The Book of Neophyte: The Awakening

THE BOOK OF NEOPHYTE

THE AWAKENING

STEPHEN ALEXANDER

The Book of Neophyte

The Awakening

Copyright © 2011 by Stephen Alexander.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4620-0630-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-0629-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-0631-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011909317

iUniverse rev. date: 02/09/2017

Contents

Chapter 1 An Open Palm Grasp Of Defeat

Chapter 2 The Woman In Red

Chapter 3 Into The Darkness

Chapter 4 Welcome To My Nightmare

Chapter 5 The Dead Sea Scrolls

Chapter 6 The Grand Tour

Chapter 7 If Walls Could Talk

Chapter 8 The Sacrifice

Chapter 9 A Piece Of The Puzzle

Chapter 10 Clarity At What Cost?

Chapter 11 Among The Dead

Chapter 12 Sympathy For The Devil

Chapter 13 A Timeless Link

Chapter 14 A Stranger In Gold

Chapter 15 The Saratoga Springs Massacre

Chapter 16 Flight Of The Supernal

Chapter 17 Urielle’s Tale

Chapter 18 Training

Chapter 19 The Waterfront Festival

Chapter 20 The Ultimate Sin

Chapter 21 A Diplomatic Solution

Chapter 22 A Change In Plan

Chapter 23 The Great Migration

Chapter 24 The Jackal

Chapter 25 The Tunnel Of Improbus

Chapter 26 Rise Of The Destructor

Chapter 27 The Temple Of Belial

Chapter 28 A Tale As Old As Time

Chapter 29 Ressurection

Chapter 30 The Calling

Chapter 1 The Shadow People

In loving memory of my Grandfather

Guy Wellington Wood

Change does not roll in on the wheels of inevitability, but comes through continuous struggle. And so we must straighten our backs and work for our freedom. A man can’t ride you unless your back is bent.

- Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

He reveals deep and hidden things; he knows what lies in the darkness, yet light dwells within him.

Daniel 2:22

CHAPTER 1

AN OPEN PALM GRASP OF DEFEAT

RAIN PELTS MY DELICATE, pale flesh with a burst of winter morning chill. Each freezing droplet pierces my skin like a needle, biting exposed pores. I jolt awake from what felt like a deep, profound slumber. The shock abruptly forces my eyelids open, sending an unyielding rush of blood to pound my head. I’m barely coherent, every nerve in my body trembling uncontrollably. The slightest movements make me feel as though I could spontaneously combust.

All around me, confused and intrigued voices come from a crowd only visible by an obscure outline. Cameras and cell phones flash interminably from every direction, causing the scene to blink in and out of reality, making my head pound harder than I ever thought possible. Struggling to gain focus, I sense my facial muscles contract and constrict as my eyes moisten. I can feel steaming clouds of hot breath rush past my lips as I raise an arm, hoping to block the bright flashes burning my retinas. An overwhelming sense of agitation rushes through me.

I attempt to raise myself, leg muscles burning intensely. I’m in an open alleyway. The slight odour of what I can only think must be festering meat invades my senses while cold morning air bites my lungs with a fierce and desperate hunger. Every muscle throbs in agony as joints crack to bring my back into alignment with my legs. I feel as though I just ran a marathon.

Relentlessly I rub the goose-bumped flesh of my upper arms, desperate to keep warm while taking notice—and suddenly feeling defenseless—that I am naked.

Holy shit! I’m fucking naked!

I study my hands through a blurred haze that was once perfect vision. Two red blurs gradually become the shapes I recognize as my own hands.

Through a gap in the crowd, I spot my horrid reflection in the window of a nearby building. As I move forward, nervous spectators step aside with an obvious uneasiness. My eyes lock on an unrecognisable, twisted version of my former self. My jaw drops. I graze my fingertips across the syrupy, granular surface of my frigid cheek.

Every inch of bare flesh is covered in dry, dark crimson blood. It begins to dislodge and slowly slide off the surface of my skin, helped by the cold and cleansing rain.

My fingers snag as I run my glistening hands through greasy hair. While pulling shoulder length, dark brown strands out of my eyes, I try to peel the caked layers of blood and hair from my brow.

Get a grip on yourself, I say inwardly to the unfamiliar man in the window. Where am I? Who am I? My name is Michael—I think. As my eyes fix on my horrific appearance, I fight my memory, attempting to recall anything that may have lead to this confusing and unnerving moment.

Blood drips from my strong, angular jaw. My bright blue eyes stare back at me as I finally begin to recognize myself—but only just. I wonder if this really is my reflection staring back. Perhaps this is just another nightmare. Whether this is a dream or reality, it’s abundantly clear I’ve lingered in confusion for quite long enough.

The sound of approaching sirens provides a sudden burst of adrenaline. My focus quickly shifts to a desperate search for any means of escape.

There are only two possible options: the first is to move deeper into the alleyway; the second, toward the approaching police officers just arriving at the scene. Through the crowd, I can see them beeline toward me as I struggle to make an on-the-spot decision. My eyes lock on them as I step awkwardly backward, trying not to make it look too obvious that I’m about to make a break for it.

It’s pointless to conceal my intent. It’s quite clear the crowd knows what’s about to happen; some try to grab me, attempt their own arrest.

Shaking them loose and breaking free, I ignore their taunts and threatening remarks. Escaping the assailing crowd, I run like never before. Every muscle in my body burns. Every bone aches as I athletically weave around clusters of dumpsters and recycling containers. I run solely on adrenaline and fear, ignoring the commands of the police, who now threaten to shoot me if I don’t halt. I was taught never to run from the police. Everyone knows if the cops want you, they’re bringing a beating. But for reasons beyond my understanding, I choose to ignore them and take my chances. I’m now a good fifty feet away, a meager head start.

