Overture to the Apocalypse
Or; The Beginning of the End
By Christopher B Jones

I.

 

 1200 degrees Celsius, sand becomes glass, and the heavy boots Gregory was wearing did not take to walking on a solid sheet of glass in the desert heat. The sand had fused from a nuclear strike some years ago. It was before he’d been born, or at least, before he was cognizant, able to understand. His parents had told him of the beginnings of The Great War, at an early age, and that it was his place to fight for the freedoms They tried to take from America. At that age, he didn’t understand who They were, but that They were bad, very bad, and he grew up to hate Them. It was in his veins, and he could feel it, cascading down his arteries like heroin. When he was younger, it got him high; to think of spilling Their blood on Their deserts, in Their heathen temples, under the blistering sun – he wanted to watch Them all die without abashment.

                Now that he was here, he wasn’t sure of that sentiment, of all that propaganda, of everything he’d been told about these people. The Iraqi’s, Iranians, Saudi’s, Pakistani, Afghani’s. The whole lot of those they were battling. None of it made any sense. Not to him, at least, and maybe, he thought, he wasn’t supposed to understand. Maybe it wasn’t his place to understand. These patrols were the worst; Gregory was left inside his head for far too long, watching the vast expanse of the crystalline desert, watching for the dark-spots of terrorists, for any signs of movement in the hills. Nothing seemed to move, ever, so he was left to contemplate his role and this war.

Maybe he’d understand once it was finished. Maybe he’d understand then, once the war was over and peace had been brought to the Middle East. If he’d make it that long. If he’d survive this stint at Camp Baghdad, and if he made it out of here, if he’d seen the end before he reached the end of his life. He wasn’t sure, not sure at all. Everyone that mattered in Washington seemed to be all for the war, all for the casualties, all for the cost it’d take to rid the world of “evil”, but having been stationed here for two years and counting, Gregory was not sure.

Even in the heat, the steel of his weapon cold, and it was heavy, but he knew that if he let it slack, hang loose under his arm, then the Enemy would come. They would come out of thin air and he’d be returning home sooner than expected, packed in a pine box, unless the Enemy grabbed him to torture and to question – that was always a possibility according to his Sergeant. Constant vigilance, he’d been told time an again, enough that he kept his sidearm under his pillow at night, locked, loaded, and always resting against his hand. It was comfortably uncomfortable. He squinted against the burning sun and saw nothing for miles but the hazy outline of mountains in the deep, dark distance.

 

II.

 

 sky cracked open with a bolt of lightning. It shook the world and Travis looked over his shoulder. There was a storm coming, and deep in his gut, he knew it wasn’t the storm clouds overhead – maybe it was intuition, or maybe it was something else. Something to do with the scrap of paper in his hand, and the people sitting before him upon the stoop of an old brownstone, but now was not the time for him worry about it.

                “Where’re you pulling this kindergarten bullshit? Your ass? Seriously, have you not been paying attention to the world around you since, like, birth? Is it – seriously, are you oblivious? There’s something wrong here, but it’s wrapped in a flag so its okay, are you that blind? This isn’t papal sanction, okay? It’s not dogmatic law, right? Got it? Listen to me, just because He says it, does not mean God must adhere. It means – what it means is…” Travis paused to take a breath, looking at the faces gazing up at him. Maybe that was the dawning of comprehension, or maybe it was the glazed over expression of someone not paying attention.

“Look. Go here, follow the instructions, and you’ll see another version of the truth, alright? And remember, the definition of a terrorist is someone who keeps a people in terror. Hitler, by definition was a terrorist. Keep that in mind, and that Hitler also singled out an entire race for extermination as the enemy.” He handed the scrap of paper in his hand to the short blonde girl, her petite frame hidden in the bulk of her coat.

August and it was growing cold. He hung his head and heard the vicious growl of a car stop on the street behind him. The pit of his stomach fell through and he looked over his shoulder. The large grey beast of a machine idled and a pair of men in dark suits and dark sunglasses emerged. Charcoal – the suits were charcoal, and their demeanour meant nothing but business. Company men, and he turned to face them.

“Travis Whitman?”

“Yes?” He swallowed hard, but did not show fear.

