The Seventh Seal (10 page)

“Yeah, I do.  But part of me can’t give up on Jana.  I know
she’s alive, and I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t do everything in my
power to find her.”

“I haven’t given up hope, but I think the prospects of me
finding my family alive are very low.  I see those fucking blasts of light
every time I close my eyes.  I can hear their screams and the pops of the
rifles, over and over.  I plan on stabbing Father in the throat with a fucking
crucifix and pissing on him as he’s dying.  That’s what’s keeping me going.  I
can’t even deal with the grief yet.”

Both men stood up.  They stumbled to the bar and walked
around behind it.  The moon lit the glass block with a low, gray light.  As
Sully promised, a stack of cardboard boxes stood beneath the taps, and tattered
moving blankets lay in a heap opposite the boxes.  Alex and John pulled them
out and placed them on the plastic mat that kept the bartender from slipping on
the wet floor.  The bar reeked of stale beer, piss, and cigarette smoke.  The
stress of the day and the alcohol pushed both men into an instant sleep.

John took a deep breath.  The leaves grabbed at his ankles
as the soft breeze pulled them across the forest floor.  Many of the trees had
given up their life for the season.  The maples remained a vibrant orange. 
They fought the encroaching winter with all their might.  John sat up and
pushed his hair from his face.  The moss underneath him covered most of the
exposed rock, creating a lush and natural sleeping mat.  The midafternoon sun
peeked over the barren branches of the tallest tree, struggling to get to the
height it did a few months ago.  The golden rays that reached John on the floor
warmed him from the inside out.

He stood and walked toward the sound of moving water.  The
dry leaves crackled under his boots, throwing the aroma of autumn into the
air.  John ducked underneath low-hanging branches and came to a rocky outcrop. 
He looked straight down eighty feet to Euclid Creek.  The water rushed over
limestone steps, cutting a thirty-foot path in the ancient rock.  High above
the creek, on the opposite shore, John saw tags that teenagers painted on the
rock face.  The disrespectful symbols intruded on the natural surroundings.

John looked downstream and saw the creek disappear around a
bend.  Upstream, he watched it emerge from another.  He picked up a rock and
tossed it into the water below.  The stone fell and tumbled for five seconds
before bouncing off the rock just below the surface.  It skipped down another
piece of limestone and came to rest under the water.  The creek, shallow at
this time of year, would be raging with snow melt in early spring.  John
thought that his could be the last human hand to touch the rock for thousands –
possibly millions – of years.

He turned and walked back toward the moss bed to discover a six-pack
of soda, bag of snack chips, and a can of chewing tobacco.  John devoured the
chips and chased them with three cans of soda.  Although he gave up dipping
twenty years ago, he shoved the can into a pocket, already savoring the salty,
bitter sting of the snuff.

When he set the soda down, John noticed an MP3 player next
to it.  He giggled and surveyed the empty woods.  John placed the buds in his
ears and pushed the power button.  A woodcut from the twelfth century appeared
on the display.  John recognized the figure seated at the banquet table.  Vlad
the Impaler, the historical Dracula, wore a long beard and robes with his head
thrown back in laughter.  On the other side of the banquet table stood tall,
wooden spikes.  Each spike held a writhing, naked figure who had been impaled
from the anus to the mouth.  Above the woodcut he saw “Threefold Law” in a
gothic script.  “Killer of the Sultan” filled the title box on the display.  An
ominous bass guitar growled, followed by distant cymbals.  The song lurched
into an hypnotic riff, beckoning the Hounds of Hell.

John shrank back in fear.  When he looked up, a figure stood
before him in a white robe.  Father held a Bible in one hand and an incense
burner in another, the kind Catholic priests used for the Stations of the Cross
or funerals.  As the flame leapt from the burner, John recognized the unique
aroma.  It overpowered the natural, earthy smell of the forest in autumn.

He pulled the buds from his ears and dropped the MP3 player
to the ground.  The leaves swallowed it whole.  John stood and faced Father
from five feet away.  Father had not moved since John first noticed him.  His
fierce eyes penetrated John’s awareness.  Father’s mouth remained closed, but
the corners tilted up, giving the impression of a faint smile.

John looked down and noticed that he’d shrunk.  A child now,
his jeans and T-shirt had been replaced with a white robe tied at the waist. 
He stood with both hands holding the crucifix, and the forest blinked out of
existence.  A blinding light filled John’s vision.  When it subsided, he stood
in the vestibule of St. Bernadette’s church as the twelve-year-old altar boy at
Sunday Mass.  Father took a step toward John and placed his hand on John’s
right shoulder.

“She is alive.”

“Who?” asked John.

“Jana.  She needs you in this difficult time.  Do not
abandon her.”

“How do you know?” John asked.  His voice squealed and
broke.

“He has provided the Holy Covenant with all the tools and
weapons necessary to prepare the way for the return of His son.”

John looked out across a sea of blank stares.  The
parishioners sat in the pews of 1983.  He saw Brett and Chris from his seventh-grade
class.  Next to them sat Jacquie, the first girl to make his stomach flutter. 
He saw neighbors and friends from childhood, his parents, and little brother
and sister.  The entire congregation moved their mouths in unison to a hymn or
prayer, yet the church remained silent except for the conversation between John
and Father.

