Dark Exodus

  John watched them, their attention totally fixated upon Elijah, and more specifically, the girl.

  Theo’s body began to morph in reaction. She crouched low to the ground, ready to attack.

  “Who are they?” Cassie asked.

  “They’re the next sons of bitches that are going to die,” Theo growled.

  “No,” John answered.

  Theo glared at him. “What do you mean no?” she asked.

  “This is it,” he told her. “This is what they came for. This is the end.”

  And with those words of finality, the divine beings began to glow with the intensity of a white-hot star.

  • • •

  The demons inside Elijah grew wild—frantic—in their presence.

  The divine beings had begun to glow, the heat being thrown from their bodies causing his skin to prickle, then blister.

  The screams of the demons trapped inside him were deafening, and he smiled with the knowledge that something good was going to happen as a result of his folly.

  The heat intensified, and the stink of his own burning skin had begun to choke him. Coughing on the acrid stench, he managed to slide his misshapen form closer to Emma Rose’s body, wrapping one scaled arm around her and pulling her close to him.

  The two together as they had been the day she had emerged from the abyss.

  “I think we’re ready now,” Elijah said to the angelic beings, as the demons of Hell yowled and tore at the inside of his being—of his soul—in protest.

  Then all was bright, the pain was gone.

  And there was only fire.

  • • •

  They’d all made it safely outside as Scopa House started to burn.

  It was fire unlike anything that John had ever seen before—so very bright and hungry.

  It was a fire of purification, he thought, as they all walked across the lawn, the mansion being consumed at their back. They all walked to where the Coalition chopper had landed, feeling that it was a safe distance away, and watched the home tainted by evil gradually cease to be.

  “Has Elijah gone to Heaven with Mommy?” Cassie asked, held in her father’s arms.

  Griffin didn’t answer her and just continued to hold her tight.

  John thought about the question and really didn’t have an answer. He believed that Elijah had meant well but had likely lost his way.

  But maybe, through his sacrifice today, he had somehow found it again.

  The roof over the main body of the mansion caved in with a dull roar, more white-hot flames reaching up into the sky as if to praise their creator for its glorious repast before starting to eat once more.

  He looked over to see Brenna standing off on her own, away from them, gun still clutched in her hand. He continued to stare at her until she felt his eyes upon him, and their gazes connected.

  “She was just a kid,” Brenna said, the emotions she was feeling traveling between them.

  “You did what was right,” he told her—reassured her. She accepted his words, putting the gun back into her holster.

  Nicole was crying, wiping at her wet cheeks furiously when she saw he was looking.

  “You okay?” he asked her.

  She nodded, holding back the flood of emotion. Her hands went to the area about her neck, where Daisy would be, but stopped, fluttered a bit, then returned to her waist.

  “Yeah,” she said sadly. “She’s in a better place.”

  John could see how much this pained her and decided to save the questions for another time.

  “Oh yeah,” she said then, wiping beneath her dripping nose with the back of her hand. “Took care of Fritz for you, too.”

  He looked at her hard, wanting more information.

  “Yeah,” she said with a nod. “I’m that much of a badass.”

  “We’ll have to talk about that,” he told her.

  Nicole nodded. “I’m sure we will.”

  Something exploded in the burning mansion, the windows that remained blowing outward in a symphony of shattering glass. Scopa House was almost gone now, little more than framework remaining.

  “I want waffles,” Cassie announced.

  Everyone looked to the child, her statement suddenly more interesting than the destruction of the demonically tainted abode.

  Theo, who had been squatting quietly by herself away from them, stood and walked toward the helicopter.

  “I want waffles, too,” she agreed. “Can you fly this?” she asked Griffin as she passed him and his daughter.

  “Yeah, I can.”

  “Good,” she said, walking up the ramp to go on board.

  “Let’s go have waffles.”

  They were all looking at him now.

  “You heard the lady,” John said, walking toward the chopper. “Let’s go have waffles.”

  EPILOGUE

  He’d forgotten his deadline. He never forgot a deadline.

  John was in Stephen’s office, going through one of the file cabinets searching for a contract that he’d signed a little over a year ago. It was for three books. He’d written the first two back-to-back, but the third he’d almost forgotten about completely.

  And couldn’t remember when it was due. What the hell was up with that?

  Glancing up from the overly stuffed drawer of important paperwork—at least that’s what Stephen called it—John saw Nicole leaning in the doorway.

  “Hey,” he said, continuing to go through each of the files, in search of a deadline.

  “Hey,” she responded, coming into the office. “Where’s Stephen?”

  “Out to lunch with Raphael,” he said. “You need him for something?”

  “Nope,” she said, sauntering closer. “Was hoping to talk with you.”

  “Okay,” he said, thinking that he had found what he was looking for, but it wasn’t. He was so screwed.

  “Was wondering,” she began.

  “Yes,” he said, knowing what she was about to ask and seeing that she was having some difficulty.

  “You don’t know what I’m going to ask,” she said.

