The Apostates (28 page)

Friar Benedict dumped firewood, creating a makeshift pit. He had used compressed sawdust chunks that he had made as one of his many duties around the Friary. He ignited the chunks to get a fire going. Benedict and Leo set up the metal spit over the fire, and they would use it to rotate meat. Benedict grabbed a haunch of a goat that they had been given by the villagers and pierced it through with the skewer, he then lifted it onto the support arms and the haunch was licked by the leaping flame. He also rigged a large pot to make an accompanying stew that would contain beans, potato, onion, shredded-turkey, with a side of smashed plantains.

Monsignor Carafa spread out a bedroll and sat upon it studying maps of the Panama Strait displayed on his retinal H.U.D., further refining his plans. The Order had paid for a black market cartel to create knock off neural implants like those used in New Megiddo, and the cartels had performed the installation operations. Carafa looked at old aerial photos and noticed there was a fort and a shipyard not far from the Pacific approach to the Panama Strait. He thought that this would suit his plan well.

The other Friars had settled in around the fire, having finished erecting their tents. Friar Francis had installed a security perimeter of small proximity mines attached to tree branches. The movement sensors had a fail-safe to ensure that only human size targets would trigger the detonation. Friar Francis dropped some gear and joined the other Friars around the fire, which filled the air with the aroma of charred meat. The pot was boiling over with a hearty stew, and Benedict pulled it off the fire in anticipation of service. The Friars lined up with their food kit and dished up a bowl of stew, then they each used their knives to slice off a slab of goat meat. Monsignor Carafa dipped smashed plantain into the stew and popped it into his mouth. They all drank some mango juice and apple cider.

“Mis felicitaciones a la cocinera. Como
siempre usted gana su posición. (My compliments to the cook. As always you earn
your position,)” Monsignor Carafa was being sarcastic, not that he didn’t enjoy
Benedict’s cooking, he just presented an easy target; the night’s
entertainment.

“Gracias, señor. Me alegro de que te haya
gustado. (Thank you, sir. Glad you liked it.)” Friar Benedict half bowed in
acceptance of the compliment, his belly getting in the way.

“Con un vientre de grasa como eso, él se
quedaría con nosotros alimentamos si nos pasamos hambre! (With a fat belly like
that, he would feed us if we went hungry!) Friar Leo fired off a jest, his
small frame gesticulating with laughter.

“Hey! Detener burlándose de la mula. Él
hace la obra de Dios! (Hey! Stop mocking the pack mule. He does the work of
God!) Friar Francis stuck up for him, facetiously. No one could discern if she
was serious or jesting behind the veil.

Friar Francis unfastened her veil to eat her meal. The darkness of the night and the shadow that the fire cast, concealed her face. She emptied her stew bowl and consumed a few chunks of goat. When she was done she refastened her veil, leaving the mystery intact. She got up and took a seat beside the Monsignor. He was consumed in some activity only he could see. She assumed it involved his retinal H.U.D. After a few seconds, he acknowledged her presence.

“Hola, señora. Yo estaba mirando las fotos
del Estrecho de Panamá. (Hello, ma’am. I was looking at the pictures of the
Strait of Panama,)” Carafa had informed her that he was studying plans and
coming up with a way to stop the Apostate fleet. Carafa had told her that they
still had roughly one hundred and fifty miles to travel via horseback, but that
a fleet of inexperienced sailors such as the Apostates would take much longer
to reach the Straits. They would be slowed down by mechanical issues and other
problems. Friar Francis had agreed with him.

“Eso me parece un buen plan. Cambiando de
tema. ¿Crees que veremos Consuela nuevo? (That seems like a good plan. Changing
the subject. Do you think we’ll see Consuela again?)” Friar Francis had asked.

“Buena pregunta. Tengo la sensación de que no hemos visto lo último de la chica. (Good question. I have a feeling we have not seen the last of the girl,)” Monsignor Carafa was sure that unfinished business would soon be settled. He was keen to find her and was almost certain that she had fled north.

Friar Leo was sitting on his bedroll by the fire. He had a crate of explosive charges next him. He inspected each charge and then placed them in a satchel. Friar Benedict began to clean up the spent dishes from the meal and stored the leftover portions. His belly jiggled as he climbed the back of the wagon to load supplies. Friar Pius sat in silence, sharpening his trench daggers. As the Right Hand, he had the first watch of the night. He also had the unofficial duty as bodyguard to the Spear Wound: Monsignor Carafa. Friar Francis took the moment of calm to sharpen and polish her cavalry saber as well. The saber had dated back to the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth of the Sixteenth century. The sword type was called “Karabela” and that was what she called the blade. It had been in her family since those times and was handed down through the generations to the men of the family. That was until World War One when the Turkish perpetrated the “Armenian Genocide”. It was at that time that there were no more male heirs left, and the remnants of her family had fled to the New World. Francis had the sword but not the family name.

