The Age of Apollyon (The Age of Apollyon Trilogy Book 1)

THE AGE OF APOLLYON

by Mark Carver

Books by Mark Carver:

THE AGE OF APOLLYON

BLACK SUN

SCORN

INDELIBLE

CYN

BEAST (with Michael Anatra) – coming Fall 2015

THE JERUSALEM CHRONICLES (short story series)

COLONY ZERO (multi-author short story series)

THE AGE

OF

APOLLYON

Copyright 2013 Mark Carver. All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. All names, places, locations, and corporate entities are either the product of the writer’s imagination or are used in a satirical and/or non-literal manner. Any resemblance to any persons, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. 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 return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

In memory of my father

PART I.

Praise you, and bless you the Lord and give thanks to God,

and serve God with great humility.

—St. Francis of Assisi, Canticle of the Sun

——————————

Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law.

—Aleister Crowley, The Book of the Law

CHAPTER 1

Florence, Italy

The members of the congregation trembled like withered leaves shaken by the wind.

Father Gregori spread his crimson-robed arms wide, his hands appearing to slice through the quivering audience like blades. His eyes flashed and a supernatural fury filled his soul.

I look around this sanctuary...and I see liars! Hypocrites! This temple is despoiled by imposters and pretenders! Have you forgotten what is demanded of you? Do you so easily forget the majesty, the grandeur of our Great Lord when he manifested himself upon our world? Do you forget who gives you life?

A shudder passed through his body and he gasped a wheezing breath, as if inhaling a spirit to fuel his liturgical tempest. His voice exploded through the Gothic nave as statues and gargoyles gazed down upon the cowering flock.

You say you believe, yet you continue to doubt! How easily are his children led astray! The enemy would have you put your trust in Him, but where is He? Where are the demonstrations of His power? Where are the signs and wonders that were promised?

Father Gregori’s eyes darted across the sanctuary in accusation, challenging anyone brave enough to meet his gaze for even a moment. He slammed his hand upon the pulpit as he poured out his torrent of condemnation.

Lies! All lies! They call our lord a deceiver, yet it is they who deceive! Do not let their poison corrupt your ears! Do not let the acid dripping from their sanctimonious tongues burn and scorch your soul. Remember whom we serve! He is the supreme lord of this world, the Almighty! Those who swear their life to him shall reap the rewards...those who do not shall suffer torment and anguish!

The priest’s portly frame trembled with valiant restraint, and he raised his clenched fists in the air.

"Fall down on your knees!"

With a whimper, the members of the congregation jumped from their seats and knelt down upon the cold sanctuary floor, their penitent voices swirling and twirling together into a chorus of sorrow and shame.

Father Gregori’s eyes rolled white and he opened his hands as he began the concluding rite to mark the end of the service. As his ghostly voice soared through the nave, a somber procession of black-robed monks appeared from the side aisles in dual streams that converged at the center aisle. Their deep, haunting chants intertwined with the priest’s rapid-fire incantations as the congregation wept and repented.

The hooded monks revealed neither their hands nor their faces. As the dark parade approached the altar, the stream split again, and the monks began to assemble themselves in the choir stalls behind the priest.

With a deep exhaled breath, Father Gregori closed his eyes and clasped his hands in front of his chest.

"In nomine Satanas..."

The last monk in the procession lifted his hooded visage just enough to reveal a strong unshaven chin and clenched jaw.

"...Dominus Terra..."

The monk’s arms, twisted with muscles and emblazoned with tattoos, emerged from beneath his black robes as he walked with slow, measured steps towards the altar. In his hands, he clutched two black automatic pistols.

"...Dominus Inferi..."

The assassin raised his weapons.

The priest spread his hands before the congregation.

"Amen."

The silenced barrels spoke forth tongues of fire.

Father Gregori’s eyes snapped open and his outstretched hands exploded with crimson blossoms. The congregation shrieked and cowered behind the pews.

The assassin brought his pistols close together and stitched two parallel lines down the priest’s chest. The inverted golden cross that dangled from his neck shattered like fireworks and his massive, lifeless body was propelled backwards into the altar, sending ancient texts, candles, and unholy icons crashing to the ground.