  He looked up from the file drawer. “You want to know if you can stay here,” he said, his eyes going back to the files. “Yes.”

  “Oh,” she said, seeming a little taken aback. “How . . .”

  “Nana visited me in a dream last night, said that you wanted to stay. Also said that she thought it would be a really good idea.”

  “Really?” Nicole asked. “She said that?”

  “She did.”

  “And you and Theo are cool with that?”

  “Yeah,” John said with a shrug. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

  Nicole smiled, and he found himself captivated. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever actually seen her smile or look pleased in any way.

  “Cool,” she said.

  He went back to the files. He was getting closer to the end and still hadn’t found what he was looking for.

  Cassie was calling for Nicole.

  “I’m in here,” Nicole answered.

  “Are you going to read me this book?” the little girl asked, holding up a copy of Shel Silverstein’s Where the Sidewalk Ends.

  “Haven’t we already done that one?” Nicole asked.

  “Yeah, but it’s my favorite,” the little girl answered.

  “Oh,” Nicole responded to the girl. “If it’s your favorite, then yes.”

  She started from the office, being led away by the little girl who also now lived in his home.

  “Hey, John?” Nicole called to him.

  He tore his gaze from the last of the files.

  “Thanks,” she said, and smiled at him again. This one just as warm as the last. He could get used to seeing that around here.

  John closed the file cabinet with a g
runt of frustration, wondering if he’d kept the electronic file in his computer upstairs. It was worth a chance as he started from the office, about to climb the stairs to the second floor, when the doorbell rang.

  He stopped on the second step, turned with a roll of his eyes, and went to the door. Opening it, he saw a man in a dark suit standing there.

  “John Fogg?” the man asked.

  “Yes,” John said, noticing the black limousine parked in front of his home. Another man in a dark suit was helping someone from the back of the vehicle. Someone wearing the long black cassock of a Catholic priest.

  “Archbishop Calder is here for your appointment,” said the man at the door.

  “Appointment?” John questioned, watching as the old man was helped up the walkway toward his door. “I don’t recall having any . . .”

  “Jonathan Fogg,” the Archbishop said, extending his hand, displaying an enormous smile, and quickening his pace to reach him faster. The man assisting him practically needed to run to catch up. “I can’t tell you how lovely it is to finally meet you.”

  The old man gripped John’s hand powerfully and shook it up and down. “I’m Archbishop Calder, and this is my right hand, Francesco,” he said, presenting his aide. Francesco reached out to shake his hand as well. It was a real love fest on his doorstep.

  “I’m so glad that we could meet,” the old priest said.

  “Of course, Archbishop,” John said. “Please excuse my ignorance, but I don’t recall any meetings being set up for today.”

  Calder gave Francesco the hairy eyeball, and the man immediately took out his cell phone and began tapping away.

  “Not that there’s any problem,” John said.

  The old man smiled graciously.

  “Could you perhaps give me a hint as to why we are meeting?”

  Archbishop Calder’s face grew very serious. “I’ve come as a result of Elijah Covington’s death.”

  John listened with a slight nod.

  “With Elijah gone, the Coalition is leaderless, and these are certainly dark days,” the old man said. “With many more on the horizon, I fear.”

  “I’m sure you’re right though I hope that you’re not,” John said to the old man. “I’d be glad to help you vet the candidates that you’ve chosen if . . .”

  “We’ve already chosen, John,” Calder said.

  “Oh,” John said.

  “Elijah left specific instructions that in the event of his untimely passing, you were to lead the Coalition.”

  “Me.”

  “Yes.”

  And the weight of the world fell a little heavier down upon John Fogg’s shoulders.

  • • •

  Griffin sat at the desk inside the room that he’d been given, cleaning his weapon.

  He’d disassembled the semiautomatic pistol, laying out the pieces before him. With a solvent, he used a special brush to clean the barrel, then a rag to wipe an excess of cleaner away. The wire brush was also used on other parts of the gun as well.

  Griffin was assembling the gun again when he sensed that he was being watched. He turned in his chair and saw that the door was partially open.

  Theodora was standing there watching him. He got a quick chill up and down his spine as he saw her eyes. Since the business at Scopa House, they’d retained a strange, yellowish color. He felt as though he were looking into the gaze of a serpent of some kind.

  He was about to say something when she spoke first.

  “Remember what you promised,” she said to him, her yellow eyes no longer on him but on the partially assembled gun on the desk.

  She was making reference to what they’d talked about in the kitchen when he and Cassie had first arrived, that the Coalition had sent him there to keep an eye on her and her condition. That he would put her down if the need ever arose.

  “Got it,” he said with a slight nod.

  “Good,” she answered, leaving the doorway. “Have a good afternoon.”

  Griffin continued to assemble his weapon, remembering his promise, wondering if it would ever come to that.

  Fearful if he, or anybody else for that matter, was strong enough to accomplish the task.

  • • •

  Theo had promised them.

  She entered her room, closing the door behind her and locking it.

  They had spared her husband’s life, allowed him to live, as well as helped them to thwart Hell’s plans for the world.