Monsignor Carafa had taken a break from
plotting his ambush. His mind drifted off to other topics. He dreamed of establishing
a vast, Catholic theocracy in Central and South America. He knew it was ripe
for the taking: what governments did exist were corrupt and weak. They were at
the mercy of the cartels, and the lands that the cartels actually ruled had no
central authority and the people had to rely on day-to-day administration. He
could take them one by one and then reestablish relations with the Vatican.
Surely they would send him financial support once they knew what the Societatum
Pentagram had accomplished in the Americas? His borders would but up against
those of New Megiddo, from the Rio Grande to Patagonia: one unified, Catholic
stronghold; a domain for a true Roman Catholic Emperor of old.

The catalyst for his conquest would be to
destroy the Apostates and get compensation from the Church of New Megiddo. From
there he figured he could seize control of the Strait of Panama and tax
commerce in the region. That would surely raise enough funds for a private,
holy army. Monsignor Carafa had the perfect plan. He was content with this
stratagem. With these final thoughts he felt he could at last turn in for the
night. Friar Benedict snuffed out the last of the fire and the Five Wounds of
Christ would rest that night.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

The dark shroud snapped and swayed in the abyss. Rifts formed in the dark fabric that revealed muscle-like striations and deep flesh colors underneath then snapped back together, and another would open in a different location showing the anatomy of the universe. Jets of infernal-gases broke through what seemed to be a ground plane but was all the same not solid. Some of the gas geysers ignited into open flame, spreading to the dark fabric that resembled the night sky, which incinerated almost instantly. As the fabric shriveled and then disintegrated to ash piles, only the undulating and pulsating gristle and flesh was exposed; naked. Arteries pumped mystery fluids to and fro through the organic chaos. The walls of the arteries were slightly translucent so ghastly forms that resembled faces could be seen being forced through the structure by the some great, unseen, beating heart.

This was the chaotic biomass that he found himself drifting through. He struggled to anchor himself to a sinewy wall, but as he grasped it, the gelatinous coating was too slick for his hand. He slipped away. He drifted toward a lattice-work structure of veins and arteries, as he floated by he snatched one with his hand, squeezing tightly. The pressure of his grasp caused a stoppage of the fluid traveling within. The purple membrane of the artery expanded and stretched as the pressure built up. He could vaguely see the forms of hundreds of spectral faces crying out in unison inside the viscous liquid. He could hear the membrane stretch and tear, then, finally the artery snapped in two, spraying the bluish-black liquid all over him and sending the ghostly forms free throughout the chamber. He released his grip on the ruptured artery and gravity kicked in, dropping him to a soggy, but solid pockmarked plane.

He laid there, watching the ruptured artery spewing sludge like a runaway fire hose. The fluid had coalesced on the plane before him. It bubbled and rippled with activity. He started to make out something taking shape. Internal organs formed from the ooze, a rib cage was sculpted, which encased the organs. Sinew, muscle, and tendon were connected to bone. The black fluid worked its way up over the frame, forming a humanoid figure that created a membrane of skin and fat, which in turn, took on an olive complexion. The fluid shaped hair and weaved a fabric of an undergarment and exterior robes of crimson and blue. A  veil of white wrapped around the head and a halo of blinding light beams emanated from behind it. He recognized the form as a renaissance depiction of the Virgin Mother. The belly grew and stretched—a bulge projected outward. Violent spasms of life forming within could be seen, and the vibrations reverberated through the membrane structures that were the barriers of this realm. The representation of the Virgin Mother fell to her knees, then laid on her back. She hiked up her robes with legs apart, revealing the holiest of holies. The flesh of the stomach was stretched and strained by hands pushing outwards, searching for an outlet. The hands found the threshold and pushed out through the vertical slit, grasping each side and forcing them to open ever wider. A head slithered out slowly, and the arms grabbed the fleshy ground plane. The arms were not of a newborn baby. As the spawn had pulled itself half way out of the canal, it raised its head to reveal the face. It was that of an adult Christ, beard-clad. The Christ-child struggled out of its vessel completely and the Virgin Mother’s form began to deteriorate. Her milky skin shriveled and formed lacerations and rifts. The black fluid oozed out of her compromised form and deflated like a balloon. The Virgin Mother was assimilated back into the biomass that composed the universe.