The black-garbed monks scattered like startled crows in the choir stalls, some sprawling amidst fountains of red as the assassin’s bullets cut them down. The screams of despair from the terrified congregation filled the sanctuary like a requiem, while the grotesque carvings of demons and monsters grinned down upon them in fiendish delight.

With a whirl of his black robe, the monk spun about to face the cowering faithful, who were all but invisible behind the pews. He knelt on one knee and aimed his weapons toward the nave walls, unleashing a succession of rapid bursts that exploded two massive suspended lamps. As sparks and glass showered the sanctuary, the monk sprinted towards the rear of the nave, his hood falling back to reveal a shock of disheveled shoulder-length blond hair that gleamed like gold.

He burst through the giant sanctuary doors and the sounds of violence disappeared with him into the dark street, leaving behind a chorus of shock and terror.

****

Limoges, France

Double.

The bartender nodded, and Patric Bourdon sought out an empty barstool. His silver pentagram necklace clinked against the marble bar top as he leaned forward and took a seat on the cracked leather stool. The double shot slid down the bar and he quickly downed half of it.

The sharp liquor burned his throat and he disguised his instinctive wince of pain by opening his mouth wide in a silent yawn, like a cat awakening from its nap. He glanced around the dismal bar, chastising himself for choosing such a dreary place with hardly any women in it, and certainly no attractive ones.

Do you know what that thing means?

Patric turned in the direction of the half-growled, half-wheezed question. A sunken, withered face with wiry white hair creaked towards him. Two listless grey eyes glared at his pentagram necklace and Patric swallowed an uneasy lump of hesitation.

Of course, he answered as he looked away with annoyance. Doesn’t everyone?

The rotten visage leaned closer, tendrils of liquor slithering through gaping teeth. No, you don’t. Not like I do.

Patric curled his lips in contempt. What are you talking about?

The old man’s creviced face drew nearer still. His words were like a moan.

I was there.

Patric looked confused for a moment, then he gasped and his eyes widened. You mean at—?

Yesss! the old man hissed suddenly. He tottered dangerously backwards, then leaned close and spoke with a snarl.

I watched the Dragon appear...I heard the voice proclaiming the Age of Apollyon the Destroyer. I watched the Cathedral of Our Lady fall to the ground, and I watched the legions of hell spring forth from the abyss and enslave the people in the square. I tell you, boy, not a night goes past that I don’t awaken from my sleep in a cold sweat.

The old man’s skeletal hands were quivering, and his few remaining teeth grated and creaked.

I watched the damned turn on each other, clawing and gnashing and slashing...then feeding.... I barely escaped the mob, and I fled the city with my mother, God rest her soul. I never went back...no one should have ever gone back....

Patric didn’t know what to say. He wanted to tear his eyes away from the old man’s horrifying countenance, but he couldn’t. His hands instinctively clasped the symbol dangling from his neck. Then his brow furrowed.

So what did the Dragon—

The old man seized his collar with startling strength. Patric gasped and looked around the room for help, but no one was looking in his direction. Against his will, he felt his gaze being pulled towards the old man’s eyes, and he was instantly seized by paralyzing dread.

The old man’s face twisted with menace and scorn. He brought his reeking lips close to Patric’s ear and whispered. Then he flung him away and turned back to the bar to down his shot of vodka. The old man slammed the empty glass on the marble bartop. The glass shattered loudly. The surrounding patrons turned with a start, just in time to see the old man scowl out the door. After he had disappeared, everyone glanced at Patric for a moment before resuming their conversations.

Patric slumped against the bar, feebly motioning for the bartender to fill his glass, even though it wasn’t empty. The old man’s hoarse whisper echoed in his mind like a deafening bell.

Trouver votre frère.

Find your brother.

****

Brussels, Belgium

The dark-haired man craned his neck to get a better view through the sea of onlookers. Scattered sobs and curses against God arose from the crowd, and this caused his blood to boil.

Heathens.