Before hearing shots, I feel sudden, tiny gusts of wind from what I know are bullets darting past. Small clouds of powdered brick fly out of the wall ahead as they pierce it. Then I feel a sudden and sharp stinging in my left ear as warm, fresh blood trickles into my ear canal.

I’ve been hit—well, almost.

Taking a sharp left, I’m offered a moment of relief from gunfire before I turn right to a disheartening dead end.

Sucking in a deep lungful of brisk morning air, I see no way out. Reality meets focus and tears fill my eyes.

I turn around and quickly employ my aching muscles once more to pull two large dumpsters ahead of me side-by-side in a pathetic attempt to barricade myself from the trailing crowd. I scan the confined space for anything I can protect myself with. There’s nothing but several bags of garbage, a discoloured backpack, and a worn, beat-up old couch that had been abandoned and left in the rain.

Police quickly swarm the opposite side of the barricade and begin pulling it apart. My heart races to a state of hysteria. Just before they finish pulling apart my barricade, some with guns drawn and raised, I snatch the backpack, taking care to partially conceal it, and shout in utmost desperation, ‘I have a bomb. Back up or we all die!’

The officers, unsure of the legitimacy of my claim, err on the side of caution and disperse to take cover, communicating frantically among themselves. I wait for a response, a negotiation to start. But nothing happens. I imagine that they didn’t come prepared for negotiating with a blood-soaked, naked madman wielding a bomb.

Perfect. Some time. That’s all I need.

I plant myself on the abandoned sofa. The fabric is cold and drenched from the rain. As I crouch and place my hands over my head, knowing I won’t have long before they figure out my ruse, I think hard for any possible way out of this nerve-racking dilemma. Fresh blood coats my hand as the wound splitting my upper ear surges with a sharp pain. Its ringing gradually muffles all outside sound while I struggle fruitlessly to think.

How did I get here? How long was I lying in the alleyway? How do I escape?

I pant hard as the cold hits my lungs in full capacity, allowing me to see my breath much clearer than before. I start hyperventilating, feeling my body’s energy drain as though it were being drawn by some supernatural force, a phantom sucking away what life I have left.

What’s going to happen when they realize there are no explosives? What’s the possibility a marksman will drop me from one of the rooftops?

This isn’t exactly the ideal location for a stand-off. I’m exposed and lack the energy to keep moving.

There’s no time to think, but I have to do something. I cautiously step toward the dumpsters while slowly lowering my so-called bomb, trying to convince myself to surrender. I suppose it’s better to give up and spend the rest of my life in prison than feel a hail of gunfire. On the other hand, what kind of life might await behind bars?

If only I could remember what happened last night. Perhaps this situation isn’t as bad as I think. Oh, who am I kidding? I’m buck naked, covered in blood, and running from the cops. Even if things really aren’t that bad, I made a fucking bomb threat! I’m probably considered a terrorist now, and we all know how our beloved government handles threats by terrorists. Maybe it is better to be a convict than a dead man.

I take one last look around. My mind tumbles like a rushing river over a cliff. I’m so caught up in this endless stream of tumultuous thought that I only just notice another foul smell breaching my senses. Twisting my head around, I suddenly notice a circular grate in the asphalt, half-concealed by a trash bag and adjacent to the couch, out of the cops’ view. It’s slightly ajar as if by some miracle I was meant to discover it—as if, after all, I was meant to escape.

My heart leaps with hope; this may not be the end!

But this next move might be impossible. It could kill me. Somehow I have to wheel around behind the couch, slide open the manhole, and lower myself inside with enough speed to avoid being shot.

Shit.

The officers are now telling me to slowly drop the backpack, unsure about other options of their own. I quickly glance at the rooftops. I see no one.

Here goes nothing.

I start to obey, slowly lowering the pack. Then, just before it touches the ground, I use what little strength I have left to swing it up hard, utilizing all muscles in my upper torso in an upward twisting motion, hurtling it over and behind the dumpsters. They’re scared. A couple of them fire on me but they miss. There’s no time to celebrate their bad aim. The backpack causes them to flee deeper into the network of alleys ahead. Not stopping to watch, knowing they’ll soon catch on, I spring around on legs that can hardly carry the weight of my bare body. I dash over the couch; slide along the rough, wet asphalt, scraping the left side of my body raw; and begin to pull away the manhole cover.

The pain of using my muscles for this is agonizing. The grate is heavy, much heavier than I thought. I want to stop, but I know there’s little choice but to endure. To stop—to give up—is to die.

With much effort, I conjure what is left of my upper arm strength and slide the manhole cover to the side, providing me with just enough space to slip through. Staring into the open blackness of the sewer, I lower myself in, not entirely sure if I’m just cornering myself again. Shots ring out above; dozens of bullets ricochet around the space I occupied only a second before.

After climbing down the steel ladder, I splash into a cold, wet current of rushing sewer water. The touch of the cold water causes me to gasp before I take in the overwhelmingly disgusting smell of the subterranean urban sewer system. I do my best to try and breathe through my mouth in an attempt to avoid vomiting, but I can feel the gurgling sensation at the base of my throat.

I move quickly. It doesn’t take long for me to realize I’m actually running through human excrement with bare feet and not a single article of clothing to protect me from infection. I’m drenched, freezing, exhausted, and fleeing from a possible life sentence. Could things get any worse?