The Christ-child aged and grew at an accelerated pace. Going through puberty in an instant and reached adulthood. The Christ was levitating now and was nude save for a white loincloth. Behind the Christ splinters of wood appeared from nothingness and converged on a single point. The splinters formed planks, and the planks constructed a cross. The Christ was affixed to the cross and nails forced their way through each of his four limbs. A crown of thorns came into existence on the Christ’s brow, drawing blood that ran down his face and body, pooling on the ground. Out from the pool of the Christ’s blood appeared the shaft of a spear. It rose up, defying the pseudo-gravity of the realm. The tip suddenly lit up like the light of a sun. The white-hot tip of the spear moved toward the torso of the Christ. It moved so close the flesh on the chest of the Christ began to sear and smolder. The burning capacity of the spear tip was utilized by some unseen force, which singed a design into the Christ’s midsection. When it finished there blazoned an encircled pentagram, smoking and charred. A whisper was heard from one hundred different directions at once,

“The Five Wounds of Christ!” the words
pierced Ravine’s skull, as the whispers grew louder and turned into ghoulish
wails.

“Only the flesh of Christ can prevent the
False Return!” the voices shook his brain and his head split with pain. He
shrieked in agony and reached out for something; anything. The biomass
unraveled around him and the flesh turn necrotic and decomposed before his
eyes. The structural integrity gave way and Ravine fell back into the dark
abyss that enveloped him.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

Brook pulled her bunched stockings up so that they were flush up and down her legs. She checked her figure in the mirror and touched up some of her makeup. She was looking for adventure tonight, and she was going to get paid for it as well. But, no ordinary joe would do. She was hoping for something above average. Brook had pulled out the stops. She wore a black bustier top and a tasseled miniskirt that left little to the imagination. She had those thigh high stockings that had the habit of bunching up below the knee, so she spent entirely too long adjusting them.

Brook’s hair was cut in an asymmetrical manner and was dyed black with red highlights. The right side of her head was shaved to the skin, which was a stark contrast to the rest of her hair. She left the bathroom and walked out into the rustic neighborhood bar. The building had been constructed out of corrugated metal and other types of scrap. The electricity for the bar was generated from a solar panel, hodge-podge on the roof but was supplemented by siphoning power off of the old power grid. The bar’s name was the Reliquary, and the proprietor of the establishment was Sister Sarah. But, she was no docile nun-type. The bar was filled with religious paraphernalia for an ironic sense. The air was filled with smoke and smelled like spilled booze on musty carpet. There were a smattering of slum regulars around the bar, most were milking their drinks and engaged in some inane banter. A few were heads down on the bar, the weight of reality upon them.

Brook approached the bar and perched upon a loose barstool. She lit a cigarette and took a drag, releasing the cloud from her lungs. Music began to play over the old speakers mounted in the corners. It was old country music from the middle of the Twentieth century, “Hey, good lookin’, whatcha got cookin’...” the song played on. Sister Sarah had contracted with the black market to have her neural implant hacked. Her music collection was then stored within the implant, and she was able to play banned material in her bar. The name and brand of her establishment usually kept police and L.O.V.E. away, and as such they had too much to do to harass her over booze.

Sister Sarah moved over to Brook, “ Hi
love, how are you holdin’ up?” Sister Sarah asked, polishing some pint glasses
with a rag.

‘Hey, Sister. You know me: always lookin’
for trouble,” Brook responded, inhaling a drag.

“Can I get you a little something?” Sister
Sarah inquired.

“For sure. Can I have a shot of bourbon?”
Brook decided upon something strong.

“Comin’ right up.” Sister Sarah grabbed a
bottle that had been home distilled by a local. She poured some into a shot
glass and put it in front of Brook. Brook smiled and picked the glass, then
tossed it back into her mouth, and slammed the shot glass upside down on the bar
surface, and winced from the burn in her throat.

“Oh, that’s good!” she exclaimed. Brook paid nothing for the drink. The two had a business arrangement. Brook worked Sister Sarah’s bar for ‘johns’ and received protection and a low-profile place for conducting business, and got free drinks. In return, Sister Sarah received a cut of Brook’s earnings and an incentive for returning customers. Prostitutes who worked the slums of Santa Cruz on the street were at the mercy of the winds, so it was a huge advantage to work with Sister Sarah.

“Only the best served at the Reliquary,
love, That’s why you’re on the menu!” Sister Sarah jested.

