And Historical.
Genghis Khan and his Mongol hordes devastating Central Asia and Russia.
King Herod the Great ordering the execution of all the young male children in the village of Bethlehem so he wouldn’t lose his throne to the “king” whose birth three wise men had read in the stars.
The horrors and tortures of the Spanish Inquisition, including the burning at the stake of all those whom the church declared heretics.
Robespierre and his Reign of Terror. Sixteen thousand people losing their heads to the guillotine.
King Leopold of Belgium’s atrocities in the Congo.
The murders of the Romanov family by the Bolsheviks in Russia in 1918.
The mass murder of many millions of people in the Soviet Union under Lenin and Stalin.
“Do you see him, Daniel?” my father asked as we watched Nazi soldiers wiping out the Warsaw Ghetto in 1941.
“No.”
“Look carefully. There. Skulking in the background.”
I stared beyond the hate-filled Nazis and the terrified Jews, and saw two glowing red dots.
I looked harder.
I saw him. The two points of throbbing red were his hideous, burning eyes.
“It’s Number 2! He was there?”
My father nodded. “Throughout history, whenever humankind, fueled by ignorance and hate, turns against itself, you will see him.”
And I did. Now that I knew what I was looking for, Abbadon was easy to spot. His appearance always changed, but his eyes never did. They burned like stoked embers in a hearth under the blast of a bellows whenever humans committed atrocities against other humans.
At the Jallianwala Bagh massacre of unarmed Indian protestors by the British in 1919.
In the killing fields of Cambodia, when the Marxist Khmer Rouge regime murdered more than two million of its fellow Cambodians.
He was there when Saddam Hussein gassed the Kurds.
He gloried in Beijing’s Tiananmen Square massacre in 1989.
He cheered on the holocaust in Rwanda when a million Tutsis were butchered.
“He is always there,” my father said. “He triumphs when hatred overpowers all other human emotions. Study him, Daniel. Study everything he does—and I mean everything. Every movement, every gesture, every telling smile. Look for his weaknesses.”
“I don’t see any!”
“Look harder.”
I did, but all I saw was the crimson-eyed fiend lurking in the background, delighting as human beings turned on one another. I watched until I couldn’t watch anymore.
I turned my head away from the carnage flowing across the barn walls just as Colonel Gaddafi was sending foreign mercenaries into the streets of Tripoli to murder his fellow Libyans.
“Focus, Daniel! Focus!”
I refused to look at the horror displayed on the walls any longer.
“Who is this monster?” I demanded.
“Focus, son!”
“No. Tell me. The List can’t, but you can, can’t you? Who is Number 2?”
My father heaved the heaviest sigh I have ever heard in my life.
“Very well, Daniel. You leave me no choice.”
I couldn’t believe it: my father was finally ready to tell me everything!
Chapter 57
MY FATHER’S FINAL lesson for the day was a shocker.
“This was the battle I had been preparing for, Daniel. In Kansas.”
“When Number 1 came for you and Mom?”
My father nodded.
“But why were you training to fight Number 2? Why not Number 1? If you had concentrated on the top gun…”
“It was my mission, Daniel. It was why your mother and I came to this planet.”
“To fight Number 2? I don’t get it.”
“Daniel, Number 2 is the one humans call the Prince of Darkness. He is Satan.”
“The devil?”
Now the walls of the barn were filled with fiery images. Michelangelo’s fresco The Last Judgment from the altar wall of the Sistine Chapel, showing Satan as the boatman Charon ferrying the evildoers down to hell. A snake hissing in the verdant undergrowth of a garden. The cloven-hoofed, twin-horned fiend of legend and horror films.
My father turned to gaze at the devilish imagery writhing across the walls.
“He is the great pretender,” my father said. “A fallen angel fighting for souls, hoping to lure them into the darkness. He is the one Muslims call Iblis, a demon created out of smokeless fire. He is Beelzebub, who can cast evil suggestions into the hearts of men and women. He is the one ancient Zoroastrians called Angra Mainyu, ‘the destructive spirit.’ And you, Daniel, must fight him.”