As I lower my head and scurry through the low ceilings of the tunnel system, I hear above me the noise of moving vehicles, music rattling the windows of nearby buildings, and random snatches of conversation. The typical sounds of the city pulse in and out while I pass under each tiny beam of light revealing the urban landscape above.

Suddenly I stumble and plummet twenty feet down an unexpected waterfall into a pool of human shit. Never ask if things can get worse!

Fighting my way to the surface, I throw up under water. Vomit, and Hell knows what else, smears against my cheek as I swim to the surface of this bacteria-infested cesspool. This is without a doubt the most disgusting experience I have endured. Swimming toward the edge, I wonder if it would have been better to surrender. Even if I get out of this alive, I’m screwed. With the array of pictures taken in the alleyway, I’m easily identifiable. Someone will know who I am.

My fingertips graze against a solid surface. With great effort, I lift myself out of the cesspool and stagger forward as my vision blurs. My head begins to pound even harder. I vomit again and spit fiercely, trying to rid my mouth of the acidic taste.

Suddenly, the distant, echoing sounds of police radios and barking dogs snap me out of my stupor, and I stare into the man-size hole at the top of the waterfall from which I had fallen. Shadows pirouette on the walls. The dancing light of their flashlights reveal how fast they are advancing.

I turn and make haste through a large pipe, but suddenly I hear voices echoing from the path before me. Not many, but more than one for sure. They couldn’t have predicted my location this quickly, could they?

As I push farther into the tunnel, darkness envelopes me and I can no longer measure distance with any kind of accuracy. Straight ahead, a slight glow of light comes into view, allowing me to just make out where I’m going.

Coming to a halt, I reach a fork in the tunnel. The voices seem to be coming from the darkness on the left, but there’s a light in the distance to the right, the source of the glow. I give my head a shake and stagger toward it. While I approach, a ladder comes into view. Slight rays of daylight beam off each rung of the steel ladder from an opening high above.

I continue pushing forward. Footsteps and voices suddenly follow closely behind as I struggle hopelessly, taking one sloppy step after another, to reach the ladder in time.

The footsteps are faster and much sturdier than my own, but I keep running, clinging to every ounce of remaining hope. I falter due to exhaustion but somehow manage to keep my balance. Mere metres from the ladder, I extend an open hand to grasp the bottom rung when a cloaked figure suddenly steps out of the dense darkness beyond.

The man raises a hand and spreads a particularly large span of an open palm. My body crackles stiff like instantly hardening concrete, and I can’t move. He’s not physically touching me but somehow has a complete, arresting hold over me. What the fuck? I struggle hopelessly to catch a glimpse of my captor’s face, but the hood of his cloak reveals nothing but a long, thin beard braided in three parts dangling beneath his chin.

My heart races with fear, and though I’m unable to open my mouth, I attempt to scream. Tears drip from my solidified cheeks as I realized this could be my end; my futile attempt at freedom has been abruptly snuffed out like a cool draft to a flame.

A hand gently grasps my shoulder, and I spin around with a surprisingly smooth glide. I’m somehow hovering just above the sewer floor, possibly by a couple of millimetres; I hadn’t even felt my feet lift from the floor.

The second cloaked figure tilts his head slightly as they study me for a moment. A fist is raised and I’m struck to the ground, released from whatever mystical hold they had on me.

I can move, but barely. Panting relentlessly as blood fills my nostrils, I attempt to lift myself from the sewer floor. But my quivering arms give and I collapse, smacking my head against the wet concrete.

The dangling fabric of their cloaks becomes blurry and dark, and as a final sense of relief grips my soul, I slip into a state of welcomed unconsciousness.

CHAPTER 2

THE WOMAN IN RED

I AWAKE IN A SOBERING daze. I feel as if I’ve managed only a few hours of uninterrupted rest. There’s no way to tell what time it is due to a lack of windows in the tiny dim room I find myself in. The small, confined space lacks the glow of electricity, but I’m able to glimpse my dim surroundings by the light of a single candle sitting on the bedside table next to me. The filthy, stained mattress beneath me creaks when I abruptly sit up.

Standing, I notice that the floor beneath me, despite its concrete nature, is fairly warm. Raising a single foot in the candlelight, I discover white socks covering my feet and realize I’m fully clothed. I study my hands and touch my face, relieved by the lack of blood and grit on the soft surface of my clean skin. I have been washed, and the absence of pain when I touch my ear is evidence I have somehow been healed. I must have been unconscious for quite some time.

Despite the alarming circumstances of my presence at this unknown location, I feel as though I am somehow in the company of a welcoming entity. Perhaps this is a dream. Maybe I’m simply sleeping off a hangover in a friend’s basement, unaware of what’s really going on. It definitely wouldn’t be the first time. This place is unfamiliar, though, despite the unusual, welcoming vibes.

How many drinks did I have last night? It couldn’t have been that many. I’m certainly not hungover. I actually feel quite good. My vision has returned, my head is no longer pounding, my muscles are painless, and my breathing has returned to normal. Despite many questions regarding where I am and the series of curious events leading to this moment, I’m physically healthy. I can even recall my past, which is a simple feat that had somehow escaped me before being dropped to the sewer floor like a sack of bricks by my unknown assailant.

Immediately my thoughts race to seeking an escape plan, and I head toward the door in an attempt to flee. It’s locked. I feel my heart sink. There’s no keyhole to peer through and no way of knowing what is outside. I investigate the door’s hinges for any possible corrosion or weakness, but there are none. Lying on my stomach, I peer beneath the door and see two shadows. Rising abruptly I begin to pound on the heavy steel door, the loud raps echoing throughout the hollow room.