“Why am I here?”

“To remind you, John.  We are a part of you.  You cannot
forsake your faith.  You cannot forsake your past.  All sheep wander from the
path, but God is still shepherding you.  Come back to us, John.  You are the
Revelator.  He needs your help.”

“I’m dreaming.  This isn’t real.  It’s been a long time
since I was an altar boy at St. Bernadette’s.  Those people out there are grown
up, moved on, or dead.”

“A dream has its own reality.  The feelings of safety,
comfort, and assurance you had as a youth, they can all be yours again.  Serve
the Lord and He will save your soul for all eternity.”

John flushed with anger.  He saw through the shallow eyes of
the Father and the deceptive illusion of his past.  John heaved the crucifix as
hard as he could toward the tabernacle.  The cross twirled through the air with
the long handle spinning underneath it.  The solid-silver crucifix smashed headfirst
into the tabernacle, shattering the door and top with a wretched crash.  The
golden chalice of a long-forgotten priest rolled out and fell to the marble
stone beneath.  John looked at the faces of the parish and yet they did not
change.  Mouths opened and closed in silence, like hungry fish groping for
food.

His altar-boy robes disappeared and he grew back to his
adult height, dressed in the jeans and T-shirt of reality.  Father never moved
and never uttered a word.  Flames burst through the floor of the church and
wooden pews erupted in golden and blue heat.  The faces of John’s past began to
melt.  The apparitions continued their silent chant as skin and muscle slid
from bone.  The only thing John heard was his own panicked breathing.

Stained-glass windows shattered, exposing the cold, black
nothingness of the outside.  Hymnals fluttered through the air like birds of
fire.  The roof of the church collapsed, sending chunks of plaster down upon
the melting bodies.  Dark figures swooped down upon the scene, carrying corpses
away in taloned hands.  The demons lifted those that had not yet burned and
devoured their flesh in mid-flight.

After what seemed like days, the church and all of its
parishioners of the past dissolved into a barren, rocky landscape.  On the
horizon, John saw nothing but red-tinged rock, tendrils of smoke creeping
toward the black sky.  He turned and saw Father standing in the same position
he had occupied since the dream began.  Father’s appearance and halfhearted
smile did not falter through the grotesque transformations.

“It is never too late to come back to Him,” said Father.

His white robe stung John’s eyes by its brightness.

“But, John, do not waste precious time.  You can save your
family, your friends, your love, and your past if you come back to us.  We will
accept you with open arms and shower you with the love of God.  I have spoken
to Him and He tells me you are our savior.  You will lead us from this dark
time into a new era of shining faith.”

John rubbed his face and pulled the collar of his T-shirt
over his nose and mouth.  The smell of rotting eggs made him retch.  Distant
screams of agony and pain broke the silent façade of the dreamscape as lost
souls departed again for eternal solitude.

“Why must you wage war?  Surely God sent His son to preach
the ways of peace, love for one’s brother.”

“You of all people must know the answer to that question. 
You are the Revelator.”

“I am not!” John screamed.  “Quit calling me that.”

Father’s face twisted in anger and his eyes turned a shade
of red.

“You are!  God has written of the Final Battle.  Through
you, John, He has shared His vision of the last war between good and evil.  The
Infidels must be destroyed.  The Warriors of Christ will cleanse the earthly
heaven in preparation for the return of the Son.  All the souls of heaven must
be spared, and those innocent of the earth must join them in praise.”

“And God has chosen you to lead this crusade?”

“No.  He has chosen you, John.  You are His messenger, His
right hand.  He has chosen me to be your protector.”

“That is bullshit and you know it.  How many times has the
Church done this and then apologized for it later?  How many decent, peaceful,
and innocent people perished at the hand of the Inquisition?  How many bled out
on the sword of the Crusades?  That is not God’s message.  That is man’s desire
to force others to live as one.”

“The Infidels have raised the demons of hell and sat them
amongst us.  They have lured Satan and all his minions to the table.  They have
feasted on the God-fearing souls of the earth for too long.  Ask yourself,
John.  ‘What shape is the world in today?’  Can you answer that?  Illicit drugs
steal young people from their families.  Women legally kill unwanted seeds in
their womb.  Nonbelievers taint all of humanity, tempting them with sex and
violence.  Lucifer walks with us.  If we do not stand and fight in God’s name,
we are all doomed.”

“I will not deny that we face challenges today that threaten
our entire existence.  But, killing all those that do not prescribe to your
ways will not save us.  You are mad with blind religious fury, and I will not
be part of it.”

“You may change your mind yet, young John.  Your eyes have
not seen the extent of the brutality of the Infidels.  You will come back to
your faith and fight alongside us.  You will trumpet the return of the Son, the
banishment of Satan, and the beginning of the Thousand Year Peace.  God’s love
will bring you back.”

“We have nothing left to discuss.  Wake me or cut me free
from this vision and do not return.”