“Why?”
“Because this is the beginning of the Apocalypse. The final, cataclysmic battle between the forces of good and the forces of evil; the ultimate struggle between the creator and the destroyer; a clash that is written about in holy texts on every planet in this universe because the devil—the one who thrives on evil, hatred, and destruction—is everywhere.”
“Wait a second,” I said. “If Number 2 is the devil, who or what is Number 1?”
“Something much worse,” said my father. “He is a deity, Daniel. A god.”
PART THREE
WELCOME TO THE APOCALYPSE
Chapter 58
WHEN I WOKE up, I smelled pancakes. It was quite a contrast to the horrors I’d learned about the night before from Dad.
I rolled out of the bed in the Judges’ guest room and made my way downstairs to the kitchen.
I was relieved to see that the walls in Agent Judge’s house displayed the usual sort of framed pictures—not the horror show I had witnessed when my father turned the walls of the barn into the multiplex from hell. But seeing so many pictures of Mel—riding a pony in the paddock, winning her first horse-show ribbon, crossing our creek on horseback—bummed me out nearly as much.
Mel was still missing, of course.
And now I knew who had her: the devil himself. Going down the list of baddies you could be kidnapped by, it doesn’t get much worse than that.
I stepped into the kitchen.
“Good morning, Daniel.”
It was my mother, cooking up a storm. Like my dad, she is a total manifestation of my imagination and shares his uncanny ability to show up exactly when I need her most. And, like most moms, she also knows exactly what to make for breakfast when life gets tough. In addition to the pancakes I had already sniffed out, there were a dozen eggs sputtering in a skillet; bacon, sausage, and ham sizzling on the grill; cheese grits simmering in a pot; biscuits and cinnamon buns in the oven; pitchers of juice (orange, apple, grape, and grapefruit); and, of course, toast.
Hey, it’s just not breakfast without toast.
“Erm, are we expecting company?”
“No, dear. This is all for you. Your warrior’s breakfast.”
It’s a tradition in cultures everywhere: Before you go off to do battle, you pig out with one last feast. Either that or you fast in the desert to give yourself a lean, mean edge. Personally, I prefer the feast to the fast.
I settled in at the kitchen table and secured a checkered napkin in the collar of my T-shirt. Then I tucked into the mountain of food Mom had piled on my plate. When I was halfway through my second stack of pancakes, my mother sat down at the table with me.
“Daniel, do you know why your father never did battle with Number 2?”
“I guess because I was like three years old and he didn’t want to risk losing his death match with the devil, which would leave you a single parent and me a fatherless child. Of course, the way things worked out, I turned into a total orphan instead.”
My mother smiled and shook her head. “That’s not why he refused the fight, Daniel.”
I put down my knife and fork. She reached across the table to touch my hand with hers.
“Going up against the devil is not a task to be taken lightly. You only get one chance. If you lose, the consequences
are dire.”
“Wasn’t Dad ready? Was he afraid?”
“Your father has not been afraid of anything or anyone since the time he was two years old and his mother accidentally dropped him in the middle of an elephant stampede during mastodon mating season.”
“So why didn’t he take down Number 2 when he had the chance?”
“Because he knew a stronger warrior was coming along. One better suited to the task than he.”
“Who?”
“You, Daniel. You have more powers than your father and I combined. You are the one whose destiny has always been to deal with Number 2. I sometimes think creating you was the reason fate decreed that your father and I fall in love. Now we need to pray that you are ready for this fight.”
Then, right there at the kitchen table, my mom and I locked hands and bowed our heads to pray.
Hey, if you go up against evil alien baddies on a regular basis, prayer can be extremely useful. Sometimes you just need to call on a power greater than yourself—even if you, yourself, have all kinds of great powers.
But I never prayed like this before. And my mother? Her intensity was off the charts.
When we were finished I couldn’t help but ask, “Why did you pray so hard, Mom?”