“We’d like a private word with you.” One said, his arm rose as to usher him off to the side and down an alleyway, and Travis did not fight or argue. He did as he was told with an air of acceptance, head bowed, but not a twitch of fear. Fear would only make it worse and Travis knew this. He’d heard stories. They were like lions. Any sign of fear and they played with their food before it was eaten, and he was not in the mood for a pouncing lesson.

“Ladies, please leave.” It wasn’t a threat, or even a promise of violence, but it was the finality in his tone that sent them away, walking down a major thoroughfare of the city.

They walked away from the scene without a word, but two blocks away, they heard the single explosion of a single shot fired from a single pistol. It echoed down the alleyways and they’d never forget it.

“Toxi, what was that?”

“Nothing, sis, but we need to get moving. A storm is coming.”

 

III.

 

 silver lining has a dark cloud, and the darkness of night had set upon the city. Nikolas stood in an alleyway and stared up to the sky, trying to find the sliver of moon that should be hanging there like a chandelier to light his way, but there was only the heavy static of cloud cover. He pushed through the garbage to the mouth of the alley and nudged a vagrant with the steel toe of his boot. He felt the first cold snap of fall. Summer was ending, it’s brief life ended by a storm, lightning stabbing through the sky like a dagger.

                “Et tu Brute?” he mumbled to himself as he turned down the desolate street. The city in recent months had become little more than a ghost town. All that were left were the derelicts and those unable to move due to honour, office or the crashing economy. The city had once been a metropolis for the auto industry, three of the major company’s had been based here, but with the need for alternative fuels, the work was farmed out and the industry toppled. It was the last thing the country had to live on, the only claim to fame left. Nikolas kicked an empty cup and watched as it skittered across the empty road and landed in a deep pothole.

“Nikolas.”

The voice came from the dark, hidden in the folds of the shadows under a stoop and he stopped, turned, and faced a squat man wearing a wool suit that appeared to be caked in mud. Shadows were cast under his eyes from the orange street lamp that drained all colour from his face.

“You got it?”

“Yeah, here.” The voice said, extending his arm. Their hands meet in a brief, complicated handshake, and they nodded their farewell.

As he walked away, Nikolas remembered a time where nothing could be done that brazenly in this city, he remembered a time when there was a proliferation of police on every street, where even the most mundane and innocent gesture was scrutinised by all angles. He opened his hand and held in front of his face, between his thumb and forefinger a small pouch, a thin cotton parcel, and with a dry smirk, he shoved it deep into the pockets of his long, heavy coat.

It was in the distance that he heard the siren wail, the tires scream, and irrespective of anything else – Nikolas ran. His apartment was down the street, and he’d be there before anyone saw him. His stomach was in knots, his head throbbed, and his heart was pounding a violent rhythm against his chest. A war-song.

 

IV,

 

 stands at the window, watching the city unfurl beneath him. His apartment is littered with books and scraps of paper, and at its epicentre, a computer, the monitor casting the darkness in a blue, effervescent glow.  He touched the nape of his neck, and heard the soft whisper he heard every time he touched it – Everything has its place. It was the tagline on all the government posters tacked up a few years back. It was imbedded in the neck, and it released a steady flow of Persephone.  

Persephone was the antidote, the vaccine for all the forms of biochemical warfare likely to be used by the Enemies. He signed up the first day, and was implanted with the small device within a week. According to pamphlets, there was also a trace of anti-anxiety meds, to keep the population calm in case of such an attack. The circuitry in the chip monitored the heart rate, and when it rose past a certain point, it gave an injection straight into the spinal column, penetrating the blood/brain barrier. Within a year after the initial run, it became compulsory for all citizens.

Joshua had no regrets in his choice, and standing above the masses, his lips twisted into a docile smile and he stepped away from the window to the computer in the centre of the room. It was now his job to transcribe the press releases for the Government from Nihcore, the manufacturers of Persephone. He had taken the job shortly after implantation, and had never been happier. The pay was great, he was living in a penthouse well above the city’s skyline, and he flittered about the most prominent socio-political circles. It was the dream of a lifetime, and as he pounded away at the keyboard, he continued to smile that docile smile.