He gazed up at the Temple of Belial, a magnificent building that had once been a cathedral dedicated to St. Michael and St. Gudula. Now it was a tower of blasphemy, its altar despoiled with satanic icons and its once-sacred walls ringing with infernal chanting every evening.

But there was no chanting tonight.

The man smiled to himself. It was an incredible feeling to be used as a weapon in the hands of God. He and his brethren had bathed the continent in heathen blood tonight. Paris, Cologne, Prague, Florence. And here in Brussels. He had literally felt God’s wrath pouring out of him, cleansing the violated cathedral. He cocked his head as memories of that moment rushed over him like warm sunshine.

Had he actually been singing while it was happening?

The crowd gasped and the cries of sorrow intensified as the coroners began wheeling several stretchers out of the temple. Upon each was a human-shaped mass draped under a bloodstained white sheet. The corpses were steered towards waiting ambulances, and the sobbing onlookers reached out pleading hands.

Save your tears, the man thought to himself as he turned his back on the temple and wriggled his way through the crowd. Once he was free from the crush of people, he exhaled gratefully. As he stepped off the curb into the street, he glanced down and caught his reflection in a black pool beneath the street light.

He recognized himself, of course, but there was something different. Something new in his eyes. A fire that hadn’t been there before.

The man grinned.

He liked it.

****

Someone had once told Patric that liquor oiled the gears of time.

This was certainly true, because the hours had flown by like seconds. After a seemingly endless parade of shots, he finally lurched out of the bar, catching the brass door handle just in time to keep himself from sprawling in the street. A light mist muffled the air and a thin film of moisture clung to everything. Patric rubbed his eyes, which ached slightly for some reason. He took a few cautious steps forward, and when he was confident in his ability to walk, he strolled out into the night.

He was a man on a mission.

The glaring lights of the bar sign behind him dissolved away as he skulked into the increasingly narrow alleyways. Shoulders hunched and collar pulled up around his lean face, he blended in easily with the spectral shapes that glided silently past. A low din filtered through the mist, voices of all ages and sexes. Like a garden of nocturnal flowers, the quaint river city of Limoges blossomed once darkness fell, and this was how he liked it. He felt alive in these foreboding hours, surrounded by what his mother would have called sleaze and filth.

Patric didn’t have many defining memories of his life before the Manifestation. He had been about fourteen years old at the time, and his family had maintained a casual faith that only revealed itself on religious holidays. Of course, the majority of the world was also indifferent back then— everyone was just grinding out the day-to-day. Giving thanks for one’s daily bread seemed like a mockery of one’s hard work to obtain it, and for Patric, supernatural matters didn’t really concern him or his family.

The only real religious presence in his life was his half-brother, eleven years his senior. When Patric was still young, his half-brother had left home and journeyed to a monastery in northwestern Italy, near the city of Turin. He only returned once for a visit, about one year before the Manifestation. Yet despite his prolonged absences, Patric’s mother spoke proudly of her devout eldest son, often lamenting that his father had not lived to see his son grow up into a man of God. This adoration for someone so far away inspired stirrings of resentment and jealousy in Patric’s heart.

Then came the Manifestation.

Everything changed.

Patric had been awestruck as he watched the news reports and amateur videos countless times. Despite a small but vocal group of naysayers who claimed it was a hoax, he had immediately felt a clutching sense of dread and conviction. He wished he could have been there to see the Great Dragon sever the sky and bellow thunderous words of blasphemy and terror across the flimsy Parisian rooftops. He remembered being terrified and excited as the Cathedral of Notre-Dame trembled, then collapsed, melting like an ice sculpture. Even in the chaos and horror of the Possession that followed, he knew that he had witnessed a power that demanded his allegiance.

Along with tens of millions of frightened, confused, and desperate converts, Patric joined the Church of Satan, which sprang up from scorn and obscurity to become the guiding beacon in a world that had just been thrown into a tailspin. The other side resisted and pleaded for the world to turn back to God, and Patric’s suddenly devout parents implored him to join them in seeking solace in the Savior. They had even discussed heading east to find his half-brother. Yet like so many rebellious youths who were impatient with waiting for a purpose, he knew that his life was heading towards the darkness rather than the light.