“I’m trying to prepare you—and me—for the possibility of your death.”
“You think I’m gonna die when I go up against Abbadon?”
“Death is always with us, Daniel. None of us is immortal. Eventually, we must all depart this realm and move on to the next.”
Okay, even after biscuits and slabs of ham, that was probably the heaviest thing my mom could have served me for breakfast. And she wasn’t finished.
“Someone close to my heart is going to die soon, Daniel. I can feel it. The feeling is so strong there is an aura of certainty surrounding it.”
Something else you should probably know about my mom?
Her “feelings” are never, ever wrong.
Chapter 59
“GOOD MORNING, DANIEL,” Agent Judge greeted me as I entered the barnyard. “Sleep okay?”
“Yeah,” I lied, deciding not to go into the bit about fighting my dad nearly to the death.
“You hungry? The cook set up a mess tent in the paddock.”
“No thanks. I’m good.”
“Okay, then.” Agent Judge looked impatient. “We need to move out. Now. It’s time to take the fight to Abbadon.”
“Yes, sir. I was thinking we should double back to that abandoned coal mine in West Virginia. The bat cave might be some kind of an entrance into the underworld where he’s holding Mel hostage.”
I had decided not to tell Agent Judge what my father had told me—that this underworld might be the underworld, as in “the fiery pits of hell.”
“I’ve put together a special strike force,” Agent Judge continued. “Navy SEALs, Delta Force, Night Stalkers, Special Forces, Rangers. They’re the best of the best, Daniel. The bravest of the brave.”
“Did somebody call my name?” said Willy as he strode confidently into the barnyard. Joe, Emma, and Dana came striding right behind him. “Hey, you said you wanted the best of the best and the bravest of the brave. Guess it’s a good thing we were in the neighborhood, bro.”
I had to grin. If I was about to head down to the gates of hell, I figured it’d be great to have my gang covering my back.
“Thanks for being here, guys. This could be our most important alien hunt ever. It could also be the most dangerous.”
“Awesome,” said Joe, sniffing the air. “So, is that bacon or sausage?”
“Both. Plus ham. Go grab some. But hurry. We need to move out.”
“Grab some fruit, too, Joe,” suggested Emma.
“Yeah, right. Like that’s gonna happen.”
“Meet us in the paddock with the strike force,” I said.
“Will do.”
Joe bounded into the house while the rest of us hustled over to meet the team Agent Judge had assembled.
About 150 warriors were milling about in the fenced-in corral, packing up their equipment and rations. These battle-hardened veterans were decked out in black tactical gear, gloves, boots, and helmets. Confiscated alien weapons and ammo belts were slung over their shoulders. Their game-day faces were hidden behind ski masks, goggles, and blackout paint.
Still, even with this outstanding strike force, I could not imagine how we could defeat an enemy as powerful as the devil.
And, as you already know, if I can’t imagine it, I can’t do it.
Chapter 60
“GENTLEMEN,” I ANNOUNCED to the assembled troops, “my name is Daniel, and I will be your team leader on this mission.”
One hundred and fifty pairs of eyeballs drilled into me.
“Please forgive me for what I’m sure sounds like foolish arrogance, but trust me: I need to take point on this operation.”
The squadron of black-clad, armored warriors stood in stony silence.
“We are going up against an enemy unlike any you have ever encountered. As Agent Judge undoubtedly told you in his briefing, the monstrous warlord who calls himself Abbadon is an alien outlaw from an unknown planet and galaxy. What Agent Judge may not have told you is that I, too, am an alien. Over the past several years, I have dealt with and eliminated similar extraterrestrial threats to your planet. Therefore, I urge you not to let my youth mislead you. Yes, I am young, but right now, age is unimportant. I am the individual best suited to lead Earth’s response to this specific threat.”
I heard boots crinkle and weapons jangle as the soldiers shifted their weight from foot to foot while they considered my argument. Then one man stepped forward defiantly. He tipped up his goggles so I could read the steely machismo in his eyes.