‘Let me out! What the fuck is going on? Who are you people? What do you want with me?’ I get no answer, just silence. ‘I know you’re out there!’

Lying back on my stomach before the door, I search for the silhouetted feet of my captors who had just been standing outside, but they’re gone. I look around in search of an object to batter the door open with, but other than a bedside table and the solitary mattress lying on an elevated concrete slab in the corner, there is nothing to aid an escape.

After several minutes of pounding on the door, I begin to lose hope and slowly slide down to the floor, defeated. A moment of frustration lingers while I focus my eyes on the single flame flickering—the only source of light, the key to my sanity—next to the bed. Beside the fat red candle, I spot something I hadn’t previously noticed.

Rising awkwardly to my feet, I step closer to the flickering flame as my eye catches the gold text and leather bindings of an old, withered book. Grasping its spine in my hand, the flame reflects its title, which reads in shimmering gold letters, Holy Bible.

‘What the hell is this?’ I ask myself aloud. Have I been captured by some religious nut?

‘You sick sons of bitches! I want answers and I WANT THEM NOW!’

Surprised by the raw frustration and furious anger in my own voice, I heave the book across the tiny room, and with a loud thud it slams against the steel door. The reaction I had been waiting for comes with a loud bang when the door slams violently against the concrete surface of the wall next to it after flying open.

A cloaked, hooded figure enters the room and raises his arm—aiming a handgun directly at my head. I freeze with the realization, once again, that my life is in jeopardy. My eyes wander away from the wall as I avoid eye contact with the shadowy face beneath the hood.

‘Don’t move. Or I’ll unload this thing into your fucking skull.’

It’s a woman speaking, and though she’s threatening and dominant, I can’t help but detect a delicate, soothing tone. She seems to be trying too hard to mask the distinctly nurturing aspect of her voice.

I’m barely able to squeak when a second much larger figure enters the room. My eyes begin to water as I become very aware of an eerie feeling pulsating from the second person. Something tells me whoever this is, is not quite human. Seemingly from nowhere, my voice finally breaks through my unrest, and I begin to plea for my life.

‘Please let me go. I haven’t done anything to you!’ I break down in tears, my knees hitting the concrete floor at his feet. ‘What are you going to do to me?’

Without a word, the back of his oversized hand slams against the side of my face. The sheer force of the blow strikes me hard against the bedside table. After the candle falls on its side, the woman slightly lifts her hand. Lifting my head, I watch in amazement as the candle stands upright seemingly on its own.

His massive hand grasps the scruff of my shirt and pulls me off the floor before pushing me violently back onto the mattress. With a frustrated sigh, he removes his hood and stares into my eyes.

‘Enough of your cowardly grovelling,’ he says with a sickening grin—and a slight Australian accent. ‘Have some fucking respect for yourself, ya pitiful excuse for a man.’

He reaches his powerful hand for my neck but suddenly stops himself and lowers his arm. The man seems to be fighting the temptation to bully me.

He appears to be in his mid-thirties as the corners of his eyes have a few barely visible wrinkles. His thick eyebrows and pale, slender face illuminate in the candlelight as I notice a long, thick beard braided neatly into three ropes that stretch down past his chest. This is the man who had stepped out of the darkness in the sewer system—my main captor, in the flesh. His scalp has a very thin layer of freshly shaven blonde hair, and his lower lip is pierced with a loop-and-ball ring. His golden yellow eyes appear to burn in the candlelight, giving him a very vicious and primal wolf-like presence.

My courage allows me to stand as I, shaking, crane my neck to look into his eyes. He’s a tall man. I myself stand six-foot-two.

Silently telling me to take a seat, the woman signals toward the bed with her weapon. Not knowing what might come next, I do as instructed while the man speaks.

‘Michael Archer, for this moment you are my prisoner. Until we understand the implications of your situation, you are my bitch. You will shit when I tell you to shit. You will bleed when I tell you to bleed, and if need be you will die when I damn well tell you to die. Your need for answers is unimportant at this time. Am I making myself clear?’

He smirks. I move away when I notice all of his teeth are sharpened to a point. I take in his full silhouette and suddenly have trouble keeping my courage in check.

‘Good. Now shut … the fuck … up,’ he says.

I begin to speak in retaliation when the woman cocks the hammer on the back of her gun, silencing me effectively. These people mean business, and my main objective for the time being is undoubtedly to stay alive. I sink down on the mattress, accepting my defeat bitterly like a sulking child. I want to scream at these people. I want to tear this man apart, but judging by his terrifying appearance and rough tactics, I doubt I would stand a chance, even if there wasn’t a gun pointed at my head.

The woman removes the hood of her cloak to reveal a pair of sympathizing bluish-green eyes. Although I feel threatened, I somehow feel mesmerized by the sight of her beautiful features. She, like her partner, is very pale-skinned, and I begin to wonder just how long they’ve lived in the dark.

Her long hair is dark and wavy and looks to be exceedingly light and soft. Her lips are full, plump, and inviting in every way. I should be screaming at this woman, but I feel weakened by the desire to see her smile.

The sound of her voice snaps me back to reality. Crouching in front of me, she brings herself down to my eye level. Peering into the light of her eyes reveals a vast world of emotion, an untold beauty with unique universes lying within every speck in her corneas, wondrous to behold and easy to lose yourself in.

