Life After Death: Epilogue

It had taken the entirety of what was left of the armed forces, police, and every able-bodied person with a gun that could follow orders; but after five long years the dead were finally defeated. It had been bloody, horrifying, and costed many lives, and some would say it was all worth it. Oddly enough the revolution of the fall of the zombies began in the west, what used to be California. Small bands of people that had dared to own guns, despite the states laws, began to group together and started to clear out the state at the end of the first year of the apocalypse. It was a slow, arduous process, but it was continuing.

By the second year societal measures and pleasantries had all but died out, leaving the living with a survivalist mentality. Most people through the world had boiled down to the three types of survivors: The ones that created settlements, the ones that were loners, and the raiders. From what had been seen so far, with the effort of the restoration of the modern world, was that the raiders tended to outlive others. All of this was rhetoric at this point, none of the information was new to them, but they still had to remind themselves every now and again.

Dale had traveled so much of the country his head was unable to keep up. After he went to Florida to reunite with his family, and only meeting disappointment, he decided to continue his fight against the dead the best way he knew how: Violence. And he’d done a good job of it, racking up more kills than anyone in the “New Militia.” It had been tough to get everyone under the same roof and to fight for the same cause, but it was done. Old prejudices had tried to flare up anew, but they were quickly snuffed out. He stood in the frozen north, his new job was to find survivors. Luckily it was the middle of spring, nearly two years after he’d parted ways with that M kid, the last person he’d actually liked after all this began.

He wondered why he’d thought of the kid, but then remembered they’d come from that settlement a few hundred miles or so to the East, and they had talked about him with nothing but praise. Maybe they’d meet up again, maybe they would go back to protecting the world together. As he walked up the hill to this lone gas station in the middle of a high end neighborhood that was now awash in soldiers and gunfire, pillars of black smoke where the bodies were burning en masse.

Dale and a few other soldiers approached the small, boarded up establishment with caution, though nothing seemed out of place. Of course, that thought almost always precede some kind of tragedy. One of the soldier’s foot hit a tripwire, something above them in the canopy of the building made a ‘twang’ noise, and three arrows rained down upon the unknowing man. The first arrow missed his head by inches, the second buried itself in his bulletproof vest, the last one was the lucky one, it pierced his shin, going clean through. He screamed and clutched at the shaft, not sure what to do, screaming in pain. The rest of the crew paused, “We have an active trap situation!” The cry flew back in the ranks, the fifty or sixty soldiers behind Dale repeating it.

It took hours and three more injured soldiers to undo all the traps surrounding the tiny building. It put the entire party in a foul mood, Dale matched their dark outlook, and everyone was eager to get at the doors and take a look at who was inside. Crowbars pried off planks of wood, several windows at a time, and tear gas was thrown in. It was time to wait, again. After the billows of white had settled the team planned to enter, tossing in flash bangs before they kicked in the door. Cries of ‘Clear!’ Began to come from inside, then one of the senior crew stepped out, “Dale, you might want to come see this.” Confused, he checked to make sure his weapon was loaded and ready for use.

Inside the store it stunk, even past all the smoke and countermeasures that had been thrown in. Rotted meat, spoiled milk, molded bread, all their smells made the air thick with disgust. Dale walked in, grimaced at the overload to his senses, and followed the column of body armor and rifles to the back of the store. He was genuinely surprised when the room past the feces smeared door was pristinely clean. The manager’s office was almost perfectly cleaned out to make a shelter, a bed room, and even some kind of medical supplies were neatly stacked on a shelf. Now that the smell of the outside room was fading, it was being replaced by another smell: The dead.

In the tiny room there was no where to hide, even the rolled up sleeping bag was laid open, it’s bare interior open for inspection. But the door to the small bathroom was closed, a seal for whatever was behind it. Two men sidled the door and meticulously opened it, their weapons pointed at whatever, or whoever was inside once it had been flung aside. Dale watched their shoulders go lax and their weapons returned, and they parted to give Dale a look inside. It was probably the first time in a few years that he’d felt something, despair trickled down his body like cold rain drops. The corpse inside, still holding a blade was M’s.