It was a reptilian function of the brain, he could process it all without really thinking, and as the letters splashed across the screen they formed words, and none of it was absorbed. In one eye and out the other, one would say. He moved through the pages proficiently and it was around midnight that he finished and was left to surf the interweb.  Part of it, he scanned for work, for unofficial, militant websites, the other was his own leisure – recipes and shopping, which was the bulk of it. Either there weren’t any of the former, or they were buried so deep, so well hidden, that he was unable to find them. It was quite likely that it was the latter, he accepted, but continued to do as he’d been told by his superiors. They are poisoning the freedoms we fight for, a similar voice reminded him. Everything has its place, and they’re trying to screw it up. He agreed silently and continued to dig deeper into the vast, cyber network. This was the dull part of the job, but he could catch up on his kitchen menu.

He had read once, somewhere, that menu’s at the kitchen table were a nice touch when having company. A list of the quick and easy meals, to show off one’s flare in the kitchen, and he enjoyed it. Maybe one night, he’d find Mrs Joshua and bring her here, and she’d be so enamoured with this bit of brilliance they would get married (eventually) and perhaps, after, engage in the act of procreation. This thought quelled the dissention with the mundane surfing for renegades and carried him to bed an hour later where he would fixate on the latter part with a satisfied smile as he drifted off to sleep.

                                  

V

 

 was the newest drug on the street, a synthetic opiate. It was a black powder with the consistency of cocaine and some claimed it to be the brainchild of Nihcore, others maintained it was the antithesis of Nihcore, and was the answer to their brand of braggadocio and control. If it was the brainchild of Nihcore, however, it stretched their hands into those who did not concede to the obligatory implantation of Persephone, and in that, it made all the sense in the world. If the rumours were true that Persephone was actually a means of control, of tracking, then it could be the answer by expanding the consciousness and understanding of those who partook. Every theory on the origins of Nihil had its good points, and points that made everyone take a step back and say what the hell? 

Either way, the origins were trivial. The important stroke on any argument involving Nihil was that the numbers who were on it was ever-growing, and it was becoming a problem for the Government in ways they could never have foreseen. Its use was running rampant through the streets, and there was next to nothing that anyone could do, just like marijuana, cocaine or heroin decades before. The suppliers always found a way to bypass customs and get it into the hands of the dealers on the streets.

Nihil was the devil, and everyone knew it. Even the renegades – even if it was not an extension of Nihcore’s control, it still created a population of hallucinatory and delusional people who were oblivious to the world around them, to the country falling apart at the seams. Or, at least, that was their take on the subject. The Government saw it in a similar light – if their theory that it was the key to breaking down Persephone was true, all their work was being undone, and if Nihcore was double-dealing them, there would be hell to pay, but no one in the system believed Walter Kensing to be that foolish. He had been investigated thoroughly since the emergence of Nihil, of course, and of course, the investigations had turned up nothing at all, not even the smallest blip on their radar. Walter Kensing was as clean as the board of health.

The epidemic was growing out of control and almost becoming a farce, but it still remained – both sides wanted Nihil off the street and out of the hands of the masses.

 

VI

 

 call me an enemy of the state. They call me a terrorist. When, in reality, they are the ones who bring the terror to the world, to their own nation. To perpetuate a lie or an imaginary threat, to keep the people in fear is an act of terrorism against the Union.

The Powers That Be want us all to believe that they took the war to their House to keep it out of our House, but what no one seems to realise is, there is a war being fought in our House. It may be a silent war with guerrilla tactics, but it is being fought right before your eyes. They are stripping us of our imaginary freedoms; they are turning our countrymen into slaves, into cannon fodder.

They want us to believe that Persephone is for our own good, and we believed them – for awhile. My Children of Freedom, my Children of the Revolution! All my children! Let us rise as one and slay the dragon of war-mongering terrorists and reclaim our country! Let us strike down the vile elephantine beast and remember this one thing: A Patriot is one who will fight for their country from any aggressors, from Tyranny and Oppression.

We are told that it is for our own good, that we are not to understand such things, but we do and we are. Let us show them that we, as Americans are not placed upon this earth to police it, but to take care of our own, to keep our own safe and out of harm’s way! 