“Or what?  Do you think you are in a position to threaten
me?”

John blinked.  When his eyes opened, he sat inside a three-foot
by three-foot cell.  The walls and ceiling of solid concrete left no room for
windows.  Iron bars sealed the cell from the only opening in the dungeon.  A
six-inch hole in the floor smelled of feces as flies circled and infiltrated
the opening of the pipe.  Beyond the bars, a dark corridor spread out as far as
John could see.  Meager torches on the moldy brick walls faded into the
distance.

“I can put you here until the end of time.”

“This is a dream, you have no power over me.”

“Then wake up, John.  Go ahead and do it.”

John stood in the cell and knew that he could not.

“I will not be forced to do your will.”

“You are right.  You cannot.  But you will suffer the
consequences.  Consider our conversation.  Think about Jana and the good you
can do for the Holy Covenant.  Take comfort in the fact that you can tip the
scales and help defeat Satan’s army.  God will welcome you through the Gates of
Heaven, and Earth shall sing your praises.”

John slid down the wall of the cell and collapsed onto the
floor.  He pulled his knees up to his chest and buried his head between his
legs.

“I am through with you, Father.  Speak to me no more.”

John did not get a reply.  When he lifted his head again,
the early morning sun danced through the glass-block wall of the front bar of
the Jigsaw.  Alex was slumped nearby, underneath the cooler, snoring off the
last of the alcohol from the night before.

“The Infidels are growing in size, but they have yet to
organize.”

“Are they armed?”

“As best as we can tell, no.  There is a group taking refuge
in the Jigsaw Saloon and Tavern in Parma, but we have not confirmed the absence
of firearms.”

“Why not?

“We think they are remnants of the Keepers of the Wormwood
and that they could have automatic weapons.”

“You mean the biker gang?”

“Yes.”

Father blew a perfect ring into the flickering, fluorescent
light hanging above the table.  He closed his eyes while the smoke wrapped him
in its protective blanket.

The other priests sat amongst the military leaders.  Men in
black robes carried Bibles, while those in camouflage carried machine guns. 

The basement of St. Michael’s provided the group privacy and
a place to debrief.  The generators created enough electricity to run a laptop
computer and projector.  A high-ranking officer grabbed the laptop and bowed
before Father.  He wore medals tacked to his chest, and they jangled when he
walked.  A plain cross held in place by a silver chain sat over his coat. 
Father noticed that many of the troops wore a crucifix around their neck.

“Father, what my sergeant here was trying to tell you is
that we have most of Cleveland secure.  That doesn’t mean we won’t run into
roaming gangs of Infidels or snipers.  I guarantee you we will.  However, we
have enough firepower to handle whatever they throw at us.”

“When will we be ready for the Second Cleansing?”

“That depends on how quickly we dispose of the bodies from
the marked structures.  If we can get this done in the next two or three weeks,
you’ll be able to commence the Second Cleansing right on time.”

Father looked around the table.  The other men avoided his
gaze by shuffling papers or fidgeting with weapons.

“Have you heard from commanders in other areas?”

“Yes, I have.  Pittsburgh and Columbus are in the same
situation we are.  They have almost finished with the First Cleansing and
appear to be poised to begin the Second.  There have been problems in other cities,
however.  The sheer size of New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles have made it
difficult for us to control the situation.  In those three cities, an all-out
war rages.  Air strikes may need to be used to disarm the Infidels and flush
them out of their strongholds.  Many of my men saw action in Afghanistan and
Iraq, and an overweight buck hunter isn’t going to pose the same threat as the
Taliban did.  I can tell you that for sure.”

“Don’t underestimate them, general.  Satan’s fury should not
be taken lightly.”

“We are using any and all means of accomplishing the aims of
the Holy Covenant.  It may take more time elsewhere, but Cleveland is all but
secure under my command.”

“And what of the Keepers of the Wormwood?  What is your plan
for dealing with this group?”

“For now, nothing.  If we can secure the neighborhoods
around Parma on the west side, they’ll have nowhere to go.  We can wait them
out and avoid taking casualties.  I have snipers that can pick them off from a
thousand yards or more.”

“That is fine as long as it doesn’t slow down the initiation
of the Second Cleansing.  Know that if I call for it, I want that group burned
off the face of the Earth and sent to Satan’s gate.”

“That should not be a problem, Father.”

“Very well.  That is all we need to discuss on the matter. 
Does anyone have an update on the whereabouts of John the Revelator?”

The men at the table continued looking down into their
hands.  After an uncomfortable silence, a young priest spoke up.

“Father, we have not yet located him.  He may have been with
the vet and escaped through the wreckage barricade at the intersection of 271
and 480.”

Father took a final drag on his cigar and exhaled across the
table.  He looked up to the ceiling and then back at the priest who’d spoken. 
The proximity of the ember burned his tongue, turning his words bitter.  Father
made the sign of the cross and wiped a lone bead of sweat from the end of his
nose.  A nervous silence enveloped the room.

“If The Revelator is not found before we initiate the Second
Cleansing, we all have to answer to Him.”