Dale groaned softly as he approached the dead body, inspecting it. The young man’s muscles had withered, his thick chest now sunken, ribs protruding through the taught skin, his waist tiny, now. Dale kneeled before the shirtless cadaver that used to be his friend, looking up at his face through the waterfall of curled hair. The charming looks were gone, replaced by taught skin, sunken eyes, and all the color gone. In the hand opposite the knife there was a rolled up piece of paper, Dale took it with a quiet apology, “I’m sorry, buddy. I really am. Rest in peace, now.” Dale stood and addressed the men behind him without looking at them, “He gets a proper burial, you get me? He was a good guy. And whatever deity you believe in help you all if I find out anything otherwise happens.” A quiet respectful ‘Yes, sir.’ came from back.

Dale left the market, hearing the cause of death was starvation right before he hit the daylight again. Sentiment was the last thing he was good at, but he knew that kid deserved more, he belonged amongst the living. A curse blew the first plume of cigarette smoke out of Dale’s mouth. It had been the first time he’d smoked in more months than he cared to remember. The soldiers brought M out in a body bag, carefully, and set him aside for the burial. Dale could only shake his head as he unrolled the note that was in his friend’s hand. It was short, but it pained Dale worse than any other goodbye letter he’d read. He went over it twice and folded it up, then slipped it into his shirt pocket. Despite his loss he needed to get back to work. But those words haunted him, even after the world was fixed. It read:

“Dear Chelsea, I’m so sorry. I tried. But, it changed me, after all.”

The Burnt World: Part 3

Job slept soundly, the smell of candles and dirt easing him, reminding him of certain childhood memories. His dreams, however, were not so peaceful. The disembodied mind of his swam and sluiced through nightmare after nightmare, exploring each one with wicked curiosity, not bothering to let one end, before plummeting to the next. Somewhere, unconsciously he was fighting back, trying to remember things from before, but couldn't. He was a victim to the abyss, falling through the void filled with horrible images and things his mind had imagined. Cascading down the ever-flowing river of terror was pain, but his mind was somehow at home. Abruptly, it all stopped. 

In the middle of the barren desert, a field with nothing, Job stood, looking around. Above him the bioluminescent creature bellowed and walked, casting long shadows. Off to his right, he heard the chittering of the smaller insect types he'd seen, and it all seemed so odd. Then it began to rain; the same acid rain as before. His skin sizzled and smoked with each drop, but he felt no pain. He watched as his own flesh cooked and peeled away, plopping to the sodden floor, becoming a soft pile of blood and sinew. Before long that, too, dissolved into the wanting floor. Purple, red and green lightning ran through the sky, leaving white streaks in his vision. 

Right after the crooked lines faded away, skeletal hands pushed their way from the mud and grabbed his pants and feet, pulling him down. It happened with terrifying speed; so quickly, he barely had time to scream before the muck he was sinking into filled his mouth and swallowed his voice. The bony fingers grabbed harder, and pulled more. Job found his knife, but the panic was too much, and he awoke. It was a few seconds, but his eyes finally focused on what he had in his hands: the priest of the church, and a blade that was firmly placed against Jedidiah's throat. The man's voice, even with a weapon to his trachea, was still kind. "It's okay, Job. You're safe. Calm down, son. Calm down." A few more seconds passed, and the rest of the world fell into view for the man with the knife.

He was inside a church, with simple grey adobe walls, and bleached-out wood benches. The smell of wax and smoke hung steady in the air. Job relaxed his grip and apologized to the blind old man. "I'm sorry, Father. It's been a rough few days." After a comforting rub where the blade was, the priest smiled down, "I understand, son. This world is something else, considering where you come from." The old man took a seat at the end of the bench, when Job sat upright and sighed deeply, "For a long time, it seems, the people who survived were calling this new world hell. Perdition. And they believed that we'd been thrust into it. But luckily a scientific mind put all that to rest."

Job was curious and couldn't wait any longer to ask, "So you do believe my story? You don't think I made all that up?" The old priest looked over with a big smile, "My son, I live in a world of monsters and rain that will burn the flesh right off your bones. Nothing is too far-fetched for me." Another question popped into the soldier's mind, but his stomach spoke first, growling loudly. Jedidiah laughed and slapped his knee, "Now that's a sound I recognize all too easily, and one I can do something about. Come, we'll eat, and I'll take you to the town later. And we'll see if we can get you some more answers." The meal was meager, nothing more than bread with some kind of gravy poured atop it, bits of sausage in the concoction. As he ate and gulped down several cups of water, Job decided it was best not to ask where the meat for the sausage came from, and so the meal went quietly. After helping the old preacher with the dishes, it was time to meet the locals and search for more information. The entire thing had Job on edge, not knowing what was going to happen, or if he'd even be welcomed. 