I am not a terrorist, I am not an enemy – I am a true patriot, and if that means destroying the whole damned system, brick by marble brick, then so be it. They have banned all the important music, films and literature! They have waged war on nations with no provocation! They have bled this nation dry and left us in the gutter, on skid row for the last fifty years!

History may not be taught any longer in the schools, if one can call them such with a straight face, but it’s true. We were once a truly prosperous nation; we once had history and education. We have not always been in debt; the numbers rolling continuously in the one lustrous Times Square, there was once a surplus in this nation! There was, believe me – I have read the banned books. All of them passed through the generations of my Family. My friends, my comrades, my fellow Americans – let us join our hands and take this War to their Home on Pennsylvania Avenue!

Sincerely,

The Wraith

They’ll be good girls and boys in the Fletcher Memorial Home for colonial wasters of life and limb

Is everyone in? Are you having a nice time? Now, the final solution can be implied…

Pink Floyd, The Fletcher Memorial Home (Banned in the Year, 2013)

 

VII

 

 planted on the cold steel of the operating table, Rachelle flinched as the cold burrowed into her bones, and again as the hypodermic needle pierced her flesh. The anaesthetic sidled through her nervous system until all she felt was the low hum of numbness. Everything would be okay, everything would be better now. She would be – safe. Safer than Persephone was supposed to make her, at least.

She felt it, in an abstract way, at least. Her mind was aware of what was happening, so maybe she was imagining the sensation of the thin blade of the scalpel slicing open the back of her neck. It was highly possible, it could all be a figment of her imagination, and maybe she wasn’t feeling anything at all, but she did feel, and she knew she felt, was the removal of the small titanium chip. Her eyes watered, but she was unable to move. Her body had grown rigid with shock and fear, her soul removed from her body, and she could only barely hear the voices screaming over her, as though she was a foot under water.

Warmth dribbled down her neck and slowly culled her from the water, like a baptised child, and she became aware of her surroundings and body in the vaguest of senses. The table was chilling her bare torso, a slight ache of pain throbbed at the back of her neck, and she felt the cool air on the exposed muscle, it was then that she felt the first stick of the needle and surgical thread run through her skin, bringing the bottom of the cut back together. Each pass through brought with it more awareness, more continuity in her thoughts, and as she felt the thread being pulled taut and tied, starbursts exploded in her open eyes. A low whisper of a groan escaped her lips, dry as the desert, and she felt a hand squeeze hers. It was okay, the grip said, and she knew it to be true. There had been a small moment of panic, but nothing that could not have been controlled.

“You’re alright.” A girl’s voice said – her girl’s voice, as she pieced together all the subtle variances in the voice. They’d been together a few years now, and Rachelle was glad to have her here, to have her understand so thoroughly that she would be next on the table, and Rachelle would be holding her hand. It was the way it worked, and it fit so well, the two of them together, but They did not see it as a good thing, a natural thing. They saw it was against the natural order of a man and woman, and had outlawed their relationship – Rachelle remembered the ensuing conversation well, or at least the first sentence to escape her lips upon hearing the news. Damn the torpedoes, they can’t tell us who to be with. It was said with a fervour and Rachelle found herself on her feet and screaming at the television. They were together now, they were here now, and there wasn’t a way They would be able to stop them now. No way to find them and stop them, now. They could be happy now, without looking over their shoulders at every loud noise.

A sheet was draped over Rachelle’s back and she pulled it around herself as she sat up on the table and looked into those large green eyes, wet with tears of worry.

“I know I’m alright, I’m with you.”

 

VIII

 

 light filled the room from the computer monitor, hacked beyond the control of the Government, and sitting before it was a man in his early thirties. His hair was dark and unkempt, but his eyes were sharp and his fingers flew like lightning over the keyboard, dispensing code and news that the Government did not want the people to see. More and more killings in the Middle East, the deficit plummeting to unfathomable depths, and the truth behind the walls of Guantánamo Bay. His call sign was Metis, and no one knew him as anything but. He leaned back from the computer and eyed his handiwork, the finite delicacy of this particular website was something to be marvelled at, but he knew that few would see it.