  She owed them.

  Walking to the center of the room, she dropped down to the floor, arranging herself in the lotus position.

  She didn’t want to go to them, but she’d promised.

  Theo closed her eyes, breathing in and out, and resigned herself to the task.

  To her fate.

  They were waiting for her when she arrived.

  “A woman of her word,” Billy Sharp said, and chuckled.

  The markings upon her naked body were glowing, keeping the demons at a safe distance.

  She willed them dull, and soon they weren’t glowing anymore.

  Theo attempted eye contact with them, each and every one before she spoke.

  “So,” she said to them. “Shall we begin?”

  “Let’s,” Billy Sharp said, as the multitude of demons converged upon her.

  “Share with us in every detail how you plan to send us home.”

  • • •

  Every time Brenna closed her eyes, she saw the girl’s forehead, before and after she had put a bullet in it.

  She’d taken some time off since the incident, needing a chance to digest the latest act of violence she had committed. The ice in her glass of whiskey tinkled happily, reminding her that it was there. Reminding her that if she drank enough, she would maybe fall asleep and not have to think about what she had done.

  But there were other ways that she could distract herself.

  Brenna reached for her phone on the coffee table and dialed her ex. She listened to the rings, holding her breath, hoping that he was there. His voice mail picked up, and she did not leave a message.

  Tossing the phone onto the couch beside her, she laid her head back against the cushion and tried closing her eyes.

  The girl was there, waiting for her.

  Before and after a bullet was shot into her skull.

  Brenna drank her whiskey down.

  And then poured another . . . and another after that.

  • • •

  Craig Isabel felt the vibration of his phone in his pocket and ignored it, following the shadowy shape as it moved between the headstones and other grave markers at the Whispering Hill Cemetery.

  He saw that the figure had stopped up ahead, and approached.

  “Is this it?” he asked, a chill running down the length of his spine as a lump filled his throat.

  The thing of shadow said nothing as it stepped back, allowing him access.

  Craig stood at a distance, forcing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He could just about make out the bronze plaque laid in the ground, surrounded by grass. Someone—likely Brenna—had laid flowers there not too long ago, most of them still alive.

  He found that he was leaning on the shovel that he carried, craning his neck to make out the name upon the marker even though he knew exactly what it would say.

  “Closer,” said a voice now directly behind him, and he felt an icy touch upon his back, pushing him over to the marker.

  He stood before it now and fought back the urge to cry. This was the first time that he’d been back since the day of the burial.

  Since they put his little boy in the ground.

  “Oh God,” Craig said, starting to breathe heavier.

  “He is not listening,” said the voice, from somewhere in the darkness of the cemetery around him. “But w
e . . . are,” the voice completed, and the words gave Craig the strength to do what he had come there to do.

  Taking the shovel in both hands, he jammed the spade down into the earth.

  And he began to dig.

  Read on for an excerpt from

  A KISS BEFORE THE APOCALYPSE

  a Remy Chandler novel by Thomas E. Sniegoski.

  Available now in print and ebook.

  It was an unusually warm mid-September day in Boston. The kind of day that made one forget that the oft-harsh New England winter was on its way, just waiting around the corner, licking its lips and ready to pounce.

  Remy Chandler sat in his car at the far end of the Sunbeam Motor Lodge parking lot, sipping his fourth cup of coffee and wishing he had a fifth. He could never have enough coffee. He loved the taste, the smell, the hot feeling as it slid down his throat first thing in the morning; coffee was way up there on his top-ten list of favorite things. A beautiful September day made the list as well. Days like today more than proved he had made the right choice in becoming human.

  He reached down and turned up the volume on WBZ News Radio. Escalating violence in the Middle East was once again the headline, the latest attempts for peace shattered. Big surprise, Remy thought with a sigh, taking a sip from his coffee cup. When hasn’t there been violence in that region of the world? he reflected. For as long as he could remember, the bloodthirsty spectre of death and intolerance had hovered over those lands. He had tried to talk with them once, but they used his appearance as yet another excuse to pick up knives and swords and hack one another to bits in the name of God. The private investigator shook his head. That was a long time ago, but it always made him sad to see how little things had changed.

  To escape the news, he hit one of the preset buttons on the car’s radio. It was an oldies station; he found it faintly amusing that an “oldie” was a song recorded in the 1950s. Fats Domino was singing about finding his thrill on Blueberry Hill, as Remy took the last swig of coffee and gazed over at the motel.

  He’d been working this case for two months, a simple surveillance gig—keep an eye on Peter Mountgomery, copy editor for the Bronson Liturgical Book Company, and husband suspected of infidelity. It wasn’t the most stimulating job, but it did help to pay the bills. Remy spent much of his day drinking coffee, keeping up with Dilbert, and maintaining a log of the man’s daily activities and contacts. Ah, the thrilling life of the private gumshoe, he thought, eyeing the maroon car parked in a space across the lot. So far, Mountgomery was guilty of nothing more than having lunch with his secretary, but the detective had a sinking feeling that that was about to change.