The afternoon sun was no less harsh, blasting Jedidiah and Job with yellow rays and heat, punctuated with sharp sand kicked up by small gusts of wind. The church stood on a hill overlooking the small town of about a dozen buildings, built from rusted and rusting pieces of metal, adobe, and whatever materials the inhabitants could scrounge up. People walked about, covered almost from head to toe, sunglasses hiding their eyes. Hardly a glance was thrown their way as they traveled, as everyone seemed occupied with their own business. 

Job finally saw their destination: what could only be described as a town hall. The closer they got, and the denser the crowd of people grew, the more nervous the stranger became. Familiar sounds began to play for him, even in this distant future: people begging, cackling, mocking laughter, moans of the suffering, or those pretending to suffer, gruff bullies, and their bullied. Smells returned in a flood as well: stale urine, alcohol, and one thing or another being smoked. Job's fingers curled around a knife handle tightly, ready for anything that could go wrong. Time was relative; the more he noticed, the more it slowed down, and it felt like hours until they reached the front door.

The largest of what could only be construed as bouncers put their hand up, stopping both Jedidiah and Job. "What are you doing here, old man? There ain't no appointment set for you in the books." Job considered the big, meaty hand connected to an even beefier wrist, following it all the way up the muscle-thick arm, attached to an equally large body. This man would've been considered a specimen of fitness in Job's day, even with all the scars, the split lip, and the flesh of his left arm burnt and melted. As Jedidiah was about to answer, the large man leaned in close to Job's face, inspecting him. "Black man. Pretty, too. We ain't got many of you around. I hope I get to go first when they start to rape you silly." Laughter and cat calls poured forth in small waves from other men hanging around the door, some even finding their feet, and swaying as they slurred sexual and physical threats. 

All the alarms went off, all the red flags raised, and Job's mind began to commit to the deed of cutting his way out of this place, if he had to. In the midst of all the commotion, it was Jedidiah's calm voice that cut through it all, and restored attention to the matter at hand. "Why would you want to harm the man that is going to save us?" Several asked the meaning of the question, but Jedidiah played it close and quiet, "Why don't you let that information come from The Alderman, hmm? Why don't you go tell him our saviour has arrived?" Sneers of disappointment set into a number of faces, and with a nod from the biggest one, a shorter man ran inside the doors. They all wore the same kind of burlap clothing, each fashioned differently, although one had a decent version of jeans. For some reason, though, this made Job grateful for his clothing, which was simple, but well-built. As they waited, the lewd gestures returned, all aimed at the one man who didn't seem to have been burned by this world, and Job's hand returned to the handle of one of his knives.

The doors cracked open and the smaller man poked his head out, whispering to the giant man, who had to bend at the waist to get his ear close enough to hear it. With a sneer on his split lips, the big man opened the doors and pushed Jedidiah and Job inside. The world exploded into color. The town hall was more of a party palace than a hall. Two stories were packed with people, some scarred, some not, but all wore very little clothing. The lights were low, and the windows shut. Colored bulbs and spinning balls painted the dance floor in the room's center, packed tight with people grinding and singing to the song playing from the two giant speakers that doubled as pillars for the second floor. It was excess, and wanton. For some reason, it upset the soldier greatly.

A man dressed in "normal" clothes - jeans and a button-up shirt, neither made of burlap - appeared in front of them. He shouted over the music for Job to follow him, but leaned in and gently took Jedidiah's hand, whispering into a cupped hand the same. The old man complied with a smile, patting the man on the shoulder. The three men cut through the crowd, finding a staircase, then strode down a hallway with another two men standing guard. Finally, they stepped into a private office, isolated and insulated from the noise outside. The doors closed, and the commotion stopped.