Well, he laughed to himself, many would see it, but few would see what lies beneath. He shook his head and rolled his mouse across the finished product, scrubbing away the first layer – the plastic filth of Their propaganda, and exposed a series of links to navigate through the underbelly of the interweb. Metis lit his celebratory cigar and flitted through the depths, through the message boards, to read what his fans and accomplices were saying. There was plenty. They all had something to contribute.

Their own stories of this new regime, their first hand accounts of the atrocities filling the streets. They, like him, did not live by the censor once implanted at the base of the skulls. They did not cower in fear. They were free, and he had contributed to it all, in his own way. He had brought them a certain thought and wisdom, and he hoped that it would outlive him.

At first, he thought it was nothing more than the neighbours over the hum of the computer, but then he heard it, closer and urgent – a rapping at his door. He pushed away from the desk and stood, his bulky and towering frame filled the space that was not occupied by books, by computer bits and bobbles, by paraphernalia of a forgotten era. He stumbled through the apartment, catching himself on a barstool. Metis kicked the debris from the path to the door and continued on, wrapping his hand around the cold brass of the doorknob and heaved open the heavy steel door.

It came before he could process what he had seen – a torrent of hot, searing lead that tore mercilessly through his muscle and bones, his veins and sinew. His body was left in a heap in the doorway, and the remnants of his computer sparked and set the litter of his apartment to burn. The group of men dressed in black and grey fatigues strolled down the hall and stairwell, out of the building without their bodies showing the slightest excitement. Their collective heart rate barely elevated.

“Just another day at the office, honey.”

 

IX

 

 were the agency formed after the terrorist attacks throughout the country, perpetrated by the Palestinians, Iranians and the Turkish. Amidst the ruins and hysteria, there was little question from the population of the country at their power. If there were any suspicion of terrorist activity, they were dispatched to quell the situation – any suspicion, without question and the authority to use any means necessary. They were a cross between CIA spooks and true mercenaries, and no one had any delusions about their intentions when they were seen in their big grey cars and deep black suits. They were what their name implied, and much more – they were harbingers of death.

Without identifying marks, such as fingerprints or names, they did not exist, but they could leave a mark. And it was long, vapour trail of scorched earth in their wake, comparable to the Four Horsemen. They were above the law and reported directly to the president on all matters, and only to the president.

                It was after the final attack, upon the city of Atlanta that they were founded; a dirty bomb ripped through the international airport. The horrific screams could be heard all around as the inhabitants were gutted, their intestines spilling out onto the floor from their orifices, all the way to the White House, and it was at that moment that the current resident president slammed his fist down upon the black leather bound bible in the Oval Office and declared that all were now going to be held accountable, and that the country would go to any means necessary to bring justice. Come hell or high water, the enemy would pay.

 

X

 

 a doubt, there are conspiracy theorists about the attacks, about the mayhem and blood that has littered the streets of the country; there were tall-tales from the beginning. Everybody’s heard them, and probably came up with one or two of their own for a laugh, but we know that’s all they are – tall tales. There is no truth behind them, no substance, or any proof that the Government ordered the attacks. The Crazies have been saying it since the beginning, since Nine-Eleven. I even heard one that it was a cover for an Alien body, but those few, I think have seen too many episodes of The X-Files.

“No, your Government had no hand in the attacks. They were not staged, they were not forged, and they were not a means to boost Patriotism in the hearts and minds of our citizens. Your Government would never lie to you, we would never deceive you. It’s the enemy – they hate us for our freedom. To think that we had a hand in any of the events that have transpired upon our soil is ludicrous, and absolutely Un-American. Those foreigners hate us for our freedom, and they’ll do whatever it takes to do so. Their means of spreading discord are effective, and there are a few people in this country that do not believe as they’re told. They want to believe that it was all a ruse, a fireworks display for the Flag, the Cross, or the Fourth of July.

“My fellow Americans, I promise you, if there were any other way, we would exhaust all research and implement it as soon as possible. It is not our intent to see Good Americans slaughtered in the streets of the Middle East by the dozens every day as we try to bring those people freedom.

