The Second Coming

What others are
saying about

The Second
Coming

“
Beautifully
written, dark and eerie vision of an apocalyptic future.”

—
Margaret
Weis, New York Times Bestselling Author

"David H.
Burton is a dark new talent in the genre. This one will make you
leave the lights on for a week!"

—
Cathy
Clamp, USA Today Bestseller

Words of the
Prophecy:

The Second
Coming

by David H.
Burton

Published by:
David H. Burton - Smashwords Edition

Copyright ©
2010 by David H. Burton

Cover art and
design by David H. Burton

Monk © Sven
Rabe – 3D Artist – www.3dbasemesh.com

This book is a
work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either
products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead,
is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this
publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any
means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from
David H. Burton.

Visit David at
http://davidhburton.com

Words of the
Prophecy: http://wordsoftheprophecy.com

Smashwords
Edition, License Notes

This ebook is
licensed for your personal enjoyment. Although this ebook is
DRM-free, this ebook may not be re-sold. If you would like to share
this book with another person, feel free to do so, or purchase an
additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re
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this author.

Acknowledgements

First, I would
like to thank my agent, Christi Cardenas of The Plains Agency, for
her unrelenting support. It has been an incredible journey up to
this point and I can’t imagine having anyone else at my side.

Needless to
say, I owe a huge thank-you to Margaret Weis and Cathy Clamp for
taking the time to read and blurb the novel. Thank you!!

And to my
parents, I thank you for instilling in me the love of the written
word. It is the greatest gift you ever gave me.

This book is
dedicated to Humberto Carolo: best friend, loving partner, and the
greatest father I know. Thank-you for your love and support through
all the years.

This book would
not be possible without you.

Then he told
me, "Do not seal up the words of the prophecy, because the time is
near.

Let him who
does wrong continue to do wrong; let him who is vile continue to be
vile; let him who does right continue to do right; and let him who
is holy continue to be holy.

Behold, I am
coming soon!"

(Book of
Revelations 22:10-12)

Catherine
looked at her watch. The battery had passed on to more alkaline
pastures, so it read the same as it always did — quarter to eleven.
Its delicate, cartoon hands were frozen in a timeless Charleston
pose. It was a reminder of simpler times, of safer times.

Groaning, she
pried her backside from a faded canvas lawnchair and leaned it
against the wall. She fisted her hands on her ample hips.

“
Where is my Ben?”

The question
was aimed at no one in particular. It might have been the cat she
spoke to, but the cat was dead — three days gone.

Sadie. Poor
Sadie.

She stared
into the distance, beyond the edge of scotch pines and white
cedars. Dark clouds hovered on the horizon.

“
He's not usually gone this long.”

Catherine
grunted her displeasure and opened the screen door. She strode into
the kitchen where she grabbed a plastic cup and dipped it into a
cast-iron pot. Her lips quivered over the piss-warm liquid.

Water.

She hated it.
S
he tired of boiling it every day. What she wanted was a tall
glass of lemonade — pink, with three ice cubes. Yet Catherine knew
there would never be lemonade again.

She forced
herself to swallow and took her cup with her to the orange sofa
bed. Her reflection stared back at her from a dust covered relic on
the floor. Its black plastic casing had barely a scratch.

Catherine
missed television, if only for its connection to the remainder of
the world. It stopped working after the Shift, two years prior.

Two years
since the world fell apart.

Two years
since everything went to shit.

For months she
had wept, longing for everything lost to her; her parents, her
friends, her brother — all gone.

Yet Ben had
helped her through it. Ben was her life now. There was only her
Ben.

Her gaze
wandered to a tattered blue afghan crumpled in the corner.

And poor
Sadie.

The cat had
been snatched up by vile beasts, things she had never heard of.
They crouched low to the ground, yet could stand on two feet. At
first she thought wolf, but they were weightier and crooked. And
they possessed a cunning no animal should. Catherine had no idea of
their origins. She knew only that they were unnatural — not
something of this world.

At least, not
the world Catherine knew.

Her Ben
assured her they were gone, but Catherine wasn't convinced. Even
that morning she thought she heard their hideous cackling in the
distance. She pleaded with Ben to avoid hunting in the forest, yet
he refused to listen. They needed more food, he said; she ate for
two now. So, dressed in his khaki pants and green plaid shirt, her
Benjamin Green stepped out the door with makeshift bow in hand.

Catherine bit
her lip and placed her hands over her swollen belly, a reaction she
was prone to of late. He had been gone for the entire day.

In the
distance, the storm churned and a harsh rumbling shook the
walls.

Soon the winds will come
.

She wondered
how their cottage still stood, battered as it was; as if their
insignificant lives weren't worthy of the storms that swept the
lands. She looked back to the television, and it sat as a sedentary
reminder of what once was. The man on the newscast said the Earth
had shifted on its axis, aligning itself with the magnetic
poles.

She continued
to stare at the lifeless screen, remembering what it had shown, as
if the little black box was a window to the past. She could still
see the darkened skies torched with volcanic fire, the ground
splitting open to swallow cities, and land masses arising from the
depths of the sea. The Shift had released some kind of darkness
upon the land, and brought with it creatures that had no business
walking the Earth. Dead relatives could be seen in spirit form,
shadowy creatures swept past windows in the night, and spirits rose
even in the light of day. Then the newscasts stopped.