And what light? What counterattack did Jehovah mobilize? One of His greatest portals into man’s heart had crumbled like ash before the might of Apollyon the Destroyer, whom He had supposedly created. Yet God remained silent, and His archenemy remained unchallenged. How can the master tolerate the slave’s disrespect, unless that slave has conquered his master? This was a message that was easy for Patric to understand. After a few years of struggling against his family, he turned his back on them and their impotent faith and joined the hordes of unshackled youths migrating from their rural hometowns to large urban areas where the presence of darkness was strongest.

Patric was free.

Free to indulge in every manner of carnality that he had previously felt guilty about. Free to silence his already withered conscience, and to kneel before the altar of hedonism without condemnation. There was no penance to be paid, no Hail Marys to be uttered, no false humility and repentance. Just pure, carnal pleasure. Once the terror and mortification of the Manifestation began to fade, people started to pay attention to the words of the Proclamation.

"I am the Lord of this world. I bring liberation for those who would seize control of their own destinies. Thou shalt swear allegiance to no master save thine own desires."

Patric could never understand why the other side had always been so insistent on moderation and self-control and abstinence. What use were these virtues in a tooth-and-claw world? Now, things were finally on the right track. No more masks, no more hypocrisy.

And right now, as he drunkenly staggered through the streets, he knew what he wanted, and he was going to get it. He ignored the brazen calls from vendors inviting passers-by to examine their wares: drugs of every kind, books and DVDs that would have been condemned as obscene in the previous age, diabolical emblems, symbols, and relics for incantations and summonings. Patric had enough of such things at his dismal flat, most of them purchased to appease Natasha.

He hastily pushed his fiancée out of his mind as he turned a corner and entered a bleak alley illuminated with red light. Beneath the hellish glare, crude pentagram graffiti was splashed across the walls. The bloody light also bathed the lithe, supple bodies milling about, effortlessly seducing the willing victims continually streaming into their clutches. Patric glanced about carelessly, browsing the devilishly delicious vixens like an aimless window shopper.

He wasn’t in the mood for street meat. The alcohol boiled in his veins, fueling his passions for something more exotic.

He ascended a sturdy staircase that contrasted sharply with the wilting facade of the building it clung to, and high above a shadowy door blazed a naked neon girl. He stepped inside and was transported to a misty world glowing with an intriguing crimson hue. A tall African goddess wrapped in a translucent robe turned as he parted the beaded curtains.

Ah, Monsieur Bourdon, welcome back.

"Merci...." Patric trailed off as he struggled to recall the madam’s name. He settled for ...ma belle.

The madam smirked slyly, then took his hand and gently guided him into the selection foyer. He scanned the room, squinting to study the delicacies from all over the world arrayed on velvet couches. He found his attention arrested by one girl in particular, and he leaned forward, unaware of the madam’s grip on his arm to steady his balance.

She was Asian, slender and petite yet full-chested. Her graceful figure was sheathed in a black silk dress embroidered with intricate gold patterns, and shimmering black hair framed her soft face. She immediately sensed Patric’s fixation on her, and she leaned forward and glanced up at him with a soft, demure expression.

Patric felt a shudder surge through his bones, and he was instantly entranced by the girl’s eyes that sparkled with fiendish fire and the smile that beamed with playful innocence.

A hungry grin crept across his lips. He looked pleadingly at the madam, who smirked again and motioned for the girl to get up. The girl slithered over to him, her perfume wafting from her skin like mist. She placed her small, delicate hand on Patric’s arm and led him down a dark corridor, past several doors that muffled moans and cries coming from within. Her eyes were locked onto his, wordlessly promising untold pleasure and passion.

She opened a black door and motioned for Patric to step inside.

****

Milan, Italy

Father DeMarco stifled a curse as he swerved to avoid a yawning pothole that laughed up at him from the street. The irritating fog that had outlasted its welcome was now joined by a light drizzle, double dealers of mischief and inconvenience. It didn’t help that the car tires were as bald as his own head.