“Prove it, kid,” he snarled.
“Sir,” I said firmly but (channeling my inner Xanthos) calmly, “we don’t really have time to—”
“To what? To see if you’re fit to lead?”
“Stand down, Navy SEAL,” said Agent Judge.
“No, sir. I will not stand down, nor will I remain silent, because, frankly, I don’t want to see more of my buddies die because some kid from outer space thinks he can become our field commander when he’s not even old enough to legally enlist. Sorry, sir, but I’m not going into a firefight following someone who looks like he ought to be bagging my groceries.”
Okay, the guy had a point. I was a kid. He was a professional. If I were him, would I follow me (or any other teenager) into a battle where the odds were so stacked against us? Doubtful. Unless, of course, the kid showed me that he (or she) was made of the right stuff. Then I might do it. Hey, Joan of Arc was a teenager when she led the French army to victory.
Macho Man swaggered forward, peeling off his weaponry and ammo belts. “You talk the talk, son. But can you walk the walk?” He tugged off his battle gloves, tucked them into his helmet, and tossed the bundle to the side. “Why don’t you show me what you’ve got?”
This SEAL was challenging me to a fight.
“Sir,” I said, “we need every member of this squad in top physical condition when we go up against Abbadon. We can’t afford casualties before we even encounter the enemy.”
“Casualties?” Macho Man didn’t like the sound of that.
“With all due respect, sir, I have no desire to hurt you.”
“Whoo-ooh,” the other soldiers jeered as they started to circle around us in the horse pen.
“Well, aren’t you polite.” The tough guy shed his tactical jacket. He was down to dog tags and a muscleman T-shirt. “Don’t worry, son. I think I can handle anything you can dish out. Heck, kid, I’ve got underwear older than you.”
“Daniel?” said Emma. “You could seriously hurt this human.”
“Don’t worry, Emma,” I said. “I promise I won’t throw a single punch.”
“That’s right, kid,” said the SEAL. “Because I’m gonna take you down with one punch. Nighty-night, Danny Boy. It’s lights-out time.”
And with that, the toughest Navy SEAL in the bunch came at me with a wicked left hook.
Chapter 61
I IMMEDIATELY WHIPPED back my head.
Remember how fast I can run?
Well, my individual body parts can bob and weave at hyperspeed, too.
When the SEAL’s fist sailed past the point where he thought my face should be, all he saw was a flesh-colored blur. So he tried again, this time with a right hook.
On the second punch, I think my head whooshing out of the way gave his knuckles windburn.
So he tried kicking me.
I dodged right.
He fell on his butt.
When he recovered and came at me with a second, soccer-style kick, I leaped up and landed behind him before he’d even completed his follow-through. His head swung back and forth a few times as he tried to figure out where I’d gone.
I tapped him on the shoulder to help him out. “Back here, sir.”
He spun around.
“Stand still, kid.”
“Not a wise strategy, sir.”
He came at me with both hands, trying to throttle me.
I ducked down into a squat so fast that I swirled up a dust cloud like the Tasmanian Devil.
The SEAL nearly shattered his fingers when his hands locked in the space my neck had occupied a split second earlier.
“I’m gonna rip your heart out of your chest and show it to you while it’s still beating, boy!”
Okay, I may have been the teenager in this fight, but the twentysomething SEAL could definitely win a medal for Most Immature. He was driven by sheer rage and kept flailing at me even as I zipped and zoomed out of reach.
“Fight me, kid!”
“I am!”
Hey, there’s no rule that says you must always beat your opponent with brute force. Sometimes you can just wait him out and wear him down. Call it my siege strategy—a prolonged and persistent effort that weakens the enemy to the point of ultimate surrender. Yes, I could’ve transformed myself into a brick wall and let Mr. Machismo land one punch that would’ve shattered every spindly bone in his fist, but, like I said, we needed every soldier and sailor we could muster to go up against Abbadon.