Everything
stopped.

For months the
storms persisted, the earthquakes continued, and life in some
twisted form endured. The east and west coasts were lost, a cloud
of death drifted through the land, and ordinary people manifested
strange abilities.

Catherine knew
all about the latter.

She said
nothing to Ben for fear of rejection. It happened to her, sometime
after she got pregnant; she was able to do things she never could
before, like when she called forth a power that scared off the
wolf-like beasts. She had no idea what it was or how to summon it
again, but it terrified her. Her Ben called these things sorcery,
witchcraft, an abomination to God.

She rose from
the sofa, passing the antique grandfather clock with its mechanical
sparrow dangling over its perch. Twenty minutes before nine, it
read. It still worked.

A chill sat on
the air, or perhaps it was just a cold notion coursing through her
veins. Either way, the result was the same, and Catherine waddled
over to the wood-burning stove. Her toes were cold.

She ripped
pages from an old science textbook, grabbed a small log, and shoved
them in. Ben always tended the fire. Never let it go out, he
said.

The flames
ravaged the paper, and the fire flared to life once more. She
remained for a moment, warming her feet and hands, before shuffling
back out the door.

The storm no
longer ambled in the distance, but loomed on the edge of the trees.
The wind tousled her scarlet hair, and Catherine watched as destiny
floated towards her with dark clouds clenched in its fists. At the
edge of the woods, the great pines bowed to the wind’s might.

“
Where is my Ben?” she asked.

There was no
reply.

She held on to
her ragged yellow dress as she peered over the railing, and pellets
of frigid rain pricked her skin. On the borders of the forest,
mounds of creeping phlox littered the ground with their trails of
blue flowers. They spread out endlessly, never dying off. Winter
was no more in this part of the world; a place where snow once
offered a light dusting at Christmas — rare, but beautiful
nonetheless.

Yet never
again.

The Shift had
seen to that.

The wind
sighed through the leaning trees, and her nostrils caught the scent
of musk. Movement skirted the shadows, and hope surged within
her.

“
Ben?” she called.

Silence.

Then wicked
laughter.

Catherine
stared into the woods, and as lightning speared the sky something
caught her attention. She wobbled down the wooden staircase. Her
pale hands gripped the railing. The steps groaned under her
weight.

Lightning
pulsed again across the heavens, illuminating the copse of swaying
trees once more.

“
No,” she breathed.

Her heart
pounded in her chest, and one of her tattered shoes fell off as she
raced to the edge of the woods.

“
No,” she muttered, her worst fears being realized, “no, no,
no.”

She stooped to
the ground.

Lying among
the delicate blue flowers was an arm, severed at the shoulder. The
hand still clutched a makeshift arrow. She might have fooled
herself were it not for the green plaid sleeve.

“
My Ben,” she sobbed, caressing the hand.

Twigs snapped
and Catherine turned. A wolf-like muzzle inched toward her face,
viscous tongue licking jagged teeth.

The child
inside her stirred and thunder pounded in her chest.

The dripping
maw opened.

Catherine
clutched Ben’s arm. His blood stained her fingers.

She called
upon anything that would help her.

At any
cost.

“
Please.”

The masses
received the Lord’s blessing and confessed for transgressions
against their fellow man. With strained voices, they praised the
Lord with song, and begged forgiveness for the inborn sins of their
self-righteous souls. And as the church bells pealed, dismissing
the congregation from the stiff wooden pews that reeked of pine
oil, Paine Robertson slipped out the door like the serpent out of
Eden.

He walked
across the dirt road, with the late June sun scorching his tawny
locks, to the freshly-swept porch of Fillmore’s Leathers. He
plopped upon the wooden planks and waited for his parents to finish
mingling with the rest of the Lord’s flock. Off to the side the
wind dusted their horse and cart with a light layer of dry earth.
The few provisions they procured, as well as the goods they failed
to sell, sat as a reminder of their misfortune. It was getting
worse every week, fewer and fewer of the townsfolk willing to
barter with them. Paine knew why.

How dare they
judge him.

Even his
parents’ frustration was surfacing at the rumors, evident in their
recent shortness of temper and talks of parting ways. A few weeks
prior they spoke of Paine and his sister moving on — of starting
their life elsewhere; preferably in another town. It made him feel
like a dirty rag no one wanted to touch unless there was nothing
left to use. He suppressed those feelings, refusing to even mention
it to his sister.

He did that a
lot of late, keeping things to himself. It started when the visions
in the mirrors began, two years prior. The voices taunted him,
tempted him with knowledge of things unknown, and tantalized his
innermost wants. He had followed their instructions, sacrificing
small birds and squirrels to the blood spells they had urged him
cast, but their promises were false, and amounted to nothing. As a
result, he scorned them, ignored their whisperings.

And then one
evening he had made the singular mistake of revealing their
presence to his parents. His mother immediately set about
destroying all the mirrors in the house and then turned on her son
and beat the evil out of him.