The battered Lancia Y10 screeched into the narrow parking space with a lurch and a wheeze. Hunching his shoulders in futile defiance of the rain, the priest shuffled from his humble automobile into the shadow of the Duomo di Milano, one of the grandest monuments of holy architecture on earth.

His heart felt a twinge of sorrow as he approached the massive west doors that were flanked by armed guards clutching automatic weapons. Their grim faces were lost in the shadows and they seemed as stone-cold as the mournful statues that surrounded them. The priest fumbled in his cracked leather satchel for his clergy pass, which was acknowledged by one of the guards with the slightest nod of his head.

He pushed open the doors and slipped into the shadows of the sanctuary. A silent prayer fluttered from his soul.

"How long will it be like this?"

In the early days after the Manifestation, the world had become literally hell-bent on eradicating the Christian church, Islam, Judaism, Buddhism, Hinduism — all of it. The Prince of Darkness had made his presence known upon the earth, and those who were devout followers or simply exasperated with organized religion were seized with a fanatical furor that resulted in millions of Delusionals, as they were called, being slaughtered in what was essentially religious genocide. Thousands of churches, synagogues, mosques, temples, and cathedrals were ransacked, bombed, or burned.

The final blow came when the Church of Satan, previously an underground cult with hardly any influence or power, rose up in a massive tempest of violence and stormed the Vatican City. St. Peter’s Basilica was ravaged, the Pope publicly slaughtered, and in a final act of blasphemy, the Church of Satan placed its own Vocem Satanam — the Voice of Satan — upon the holy throne. It was indeed a black day for the world, and even though the occupation of St. Peter’s was merely symbolical, the damage was done.

Satan reigned supreme in the hearts of man.

Father DeMarco couldn’t help feeling jealous of the Americans and Australians. Since the New World countries were separated by leagues of ocean from the abominations transpiring in Europe, these places became havens for those fleeing the darkness. This zeal was particularly strong in the United States and Canada, whose history as Christian nations became a rallying cry to refugees seeking escape from the wrath that was raining down upon Europe and Asia. He could only dream of one day seeing this sanctuary filled again with hopeful believers who didn’t have to cower in fear behind gun-wielding guards.

Milan Cathedral, in the wake of St. Peter’s demise, became one of the most important beacons of Christendom in Europe. Its terrifying facade and staggering proportions made it an instantly recognizable symbol of God’s might and majesty. Yet the organ was silent, the choir stalls were empty, and with the distant whisper of rain outside, the once-glorious cathedral seemed frail and thin.

Only a few dismal chandeliers provided light for the priest as he pattered down the yawning nave, flanked by oak-like columns and weary statues who seemed as confused and dejected as he did. Their tragic countenances seemed to scream the question that the faithful raised to heaven every day: Where was God?

Father DeMarco was surprised to find himself a bit out of breath as he finally reached the altar. It had been quite a while since he had set foot in this grand building, but then again, the Council didn’t convene very often.

A rustling sound grabbed his attention. In the shadows behind the altar, three bare-headed monks emerged and wordlessly motioned for the priest to walk with them. He nodded and followed their gestures towards an unassuming but delicately-carved wooden door at the corner of the south transept.

A narrow staircase faintly illuminated with naked electric lights led them into a stark corridor. Strong odors of mold and standing water hung heavily in the air, and the walls gleamed with fungus. In a previous age, Milan’s famous crypt would never have been allowed to suffer such neglect, but now the visitors, along with their contributions, had all but disappeared.

Past the tombs of saints and kings lay a small musty room piled high with yellowed books and ancient scrolls. In the middle of the room, thirteen somber old men were huddled around a simple wooden table, their conversations low and tense. No one raised their eyes to see the new arrival, but Father DeMarco was not expecting attention.

When he had taken his seat, an ancient bishop with brilliantly white hair rose to his feet at the head of the table.

Brethren, let the Council come to order.

The whispers and murmurs died away, and every eye became focused upon Bishop Valenti’s grave countenance.

My friends, he began with a