Behind a desk, of bleached and damaged wood, sat a well-built man with grey streaks in his short-cropped hair, and a scar running from dark hairline to jawline. His clothes denoted that he was, indeed, the man in charge of this little town. When he welcomed his two guests, a thick Irish accent came forward, "Well, come in, then. S'not every day you get t'meet the saviour of the world, is it?" He laughed as he gestured to two large chairs stationed before his desk. Jedidiah seemed to know where it was, and sat down with a huff, Job following suit. "So tell me, Jed, 'ow is it this man is our saviour, eh? You wouldn't be pulling me leg, now, would 'ya?" A small smile never left the old man's lips, his demeanor still that of a patient grandfather speaking to a haughty grandson. "Nice to see you, too, Alderman. This is Job." The Alderman's eyes darted back and forth between his two guests when Jedidiah didn't go on, then he got the hint. "Oh, fuck me! Right! Where are my manners, huh?" He stood up and gave a small bow, "I'm Jason Alderman, the would-be king of this li'l circle of dirt we call home." Job stood and returned the bow. "I'm Lieutenant Job Jordan, uh, Army Corp of Engineers, retired, I guess." Alderman and Job sat down at the same time, but this time the room went silent. It was then that Job became aware of the two men behind him and Jedidiah, standing silently, and the heavy door, locked with several measures that would be difficult to undo under duress. 

Alderman chuckled a little bit. "Are ye' fucking kidding me, father? Your church f'nally delivers on somethin'." This made the hair on the back of Job's neck stand up. "What does that mean?" Jedidiah turned to answer, but Alderman cut him off, "I take it he 'asn't told you about his little church, there, Job?" The soldier shook his head as he found another knife handle, ready for anything, as the leader of the town continued. "The Church of Humanity. Science's shining beacon of hope left to us at the end of the Holy Wars. You see, there, boy-o, we nuked the planet; God's gift to us, some say, and in doin' so, nuked that fluffy bastard right out of the heavens. But the lonely folk still needed something to believe in, didn't they? So some scientist, all those years ago, said with all the religions gone from the world, we 'ave no choice but to believe in ourselves. Believe in the accomplishments we can now do without the shroud of judgment hangin' over us. The world was still burning, ya' see, and the skies were growing blacker by the day, and they said they found a solution: terraforming the Earth back t'normal. However, they were all scientists, not builders, so their inventions ended up being a relic. And the world continued t'burn. And folks, still needing something to believe in, didn't have the strength t'shrug off the failures of yet another church."

The more Job listened, the more lost he grew, wondering what all this had to do with him, why he should care, and why his branch name sat them back on their haunches. He opened his mouth, but again was interrupted by Alderman. "Now, the trick to a religion is t'always give some kind of prophecy, some idol, or somethin' like that t'hope for. And those founders did just that, saying one day there'd be a man who could fix the machines they built. And, boy-o, you fit the bill. I dunno what an 'army corp' is, but I do know what 'engineer' means." The big man sat back, studying his two guests, dry washing his hands, as he thought. The smile on his face seemed sinister and curious, and it further put Job on edge. Finally Jedidiah spoke, "I have faith in you, Job. Do you think you can try? I'm sure The Alderman would help in any way necessary." The soldier's mind raced with questions, but only one needed to be asked. "I'll try, on one condition. I need to find out what happened to the facility that was holding me. It's a day and half travel west from the church." The Alderman laughed, hard and loud, "It's your funeral, Job Jordan. I believe in fairness, so I'll let you get a look at what you're going t'be up against. And yeah, your condition will be met, you have me word on it." With that same wicked grin, the leader turned to a man behind Job and indicated with his head, "Take him to The Spire." Jedidiah began to protest, but Alderman quieted him, "He's going t'have to know, Father! You cannot send a man out there armed with only faith! Now pipe down and let the man see his fate." 

The man and Job walked for an hour, well beyond the fences of the town. Both passed an enclosure of creatures that could only be descendants of cows, fur replaced with leatherlike skin and thick protrusions over their eyes as shields from the sun; chickens; and a giant metal tank with something sloshing in water that he didn't want to know about. As if out of the rolling dirt and sand, there suddenly stood a structure that looked like a radio antenna fortified with parts of other things, but much, much taller. There were plane parts, ship parts, car parts, other antenna, and a door that he and the silent man walked through, and onto a small platform with two ropes on either side. The man passed one rope to Job and counted off. Each man began pulling, the platform lifted a few feet, and some hidden mechanism locked into place to keep them from plummeting back down. They repeated the process. It seemed like hours and felt like they climbed miles, when the platform finally clicked to a stop. The Spire creaked and swayed from powerful winds pounding mercilessly at it. The silent man waited between gusts to open the small door, and they both stepped through. 