“And I must say, all these absurd rumours floating around about a military instillation called Ghosts, are just that, absolutely absurd. There are no secret agencies within the administration, and there are certainly not torture tactics being employed to uncover information. All of our interrogation techniques are legal. My fellow Americans, I am – we are doing what we are able to keep you safe, to keep the Enemy at bay, and off our soil, because if we don’t fight them there, they’ll come here. They’ll follow us home. It is sad, but it is the truth.

“Also, I’d like to say that by the reports that came across my desk this morning, the latest surge of troops is working, and we’re getting closer to bringing peace and democracy to the Middle East, and we will not let their hate mongering fill our hearts when we know we are in the right – we stand behind the Flag and the Bible for you, my fellow Americans, and by God’s divine grace, we are beginning to see an end to the tensions in the world around us. Goodnight and God Bless America!”

XI

 

 was a thicket of trees that blocked out the stars, not the light pollution of a metropolis, and Jack Watson breathed in the fresh air as though it were a tonic, an oxygen high that would rival all others. His thick grey hair bristled in the slow, subtle breeze that barely whispered against the leaves – he was on his way down this catacomb of trees, listening to the subtle nuances of nature with his ears pricked for the noise that would greet him at the end of this trek through the forest from his hovel.

Jack lived in an old farmhouse, well beyond the grip of any known metropolis, and his land had become, over the years, something of a compound, or a commune, but those labels always struck him as either too militant or too… hippie-esque. What he had was a safe place. He had contemplated moving into a city once the town went bust, once it had become little more than swampland, and he had made ventures to look for a house or apartment, some place to rest his bones for his remaining years, but he noticed something.

He noticed that during the week he had spent in the city, his mind had become clouded, restricted, as though a few of the receptors had been switched off, but upon returning home to his shack, it was as though a dense fog had lifted. Part of him believed it to be the clean air, the country air, but another part of him looked at the water, and living far away from the city had kept him on a well.

Over the years since that sojourn into the city, he’d read up on Persephone, and the effects thereof. He had also read about it being introduced into the water supply, to strengthen the vaccination. Jack could never remember where he had found the article, because every subsequent time he had looked for it, it was never there. It was as though the site had been pulled from the vastness of the interweb. He had come of age during the change, and had never placed too much faith in the Powers That Be. He had witnessed the underhanded, subliminal shift of power, and he remembered a different time, when the world was at peace.

Jack could never tell anyone the impetus behind the change – it was too long ago to remember specifics, but he knew it was different. He remembered a single day that would always be remembered, but he could never speak of it. That day would be forever scarred into his memory, and in reality, he supposed that was the day the world went away. At least, the world that he knew. It was in that fervour, that fire in the country, that everything went awry and from the ashes, he could remember the deafening war cry. It was a war against difference, against differing belief structures. He had always been a Christian and always believed in God, but the atrocities that were being carried out in his name shook his resolve. He left the church, but he did not leave his face, and spotted between the trees, in a small hole that looked upon the great white moon, Jack saw his God staring down at him with a welcoming smile.

It was there that he heard a burst of laughter, of cheering, and he felt the warmth of the bonfire burning in a small hollow.

The faces that gazed at him were aglow with their own blaze. It was beautiful, and it all warmed more than his flesh. These were people he had helped; he had brought in from the cold, and gave them a place to stay in this world of chaos. They were free from the taint of Persephone, and they could all live without being judged. In a way, they were the children he could never have, and they all loved him just the same.

 

XII

 

 the park was a gaggle of politicians, all preaching from their pulpit of fire and brimstone and hate. He watched them from the shadows, from the shade of the Birch tree he was standing beneath. The crowd before them, the peons bowing and scraping, breathing in their every word as though it were the definitive truth. They would never understand. They wouldn’t have a chance to even try, he told himself as he watched them meander about the paddock, heads bowing in reverence at the proper moments. The way they moved, a flock of birds didn’t have the coordination – it was frightening, and he wondered how much longer it would be before they moved in for the kill, like a swarm of zombies in some bad b-movie. He wasn’t going to take the chance. No, it had to be done.

The man in the shadows closed his eyes and held his breath, his head bowed. In his closed fist was a roughshod steel box, with a single button and the nub of an antennae. There was a second of hidden reservation, but it was blown back by the explosion.