‘Everything will be revealed in time. But for now you have some time to kill.’

She gently places the Bible I had thrown in the palm of my hand. She must have picked it up without me noticing. Or maybe this is another one of her spooky parlour tricks. I absently accept it, momentarily transfixed by her beauty. Breaking my gaze with great difficulty, I consider the book so gently placed within my palm.

‘Study it carefully; we will be watching you,’ she says, smirking at me while pointing to a tiny camera well hidden in a shadowy corner of the ceiling. When they turn and walk toward the door, she speaks again, softly, without turning her head. ‘You will be well fed, and regular bathroom breaks will be granted, depending on your … attitude.’

Without a single glance back, they walk briskly out of the door, which then slams and locks behind them with a heavy clunk.

Once again I’m alone with nothing but my thoughts and an old Bible to keep me company.

My socked feet press against the concrete floor as I gently rub the cheek that had been so unexpectedly and violently struck. I wipe the tears from my face and sniffle like a little girl.

Was the beastly man right? Am I really that much of a coward?

I’ve never been in a situation such as this before. Like anyone else, I’ve had a few rough patches … but nothing worth crying over.

As time passes, my thoughts run rampant and primarily feature my past. I was raised in a fairly normal household. My dad was an alcoholic—though he never beat any of us, if that’s what you were expecting. Nevertheless, his drinking took its toll on the family. My mother was kind but rather strict. She raised me the only way she could—Catholic. What choice did she have when dealing with an overly religious mother-in-law? Church every Sunday had been a fight to stay awake, with nothing but the occasional glance from other bored children to keep my eyes from drifting closed.

My parents at least had the backbone to deny my grandmother’s request for recruiting me as an altar boy. Grandma was sweet but sad at the same time. I always had the feeling she knew something I didn’t, as if she thought my soul was doomed or something. Her overly dramatic religious requests were usually easier to just submit to rather than argue over.

What I remember most about her is the constant metaphors and scary biblical stories of crime and punishment. Stepping into a confessional booth was the most difficult part. With a youthful heart and rather adventurous sense of discovery, I found myself making up stories just to keep the priests from badgering me about my so-called sinful life. It seemed a bit much for a child who wanted nothing more than to play with his friends. The average group of children in my neighbourhood always were a bad influence in the priests’ righteous eyes. I reasoned that they simply assumed we were all bad eggs. I always thought of myself as the reasonable one, but it didn’t stop the assumption I wasn’t anything but trouble.

I think of my past and any possible connection to my current predicament, but nothing comes to mind. I scan through the Bible the woman handed back to me when I feel a lump within the pages that I don’t believe had previously been there. Parting the thin, transparent pages, I discover something small and black jammed close to the spine: a matchbook.

Opening it, I read aloud the neatly handwritten message on the inside flap.

Follow the light.

She must have written this and slipped it into the book without the other knowing. Maybe she has sympathy for me after all. What does it mean? What light does she refer to? Perhaps she means the candlelight. In the calming light of the dancing flame, I can think of nothing else she could possibly be referring to.

Taking a long, deep breath, I sit back and attempt to recall with great concentration what had occurred the night prior. Out of nowhere my mind suddenly jumps from one scene to another as the previous night leads to the point of lost memory.

I was walking to a local bar with a few work friends. Rather tired and mentally exhausted, I felt pleased at the notion of letting loose after a long week of endless phone calls and paperwork. The usual laughter and light banter of the Friday night crowd were welcoming. The pub was a much-needed break from the monotonous life of an office worker. Then again, even the weekly break had become a mind-numbing, steady routine.

As we trekked downtown through the crowded sidewalks and dirty slush beneath our feet, the cold wind pierced my cheeks. I tucked my neck into my collar to shield myself from the merciless wind and drifting snow.

The dirty Toronto streets were alive with commotion. All around was the sound of wet tires cutting through the salty street slush, the smell of warm hot dogs sizzling on a cold, miserable evening, and the menacing pulse of car stereos pumping the usual, loud urban music.

While my comrades continued their regular office talk, I paused to stare at someone sitting on the ground by a corner coffee shop. Nothing unusual for the city, but something about her caught my attention in an unusual way. She appeared to be homeless, but there was something a bit … off about her. Though the light-green hooded jacket she wore concealed much of her face, dark and wavy hair coiled down from the shade of her hood.

I sat up a bit straighter. Wait … was this the girl I just met here in my cell? Was my encounter in the sewer not the first time we crossed paths?

Her clothes seemed to be unsullied, and her pants looked dressy and new; her clothes seemed fairly odd for a homeless girl. I stood before her in curiosity, considering what a well-dressed woman would be doing sitting on a Toronto street corner in the chill of winter. I attempted to catch a glimpse of her face, but her head dropped lower to allow the shadow of her hood to conceal her identity.

I reached into my pocket in search for spare change. I thought that whatever her problem was, perhaps it could be remedied with a coffee and a warm meal. I dropped a ten-dollar bill into her lap, but she didn’t move. The wind simply blew the bill off the fine black fabric of her dress pants and onto the slushy ground. I was beginning to wonder if she was even aware of my presence. Maybe she was all messed up, I thought. Regardless, it wasn’t my problem. I was far too concerned with the drinks awaiting us at the pub around the corner.

Brushing off the brief but unusual encounter, I heeded my companions’ calls to join them in the direction of the pub. I remember looking back for a final glance before turning the corner, but the girl had vanished, the ten-dollar bill jittering carelessly in the spot where she had been sitting. It was the first time I had ever seen a homeless person not accept a gesture of good will. Rather indifferent, I shrugged my shoulders and joined my friends once more.