What Job saw took his breath, and nearly brought him to his knees: miles and miles in each direction was nothing but sand, hills, and more clouds spewing acid rain upon the world. Job felt the crippling truth of how dead this world truly was, and wondered if there was, in fact, a way to fix it all. The more he stared at the nightmarescape, the more he saw: creatures that weren't there before frolicked on the sand, and the earth undulated like water as things moved beneath it. A tear escaping his eye burned all the way down his cheek until it evaporated.

The man pointed to a black pyramid that barely peaked the horizon, the distance indiscernible. "There. Machine." Job began to remember a book he'd read when he was a kid, about aliens invading Earth and killing all of humankind. That never bothered him, but the last line of the book had stuck with him, even when he'd grown up, even while he fought overseas and witnessed horrors he'd never speak of. It was those words that came screaming forth in his mind, bubbled up from his soul, found his mouth, and tumbled out to be carried away by the winds: "Truly the world is lost, and truly we are the damned." 

An Immortal's Tale: Final Chapter

An Immortal’s Tale

The Man In The Black Suit

Part 12
“The End Of All Things”

He didn’t remember the impact, the flames rushing into the cabin, or the screams of people around him. It was drowned out by the cacophony of the plane he was in, being torn to shreds and falling to the ground below. Hands roughly pulled Jon from the flaming wreckage. The Cult shot it down, they had been watching him, and now they were retrieving their prize. Jon’s eyes fluttered open and shut, between consciousness and blacking out. His last thought before the world turned black was, “The air is on fire.” 

Sounds couldn’t push through the fog of the crash or the pain he was feeling. He would slip back into the black, and resurface only for a moment to take in what was around him. He heard voices and felt hands tearing at his clothes. Nothingness returned. A silencing muzzle was forced over his mouth, his hands were wrenched behind his back, and there was a smell of ancient iron. Back into the void. Orange light, chanting, winds. He awoke.

He was on his knees in the dirt, upon a hill overlooking Bethlehem. The horizon was red with the violence below. Pillars of smoke and fire crept up from the city. If Jon concentrated his hearing, he could discern screams, heavy rocks falling from different structures and thudding to the ground below, crushing many. Mushroom clouds from things exploding would rocket up. Tears stung the immortal’s eyes as he watched, but couldn’t speak. He couldn’t believe it was happening again.

“Do you like the ritual, Paladin?” a voice behind him growled. The iron muzzle stopped his speech, the mittens of the same material stopped his powers, but he looked over his shoulder and leveled a smoldering gaze at the hooded man. Jon’s powers were suppressed, but his physical strength wasn’t. Despite all the cuts, bruises, and possible broken bones, hidden beneath his torn and tattered black suit, he began to twist and pull at his restraints. He would be free. He would avenge the innocent. 

The hood, flanked by four Cult members, looked down at the Paladin on his knees and laughed, “What’s the matter, Judas? I thought you enjoyed a little chaos?” The other hooded ones chimed in and repeated that name. He growled at them all, trying to let his eyes do the talking. He told himself to keep twisting, keep pushing, you’ll be free. “No? It’s OK. Only a few thousand or so need to die. Then you. And it’s all over.” Jon could hear the smile hidden by the hood. 

“Let’ssss kill him now! He owesss me an arm!” It was the scratchy, inhuman voice from the bar where Ricky worked, that reptilian creature that named him Judas. Two of the others hissed their agreement, but the one at the head of the group silenced them with a wave of his hand. Jon was taking inventory: one woman, one creature, two men, one leader, and the others doing the dirty work. “Get our guest up. It’s almost time.” The two men grabbed Jon under his arms and hauled him to his feet. "Keep twisting," he thought.

They began dragging him away from the horror he could do nothing about. One of his captors whispered in his ear, “Soon you’ll meet the one that made all this happen.” His arms were wrenched harder for no reason as they went. It was barely dusk as they set out, walking on and on until dawn broke. They walked through miles of desert, the dawn breaking a hearty red in the distance. Only then, against the glowing crimson, did he see other pillars of smoke, other cities burning to ruin.