“Yeah, on that note I better get to it.” Brook looked around. The booths were packed with rough and tumble characters: scavengers, mechanics, and field hands. At the end of the row of booths was a well-dressed man, sitting alone. The man had messy, morning hair and managed stubble. He was wearing a slate gray suit that looked like it had been purchased somewhere uptown. The man was drinking a Manhattan and had a wood and brass cigarette case sitting on the table. He glanced over at Brook with inviting grayish-blue eyes. Brook took the prolonged stare to mean that he knew what was on offer and he was interested.

Brook approached the man’s table slowly and walked so that she swayed her hips. He looked up with a smirk on his face, meeting her eyes with his.

“Hiya, can I join you?” Brook asked with
an inviting smile.

“By all means. Please sit,” the man
confirmed. He gestured at the other bench with his hand.

Brook sat down and leaned upon the table.
She grabbed his cigarette case without asking and took one, put it in her lips
and pushed her head forward, signaling for him to light it. He took the hint.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out an oil lighter, and flipped open the
lid and struck the flint to summon flame. He reached over and lit the end of
her cigarette.

“A woman who knows what she wants. I like
that,” the man stated, placing the lighter back into his breast pocket. He took
a sip of his drink, taking stock of her.

“So, you here all alone, ‘hun?” Brook
inquired. Her curiosity was piqued.

“Why yes, I am. Thought I’d come to a side of town I don’t often visit,” the man said, still with the smirk.

“I was gonna say, classy looking gentleman
such as yourself. Doesn’t seem like this would be your usual haunt,” Brook
confessed to the well-dressed man, with a bit of a smile.

“You’re correct. It is not my usual stomping grounds. But, sometimes we all have to reach outside our comfort zones for new thrills,” the man took a quick sip of his drink, with one arm resting atop the booth back.

“Well, I think you came to the right place
to take you outside of your comfort zone—and for new thrills,” Brook said seductively, hoping he would bite.

“Oh yes, indeed. I came here looking for
something of a different flavor,” he reciprocated.

“So, ‘hun, what’s your name? I’m Brook. I
hope we can get to know each other better.” She moved from her side of the
table to his, and put her hand on his pant leg.

“I’m Dmitri—Dmitri Zhukov. Just a humble
man looking for some excellent company tonight, and it appears I’ve found it.”
His smirk never changed, which made him difficult to read.

“Well, Dmitri, I think you have found your
company. You do know I’m working, yeah?” She put one of her stocking-clad legs
over his leg, teasing slightly.

“I’d say we have an arrangement. You look
like you will fit the bill nicely,” Dmitri acknowledged, putting a hand on her
bare thigh, grabbing a handful.

“Ooh. Well, should we leave this place behind? Have a place we can go?” she asked.

“Why yes—yes I do. Please follow me.”
Brook got up to let him out of the booth, then the two walked out of the
Reliquary into the chaos of the slums. Dmitri signaled across the street to a
man standing next to an armored, black car with tinted windows.

The man snapped to attention and opened the back door for the couple. Dmitri let Brook get in first then he joined her. The driver closed the door behind them and rushed to the driver seat, started the car and accelerated down the pot-hole ridden street. The drive to his penthouse was fairly lengthy because escaping the wild of the slums was difficult. Intoxicated and drug-addled individuals would run out into the street without awareness, akin to driving through a minefield. Stray dogs ran free through the ramshackle structures and broken down fences. Dmitri and Brook engaged in some exploration in the back seat. She had her legs up over his lap and was nibbling at his ear and neck. He rubbed his hand on her thigh and probed underneath her skirt ever so boldly. She did not stop him. He moved his hand up toward her waist and ribcage, then his hand slid up just bellow her breast, feeling the girth of the underside. She reciprocated by firmly planting an open hand on his package. She was not disappointed.

The armored car reached the downtown district. There was a marked difference to the surroundings. Everything was well kept and well maintained. There was no trash on the streets and the roads surfaces were evenly paved. The Sky-towers were sleek and rose up into the heavens and their facades were immaculate. Dmitri’s car reached the rear garage entrance to the residential tower in which he lived. The couple exited the car and reached the high-speed lift, the door opened and they entered. She pushed him to the back of the elevator and straddled his leg. He made a groan of approval. She began to kiss him. He returned the favor, shoving his hands through her hair. The lift reached the penthouse suite, and she exited the elevator pulling him by the hand and laughed. He directed her down the hall, and they reached a door with no handle or keypad. Dmitri used his neural implant to unlock and open the door. Inside she was greeted with ultra-modern decor. All colors were white or neutral grays, with chrome accents. The furniture was minimalist, and in the middle of the living room was a circular module that used condensed plasma to heat the space. It was also a conversation piece with the white-hot plasma that danced behind slightly tinted ballistic glass.