We reached a news stand set up just a few doors down from the pub. I dropped some money on the counter and walked slightly faster to catch up to the rest of the party, a folded copy of the Toronto Sun tucked under my arm.

A sigh of relief escaped me when we stepped into the warmth of the pub. A musician finger-picked his acoustic guitar gracefully on the far stage, setting the mood for a warm, cozy evening in the city. Martinis and bottles were passed around in ready supply. The thought of the well-dressed homeless girl slowly drifted from my mind as my interests changed to that of a more sexual nature.

I’m a single guy, and I was on the prowl, as per usual, for anyone I could take home at the end of the night. Usually I’m pretty sly with the ladies, but it typically took a few drinks for me to work up the courage to make any moves. Of course, there are several girls among the office entourage. I’ve had my flings among them but found that it only caused problems in the workplace, so my gaze steadily remained on girls passing by our table. I tossed the tie and jacket and unbuttoned the top two buttons of my dress shirt, revealing my somewhat hairy but toned chest beneath a black undershirt. It was my usual Friday night attire.

I look back at the scene now and long for it. There was no confusion, but then again there wasn’t anything particularly exciting about my life, anyway. Daily routines made me feel as though I was slowly inching toward death with each excruciating, passing moment. Like everyone else, I’m assuming, I’ve wondered what else is out there. I’ve reached most of my goals in life, but this isn’t quite what I had in mind. Oh well. I guess that’s just the way it is, right? Another page in the book of boredom we call life.

Maybe I should have been a cop or something, I had thought. Though I was never really a risk-taker, at least life would have been a little more exciting. The office environment was tedious but could be entertaining at times, I suppose. Rumours and gossip acted as a momentary break from the depression of a responsible adult life. Getting past the silliness of it all rendered the job tiresome and mentally exhausting. I worked my way to a managerial position, but regardless my education simply seemed wasted. If my college professors would have told me that this was the best I could hope for without stepping on any heads, I wouldn’t have bothered with a post-secondary education in the first place. For an honest man like me, it seemed I had reached my corporate potential. It’s sad, really, when I think about it. After years of studying and cramming for exams, the final result was nothing more than a miserable existence and a seemingly endless student debt.

I had eventually drifted from our table and sat at the bar, not paying attention to the conversation among the few work acquaintances who had followed my lead. The topics of conversation had been the same for years: who’s sleeping with whom, this guy’s stealing from that account, and this girl’s blackmailing her boss. The soap opera never ends.

Scanning the newspaper I purchased earlier, I noticed a photograph of a woman smiling within the first few pages. Her long black hair was tied neatly back into a ponytail, and she wasn’t wearing any make-up. She seemed very attractive. Above the picture, the bold-lettered caption read, Search continues for missing Toronto resident. It continued on page twelve, but I wasn’t interested enough to read on. I dismissed it as usual; disappearances were normal in a heavily populated city. I flipped through the rest of the pages, finding nothing else of interest. I flopped the newspaper down on the bar and turned my attention back to my surroundings.

The music in the pub suddenly became significantly louder. As I looked around, it appeared that happy hour had officially ended and people began congregating into the establishment, looking to dance and have a good time. The dance floor quickly became crowded with over-anxious women sporting their usual revealing attire. Not that I’m complaining. I’ve gone home with several of them before, and all of them seem just as ordinary and nervous as … well, myself, I guess. There never seems to be anyone solid, well-mannered, and proper. No one I could respect, anyway. How could I when it only takes one night to get them into bed? Well, time to begin the usual game of cat and mouse, I thought.

My married friends had a habit of egging me on, pointing out several girls I could potentially take home; it was a husband’s way of living through another. Most of my married friends acted more single than my single friends—something that swore me against the idea of marriage for quite some time. Besides, I rather enjoyed being single, but I could feel that changing.

I was like a wolf among sheep, a predator awaiting an easy and tasty meal. I tried to stay enthusiastic, but the game recently became boring. I remember coming to the realization I might have been getting sick of being single. Perhaps I should be looking elsewhere for companionship, I thought.

‘Anyone catch your fancy tonight, Mikey?’ asked Dennis, the copy boy.

I hated being referred to as Mikey—I mentioned it on several occasions—but it seemed, at times, to be the goal of my entourage to get on my nerves as much as possible. I simply shook my head and walked away, slamming another shot as he laughed like that annoying kid everyone avoided in elementary school. Why did I hang out with these people?

While approaching the end of the bar, I noticed the middle-aged bartender, Charlie, leaning against the counter with a smirk on his face. Charlie is the owner and operator. He always offered friendly and sound advice, even though I found the man rather creepy. The Vincent Price vibe had always been a defining characteristic of our local bartender. His silvery-grey hair was usually slicked back, and his eyes were as dark as night, which didn’t help the creepy vibe whatsoever. Nevertheless, I grew rather fond of him over the years. He seemed to really listen when I spoke to him.

I ordered another beer and threw him a bill before spotting a pair of seductive eyes on the far side of the dance floor. A sexy woman was dancing in a most alluring manner. The way she moved was like nothing I had ever seen. Her body seemed to move completely independent of the crowd around her, like physical poetry dancing in a hypnotic motion. My stare didn’t seem to bother her. There were guys all around; why not get their attention?

‘Long week, Michael?’ Charlie asked while stashing the bill into the cash register.

‘Usual bullshit, I’m afraid,’ I stated indifferently as I pulled my gaze from the girl on the dance floor. I noticed his eyes peer toward her.