Screams tore through the surrounding blocks and sirens exploded in retaliation. He stood beneath the Birch tree and watched as a flock of birds scattered from the branches. A cloud of black against the sun burning high in the sky, they moved with deft precision through the clouds, away from the burning earth and flesh, away from the ensuing chaos. He watched as the police created a perimeter around the park, beneath a thick cloud of smoke. He turned away from the scene and walked away from the carnage, lost in the crowd that was bearing down on the scene. He walked toward the heart of the city, and negotiated his way toward an empty alleyway.

From his pocket, he removed a cell phone, hacked outside of any means of location, and he dialled the nine digits to the reigning news station in the city. The line opened on the other end with a subtle click.

“I killed the Senator. I am an American, and I am not a terrorist. I am a patriot…” His speech to the deadened silence of a newscaster would be aired that night and for several days to come, and would be analysed by every agency within the borders of the country. However, he knew it would go without saying, he would be branded a terrorist, a public enemy number one. It was the cost he was willing to pay, and as he hung up the cell and stepped back into the flood of people, he made his way to the apartment in the hellish part of town. Oh wait, the whole city was hell, and he wasn’t even a baby daemon. He cracked a smile and bowed his head to hide his face. Amidst the chaos and destruction, he found the beauty.

“Hey, what’s your name? You look familiar.” A voice said as it’s shoulder crashed into his.

“What?”

“What’s your name?”

“The Magus.” He shoved the body away from him and walked away, an unlit, crumpled cigarette dangling from his lip.

 

XIII.

 

 out and grey, the pockmarked sky bleeding through the thin curtains and bathing the dingy apartment in its dead half-light. The skeletal frame of a boy propped up between the wall and an overloaded bookshelf staring out through shadowed eyes, the dark mop of unkempt hair jutting out at all angles from his scalp. It was one of those days and he could feel it in his bones, as the waning sun died, he knew the rain would come – the clouds coming in off the breeze from the horizon smacked of a storm, rolling as they would in a movie, as he thought only possible in a movie, and betwixt their voluminous folds he saw lightning forking like a serpent’s tongue. Pushing off from the juxtaposition of the wall and the bookshelf, he approached the window and stared out over the jagged skyline of the cityscape and looked into the clouds, and thought he saw a tinge of green in those cloud – scaly and slithering over the horizon. The storm was coming and he opened the window to taste the electricity in the air. It tingled upon his tongue, and he closed his eyes.

Lightning exploded outside and through his closed lids, he saw the world catch fire in a deep rolling red as the light permeated his blood vessels. They seemed to explode themselves and give him a vision he’d never seen before – it was as beautiful as it was terrifying, as though he was being engulfed in the flames. Reaching out his hand, he felt the rain coming down in a sheet and stinging his flesh and pooling in his cupped palms, leaking between his fingers and falling to the wrought iron fire escape and down to the street several story below.

The air was electric, coursing through his veins and scorching the edges of his very soul. The storm had descended upon the city and opening his eyes, he watched the green tinged sky churn overhead, rolling through with the face of God.

                His eyes opened and he watched across the street to an open window and a couple making love in the sunlight, bathed in the warm glow with the rain and lightning and thunder washing over them in great audible waves. He watched their faces from afar, filled with love, with ecstasy, with every human emotion he had not felt in so long. Leaning against the open window, he watched them with the softest gaze, wondering with a pain coursing through his very veins, what it would feel like to have that love just one more time, and it hurt to remember the last time. The last time he had allowed himself to be so close to someone as to truly feel them from the inside out and to have love burning through one to the other and back again. In his mind’s eye, he could feel it again, he could see it and he remembered and those happy times still hurt like hell. In this rain, in the balmy air, he felt it rip apart as he watched this pair of young lovers across the street, caught in the throes of passion…

And it all happened as an instant, before he could even fully process it…

In the distance a low almost inaudible whisper kissed his ears, but he saw it before he heard the whistle of it coming in, followed by a soft thwump, the sound of a Zippo being lit, erupting to flame, and in the heart of the city, a volcano of flame erupted, billowing out and the world went white, spreading out from the heart along all the frozen arteries of time.

It all happened in an instant, a blink of an eye as he watched the lover’s shadows charred into the wall, and the world felt nothing at all.