gun.
"No!" she screamed, and fired at Sammael's luminous form.
Jess stopped. All eyes turned to face Libby. Everything stilled as she stood mute, not daring to move or breathe.
Sammael's aura blazed an intense white-red, imprinting flare stains on her eyes. Pain and heat seared her fingers, forcing her to drop the gun. It fell to the ground, the sound echoless and distant.
Libby's scream caught in her throat, escaping as a choked sob. Her legs, hollow, numb, failed her at the last. She collapsed to her knees.
Other people hovered around her. Grief-stricken mothers, having lost everything, abandoned and left to wander. Exiled by the darkness, forsaken by the light.
Jess and the other half-angels were guided through the portal by angelic hands.
"A second time the tyrant, Yahweh, has sought to destroy our offspring, the Nephilim," intoned Sammael. "This unmaking of creation has proven futile."
The angel's words echoed across the pocket of light and into the empty void beyond. "Our children shall take up arms against the tyrant-lord and walk the fields of Heaven once more."
\*
About the author:
Shane Jiraiya Cummings lives in Perth, Western Australia. He has been acknowledged as "one of Australia's leading voices in dark fantasy", had more than sixty short stories published in Australia, USA, and Europe, and his work has been translated in Spanish, French, and Polish. Shane has won two Ditmar Awards, and he has been nominated for more than twenty other major awards including Spain's Premios Ignotus.
Shane is an Active Member of the Horror Writers Association and former Vice President of the Australian Horror Writers Association. When he is not writing, Shane is an editor and journalist by day and sword fighting instructor by night.
In his youth, Shane was trained in the deadly arts of the ninja, and the name Jiraiya (lit. "Young Thunder", after the legendary ninja Jiraiya) was bestowed upon him by his sensei.
More information on Shane (including his free fiction) can be found online at http://www.jiraiya.com.au.
Interact with Shane on Facebook (http://www.facebook.com/pages/Shane-Jiraiya-Cummings/401910315831) or rate and review his books on Goodreads (http://www.goodreads.com/jiraiyac).
You can find Shane's other e-books at all good online retailers:
Novellas:
Phoenix and the Darkness of Wolves (Damnation Books). ISBN: 9781615720552
Requiem for the Burning God. ISBN: 9780987076809
The Smoke Dragon. ISBN: 9780987076823
Collections:
Apocrypha Sequence: Deviance. ISBN: 9780987076830
Apocrypha Sequence: Divinity. ISBN: 9780987076847
Apocrypha Sequence: Inferno. ISBN: 9780987076854
Apocrypha Sequence: Insanity. ISBN: 9780987076861
Shards. ISBN: 9780987076816
Print version, illustrated by Andrew J. McKiernan (Brimstone Press). ISBN: 9780980567724
Available from Brimstone Press: http://www.brimstonepress.com.au
Chapbooks:
Shards: Damned and Burning, illustrated by Andrew J. McKiernan (Brimstone Press). Free download from Brimstone Press: http://www.brimstonepress.com.au