With the day banishing the night, Jon saw their destination: a pile of rocks in the middle of the sand, golden colored to blend in, with a crack through the middle to act as a door. He said silent prayers for all the souls lost in the fires and the Cult’s acts of destruction. Just as the first rays of gold crawled over the distant mounds of smoke and sand, it was all taken away again as he was shoved head first down a long staircase.

Each carved, sharp rock step bit into his flesh and muscle, bruising here, cutting there, ripping his clothes further, as he descended the near hundred stairs, landing with a grunt on smooth stone. He was too dizzy to count the broken bones and whatever other damage he’d received on his trip down. Everything was a blur in his beaten vision, only the laughter coming down the same steps behind him rang true. His mind scattered again, but his body was already healing itself; he could feel it. He was suddenly being dragged; to whom, what, or where, he didn’t know.

He heard his name. Heard his name being spoken by a voice that was from long, long, ago. He figured he must have passed out. Then it came again. “Jon. Oh, Jon. Jon, Jon, Jon. Look at you, my son, you’re a mess.” With the world spinning in his head, the immortal opened his eyes and peered up at a face that couldn’t exist. The world stopped swirling, his body and its aches were forgotten, and even the iron clasps were a distant memory. Smiling down at him was Arthur’s face. King Arthur. 

The young ward that Jon had escorted to London stood before him; same head of curly hair, same boyish looks, the same height, and smile. But where there should be a childish charm or a kind of exuberance, there was age and hate. Behind those shimmering blue eyes, where there had been life, lurked evil. The Boy King knelt down, dressed in the Cult’s robes, and caressed the iron mask over Jon’s mouth as he spoke.

“Oh. I know you’re confused, but I did promise to never let anyone try and unite the three kingdoms again. And I intended upon keeping that promise. But the Cult, or the Brotherhood, or the Order, whatever name you choose to give them, took me under their wings, unlike you. You abandoned me, left me to a life of a king, a puppet on the strings of the church. But they told me about you. About what you were. About how you’re the greatest betrayer of them all: Judas.”

As the boy king walked away, Jon finally looked at his surroundings. The room was a circle, with runes, ancient and dangerous, drawn on the floor. Twelve circles, carved and not drawn, were amongst the runes. The stone that made up the room was amber in color, rough and dry. The ceiling soared fifty feet above, runes also drawn into it. Torches hung in iron braces and colored the rough stone with greasy, black smoke. This place was a ritual chamber designed for a great sacrifice. As Jon took it all in, Cult members dragged in others, placing them on their knees in the various circles. Twelve, including him. 

“You see, Paladin, I promised to never let anyone unite the three kingdoms, but after you threw me into a life of contrition and servitude under the guise of a church, the Cult began to teach me the truth. They gave me eternal life, and showed me that uniting the kingdoms would bring peace to this world; end its violence. But there needed to be a sacrifice: the blood of the twelve apostles of the Son of God.” Jon studied the other people in the room, all different ages and sexes, each with a Cult member behind them. 

Jon tried to protest, but his voice was nothing but murmurs, muffled by the muzzle. “Oh? You don’t think we should? Well...WHAT DO YOU KNOW?” When Arthur shouted, a wind swept over the immortal, hot as fire, scalding his unprotected skin. “YOU’RE A TRAITOR!” Another blast. Jon could feel his forehead and cheekbones begin to blister. 

The young man fixed his hair, the rage leaving his youthful face, then adjusted his dark orange robe. “No matter. It ends now. All of it. And now the three kingdoms will be one. And I, King Arthur, chosen by God, will have done it and given this horrid world peace.” He walked to the center of the room and pointed at the twelve to be sacrificed. 

“You eleven are descendents of the men who walked the Earth with the Son of God. He, however, is of the bloodline of Judas Iscariot, an immortal soul brought back to serve for eternity. Since the Great Betrayer did not have descendents, we reached to his lineage before him. You’re paying penance for that bastard grandchild of yours, named after you.” Oddly a great sense of relief washed over Jon, but at the same time he was filled with dread as the young man threw his hands up and began chanting. 