‘Looks like you have an admirer,’ he said with a suggestive smirk.

‘Haven’t you ever wanted more, Charlie?’ I replied. The question seemed to catch him off guard. ‘I mean, I know you do your thing here at the pub and what not, but have you ever wanted to just … step out of the boundaries of circumstance?’

‘What circumstances bind you, my friend?’ he asked as he poured a few colourful shots at the request of a slurring woman to my left.

‘I don’t know. It just feels as if I was set up to live a life of constant servitude.’

‘Sounds like you’re stuck,’ he said, passing the shots to the woman. ‘It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there, Michael. Sometimes you have to fight for what you want.’

‘I was up for a promotion last year, you know. I could’ve made significantly more money if I had taken the offer.’

‘If you were offered, then why not take it?’

‘I was up against a few others; two of them had families. I thought it best to gracefully step aside. I figured they needed the money more than I.’

‘Maybe that’s your problem, Michael. To get ahead, sometimes you have to simply let the better man win.’

‘Yes, but who’s to say who the better man is, Charlie? I’m good at talking my way through problems. That doesn’t necessarily make me a better man, or even better suited for the position. This is how the corporate world has become a tree full of monkeys.’ Taking a long gulp of my beer, I caught a confused look on his face.

‘Tree full of monkeys?’

‘Yeah. You see, when you’re on the top branch looking down, there’s nothing but smiling faces. If you’re on the bottom branch looking up … all you see are assholes.’

‘You say this because you’re tired of getting shit on, I take it?’

‘Dodging shit is more accurate. Looking down I cringe with the notion that every smile is fake. Maybe stepping aside will let the right people, family oriented individuals with proper values, get the job.’

‘Good luck with that. With so many other monkeys to shit on, it’s no wonder these CEOs are so full of it. They have to distribute the shit evenly, you see.’ He shot me a wink before his eyes drifted to the girl on the dance floor once more. ‘Perhaps you over think your position in life. It’s about the small rewards, after all. You’ve been over here speaking of personal politics while she undresses you with her eyes. Every man in this room wishes he were in your shoes right now.’

‘Well, maybe I do take life’s little perks for granted,’ I smirked.

Sliding me a fresh beer, he winked once again in a charismatic fashion and said, ‘On the house. Now, go have some fun.’

After taking a long gulp, I took a deep, refreshing breath.

‘Alright, you twisted my arm,’ I laughed, shaking his hand before making my way toward the dance floor.

At the edge of the hardwood floor, I stopped to admire her. Usually I would’ve kept my distance and studied her behaviour, but she hadn’t given me much of a chance to do so. I knew nothing of this girl, but I sensed that my usual techniques would be no match for this temptress. I was mesmerized and couldn’t look away.

She was not particularly tall, but her legs were slender and long. Her curly black hair dangled and danced around her shoulders in motion with her body. Her plush lips heavily coated in lip gloss reflected the overhead lights on the darkened dance floor. Her dark silhouette shimmered her features only slightly as if she were a ghost among the living. The short red dress she wore made her look classy and elegant, and although her fishnet stockings were ripped, they complimented her knee-high leather boots, giving her a trashy yet very sexy appearance.

While I focused my attention on her, a loud and sudden banging penetrated my ear drums, snapping me out of my trance, temporarily distracting me from the hypnotizing display of seduction gallivanting around on the dance floor. Alarmed, I looked around for the startling source of the heavy pounding.

My back arches when I abruptly sit up on my rickety mattress. This is where the memory leaves me, fading to almost nothing. Suddenly a new memory begins flooding in as my recollection clears one moment at a time.

The homeless girl I saw earlier was outside the window of the bar. The glass was foggy, and I couldn’t quite make out the features of her face. But the shape of her body and colour of her clothing were an easy giveaway. Her long, wavy hair jerked to and fro from her light-green hooded sweater as she continued to slam the palm of her hands against the frosted window with a desperate sense of panic.

It was a rather frightening sight from my angle; the girl looked as if she might have escaped from a mental ward. I thought the bouncers would have been out there moving her along, but they did nothing. It was as though they were either ignoring her completely or incapable of seeing or hearing her at all. For some reason I seemed to be the only one who could hear the pounding on the window. The surrounding crowd also seemed to be completely ignorant of the obvious disturbance. I was close to the speakers near the dance floor and shouldn’t have been able to hear it at all—it’s as if she had been pounding directly on my ear drums.

I considered running to the door to insist she stop whatever she was doing. But just as I thought about it, my neck jerked back with a sudden thrust, my body somehow not under my control. My eyes locked once again on the seductress of the dance floor and then back to the girl just outside the window. The sensible me would have ran outside to ask what a complete stranger could possibly want from me, but the primal caveman inside wanted to take control of the woman in red, wanted to touch her in a completely physical, lustful manner.

I was sweating profusely, and my heart was pounding with a thunderous violence that echoed through my being. My breathing grew heavy, and my eyes bulged as my head pulsated with a searing pain. I removed my shirt; it felt like a million degrees in there. Tossing my shirt to the floor, I aimed to rid myself of anything confining as an overwhelming sense of claustrophobia gripped me. It was getting hotter and hotter. Out of nowhere I felt as though I had stepped into the fifth ring of Hell. Had I been drugged? Was I somehow losing control of my own body? I crouched over in searing agony as my colleagues quickly rushed to help.