Torch flames flickered as the words poured out. Jon could only gaze in horror as each apostle was named, a person pointed at, then a stone blade was pulled hard and fast across their throat. As bodies fell and blades became coated in the spilled blood, the members of the Cult, one by one, gathered around Jon. A buzzing sound in the back of the immortal’s head suddenly appeared. It grew louder with each second. It was a voice, whispering to the Paladin. “Do you want to live, Jon?” 

More chanting and spilled blood glimmering on stone knives was all the muzzled immortal could think about. But the voice kept nagging. “Do you want to save the world, Paladin?” Six dead. Jon screamed against the iron clasped over his mouth, trying every spell he knew, ancient and new, forgotten and fresh. Nothing happened. 

Seven dead. Tears of desperation flowed. “Do you want to save them?” Eight dead. More hoods circled him. He pulled as hard as he could, his muscles screaming with pain as some tore, trying to break the iron mitts, but they didn't give. 

Nine hooded figures surrounded him now, hands holding him in place, as he stared at the wide eyes of the recently dead. “Jon, you can save them all. Do you want to?” The voice was almost as loud as Arthur’s as he chanted. Ten knives, dripping with the blood of the innocent. The immortal screamed as the last blade was pulled. Arthur now faced him, still chanting, his voice thundering like hundreds. The boy king’s arm descended and pointed at the iron-clad immortal and stopped chanting. 

The shock of the first stone blade plunging into him arrested his breath. “Jon, do you want to save them and yourself and the world?” Another knife. Then another. Each one going to the hilt, into his flesh. The pain began anew as more were plunged in.

Eleven handles stuck out from the immortal on his knees. A twelfth joined the others. Jon’s vision narrowed into blackness, like the shutter of a camera slowly closing, as he slumped to his side. As he landed, fresh pain from every blade shocked him.

Now the hooded figures gathered around Arthur, arms raised, and the chanting began again. “Save them all, Paladin. Do you want to save them all?” Jon’s view was now a pinhole in a black velvet blanket. With his last breath, Jon finally answered, “Yes.” His eyes closed. The world was gone; only darkness remained. Breath became a faint memory, heartbeats slowing to nothing. Immortality never meant not dying. 

Ululation joined the chants, with Cult of Altu’rang members raising their voices in celebration. Their work was done, their goal accomplished. They didn’t notice, in their jubilation, Jon’s body twitch. They didn’t see it stiffen. Nor did they witness the iron restraints glow white hot and melt, as the blades dissolved into molten glass on the floor. In fact, they only turned around when the final handle clattered to the ground. All of them now paid close attention as the immortal’s body stretched and bent in inhuman ways.

They were speechless as the man in the black suit began to right himself, limbs and head dangling and jerking randomly, like a marionette with certain strings cut. Jon was on his feet, his head thrown back, his body arched backward. A moan slowly rolled forth from the once-lifeless throat, that finally escalated into words as he stood straight and peered at the ones in hoods, his eyes now black as pitch.

“Oh, it feels so good to breathe in the dirt of this world again.” The once raucous crowd stood in muted awe. Arthur shouted “KILL HIM!” and the followers obeyed, shouting war cries. They brandished powers and new blades pulled from hidden pockets, but halted mid-stride and shouted. The man in the black suit raised his hand and mocked them with a frown, “Ah, ah, ah.” Legs that were once stiff now stepped closer. “I bet you’re confused, let me explain,” the man in the black suit said with a voice that was no longer Jon’s. 

“Allow me to introduce myself. I am the first betrayer. I walked the ashes of Pompeii. I swam through the rivers of blood that drowned Babylon. I am the Morning Star.” The man that was once Jon bowed at the waist, one hand tucked under him, the other thrown back in mock grace, “I am Lucifer.” Pitch-black eyes fixed themselves on Arthur as the oldest evil stood erect. The boy king yelled, “You cannot be here! This place is-” His voice choked off and was replaced with strangled noises as he lifted ten feet in the air. Lucifer sauntered over to the first member of the Cult, “Were you about to say ‘holy’? It’s OK. I’ll clarify.” 

The Devil leaned in and carefully inspected the first member as he spoke, his voice smooth as honey, yet grating as granite grinding against itself. “You see. I’m not unholy. Nor am I unwelcome in any holy place. I’m still God’s child.” He blew on the one he inspected, like blowing out a candle. With a scream that could only be described as pure agony, the hooded figure burst into flames and fell into a pile of smoldering ash. He looked up at Arthur, a look of question on his face, “Does it bother you? All those sacrifices. All that searching to find the descendents. All that time. Dashed by me?” 