‘What’s happening to me?’ I screamed in a mindless fury. My voice dropped in octaves; it became lower, raspier than normal. The pulsating beat of the music, my heart, and the girl outside were pounding in unison with each other, like a drum of war. Crouched over, I felt a masculine hand grasp my shoulder with a fierce grip. I could somehow sense his panic, fear, and confrontational intent. I waved my arm to rid myself of his grip, sending a three-hundred-pound bouncer through the air, slamming him violently against a wall. The crowd around me parted in fear.

Standing, I studied this new and incredible phenomenon. Never have I imagined or felt such strength in my life. I lifted my brow and looked straight ahead of me, my eyes struggling to focus. My surroundings appeared to operate in slow motion, and through the fog a single silhouette could be seen swinging her hair, her brilliant but menacing eyes locked on mine. The woman in red was completely undisturbed by what was happening to me.

A powerful, god-like power surged through my veins as I rose fully erect with fury and arrogance. The people around me were like insects. I could crush them like cockroaches and feel nothing. My muscles bulged and swelled. The seductress slowly stepped toward me, smiling victoriously. The music stopped as the clop of her high heels halted an arm’s length from me. She lightly lipped her fingertips and blew me a kiss as a black, milky substance flowed through the air from her palm, like ink through water. Her black, menacing eyes locked on mine as everything turned as black as the darkest night.

That’s when I woke in the alleyway. I can’t seem to recall anything else after that. Considering the state of my body back at the pub, perhaps I should be in the hospital right now having tests run to discover how I had endured such an unusual transformation. What was wrong with me? Why was I able to toss a heavyset man like a tennis ball with a simple swipe of my arm? Who was the woman in the red dress? One thing is for certain: the homeless woman in the window was the same girl I met today wielding her gun, ordering me to do her bidding.

Knowing she was there to witness the ordeal, I find my longing to see her become my first order of operation. Though I doubt she’d tell me anything, she did say things will be explained in time. Maybe I’ll understand when I wake. My head pushes against the plush pillow as I rest.

Though the incident at the bar was certainly a cause for concern, I remember nothing that would leave me covered in blood. Whose blood was it? Had I somehow managed to kill? I had never felt power like that before, nor have I ever thought so low of those around me. Something happened after the woman in red approached me, something horrifying that I cannot recall to save my life.

My mind quickly races from one question to another, but knowing there was nothing I could do about it, I allow my eyelids to grow heavy.

And the world becomes silent once more.

CHAPTER 3

INTO THE DARKNESS

TIME HAS LOST ALL meaning. The concept of morning, day, and night become lost in the darkness of my confinement as time inches forward in my cell. I spend most of my time reading, although I find it rather foolish to read the Bible. But I was raised on it; I know the stories well. But this particular Bible is a version I’ve never heard of. The New Testament seems much longer than the Old. Though I have been reading only the stories I actually enjoyed as a child, I can’t help but notice small differences that change the perspective of the story completely, which in turn makes them more plausible.

In this version, the story of Moses and the Ten Commandments gives reference to the cross of the Zodiac. I thought Christians considered the Zodiac to be a pagan symbol. It’s rather confusing to see a reference to it in a Bible. According to this, Moses descended from the mountain furious because his people were worshipping a golden bull. He was angry not only because they were worshipping an idol but also because of the bull’s iconic representation of Taurus. This was a symbol of the old age and the exodus of his people represented the beginning of a new age; that of the ram. Apparently the age of Pisces followed—or the age of Christianity.

The Three Wise Men discover the birth of Christ by mapping the stars, as I had always been taught, but also by making reference to the Zodiac, as Jesus’s birth was prophesied to lead the most recent age of Pisces. I’m beginning to wonder if this book had been tampered with. What is very interesting is the lining of the planets in our solar system. It almost sounds as if the 2012 end-of-the-world theory directly matches the story of Noah’s Ark. However, I don’t remember the story of Noah involving the shifting of the Earth’s axis, the earthquakes, the volcanoes, and the other catastrophes that are mentioned within these pages. Also, the mention of a traveler by the name of Samael, who had been acknowledged throughout these passages, was definitely not in the version I had read as a child. These are very curious alterations, which I’m not quite sure are legitimate. This book is probably some New Age version that has been altered to reflect the beliefs of my captors.

I’ve always felt that if there was a god, why would he or she—or it—leave us with such convoluted arrangements in the Bible? How do we learn from it? Like most people—I imagine—with any common sense, I think it was more than likely put together by a committee for some type of social control.

But I find it completely inadequate for today’s set of morals. People don’t fear Hell anymore. The growth of atheism has led us to a point where mankind fears very little. Murderers, rapists, and thieves commit their crimes with only the concern of imprisonment to keep them in check.

Despite the odd literature and small confines, I haven’t been mistreated since I arrived. I’ve been allowed bathroom breaks whenever I want, and snacks and drinks are available on a regular basis. They even left me a six-pack of beer yesterday; they must know I enjoy a few drinks on Fridays. Perhaps this was an orchestrated way of helping me keep time.

The tiny two-piece bathroom is directly outside the cell beyond a second locked, vault-like door from which I collect my meals. Despite the idea of being held against my will, I feel quite content, which is strange considering I would normally go stir crazy when there’s nothing to do but read.

In a twisted way, I guess I feel a little relief from the break of everyday routine. I wonder how work is doing without me. Have I been missed? Have I made even a small difference to anyone else’s life? I doubt it. Though I can see myself being the centre of gossip, I highly doubt anybody really gives a shit about my personal well-being. After all, I wasn’t anything more than a regular drinking buddy.

What a sad existence. It makes me wish I had done more with my life.