The boy king couldn’t answer, and Lucifer made his way through each Cult of Altu’Rang member, reducing them to ash and screams. Finally, the Devil stood before Arthur, suspended in the air, hands clutching at his throat to try and pry loose something that wasn’t there. “You see, Arthur... can I call you Arthur? Ah, it doesn’t matter. Look. I can appreciate your little plan, here, but...” Lucifer let loose an exaggerated sigh, “It just doesn’t jive with my plans.” The boy king floated down to eye level with the Devil. “This world, Arthur, is...MINE.” The last word resounded in a voice so dark and powerful, the very walls cracked with its release.

“In time, that is. I know you’re wondering why I’d prevent this happening. How saving this pathetic world would be God’s work. Well, anyone can do God’s work. Anyone. However, since you wanted to unite the three kingdoms, I’ll be more than happy to give you a tour of Hell. Every. Square. Inch.” Lucifer’s hand shot out and gripped Arthur by the throat, smoke and a sizzling sound coming from the touch. “Let’s get started.” One last scream echoed through the chamber of sacrifice, longer and louder than all the rest.

Jon woke with a start. He found himself in the same strange room as before; however, the Cult was gone. His hands were free, as well as his mouth. The immortal searched his body for the knife wounds, only to find none. He looked around for the bodies of the eleven, but they, too, were gone. With confusion heavily weighing on him, he found his way back into the desert, where the sun was setting. Jonathan Ross stepped into the dusk-colored world and walked away from the rocks that should’ve been his tomb. He stopped when he saw a man sitting upon a random boulder.

He was tall, with long, perfect blonde hair cascading down his shoulders. He was clad in a red suit. The man turned to Jon. “Hi, there.” The Paladin was more than confused as he returned the greeting, “Uh...Hello...Who-” The man stood and straightened his suit, facing Jon with a sigh, “I’m the most beautiful of God’s angels. I’m the shadow that roams the earth. I’m-” Jon had to interrupt, “Lucifer. I get it.” The man sagged, this time the sigh real and filled with disappointment, “Oh, come on! I don’t get to do this often.” Jon shrugged his indifference and readied all his power, but it was Lucifer’s turn to interrupt, “That won’t be necessary. I’m not here to hurt you.” 

Jon relaxed himself, but only slightly, as the Devil went on. “The Cult is gone. The eleven returned to their former lives.” Apparently the immortal could not hide his confusion and Lucifer explained, “Their plan was cute. But it just doesn’t coincide with mine. Or God’s. So I took care of it. Had to borrow your soul and your body for a while, there, to get the job done.” The Devil approached Jon and patted him on the shoulder, “Don’t worry. The world is safe. Bethlehem didn’t burn, yada, yada. Your soul is yours again. I have no need for it. All is well. No need to thank me.” The immortal was more than uncomfortable with the gesture and it showed.

“Uh...thank you,” Jon spouted as Lucifer strolled away and peered into the sunset. “I said there was no need for that.” Jon again shrugged, eyeing all that was around him. “Well, it seems my work here is done. I’ll see you later, Jonathan Ross.” He turned and winked at the Paladin. “I don’t understand,” Jon, again, spouted. Lucifer turned to him and smiled, “You will. See you in a few years.” With a wink, the man with the blonde hair and perfect physique, dazzling smile, and voice of nothing but honey, disappeared. 

The immortal, the Paladin, the defender of all, Jonathan Ross, was now alone in the middle of the desert. With a heavy sigh, he headed toward what he thought was civilization, pondering all that had happened. Night was heavy and so were his thoughts as he walked, both breaking, like waves upon a rocky shore, as he finally entered a city. He made his way to the airport and bought a ticket home. 

As the plane took off, Jon adjusted his tie and looked out upon the world below, clouds and blue and people. He sighed a small sigh and crossed his arms, snuggling into his seat, ready for a peaceful sleep. The final thoughts that ran across his mind were, "I almost died. And it would’ve been worth it." His eyes closed and he fell deep into a restful sleep for the first time in a long time, knowing the end of all things is yet to come.