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Overview
Kingdom of Light; The Forces of Darkness
Ira Breitling---Man of God; Manuel Crow---Lord of Darkness
Even the universe is not big enough for the both of them . . . especially when Ira Breitling is handed a divine gift---an interstellar engine that can lift humanity into the heavens. Crow---awash in riches, commanding nations, supremely powerful---swears eternal vengeance on Breitling and his Fellowship of the Faithful . . . and on all humankind.
The reign of Lucifer---prophesized as a thousand years of darkness---is about to begin. With the world falling fast under Crow's violent sway, Breitling's Fellowship---having only one choice---seizes their divine gift, their faster-than-light flight, and flees the earth. Their journey takes them beyond the distant stars to a perfect planet uncorrupted by Crow and his Kingdom of Darkness.
But even as Manuel Crow razes and racks the Earth, Revelations' scourge is not yet sated. Crows eyes the heavens, fixed on the Faithful.
Ira Breitling and the Fellowship must defend not only themselves but the soul of all humanity: A Kingdom of Light against the Forces of Darkness. Will the Fellowship prevail . . . or fall under Revelations' reign?
Let the battle begin.
At the Publisher's request, this title is being sold without Digital Rights Management Software (DRM) applied.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781429911238 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Tor Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 04/01/2007 |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 656 |
| Sales rank: | 292,441 |
| File size: | 2 MB |
About the Author
James F. David has a Ph.D. from Ohio State University and is currently a professor of Psychology as George Fox University in Newberg, Oregon. He is the author of the thrillers Footprints of Thunder, Ship of the Damned and Before the Cradle Falls. He lives with his wife and three daughters in Tigard, Oregon.
James F. David has a Ph.D. from Ohio State University and is currently Dean of the School of Behavioral and Health Sciences at George Fox University in Newberg, Oregon. He is the author of the dinosaur adventures series that includes Footprints of Thunder, and Thunder of Time, and the thrillers Ship of the Damned and Before the Cradle Falls, as well as the Christian rapture series that begins with Judgment Day. He lives with his wife in Tigard, Oregon.
Read an Excerpt
Judgment Day
By James F. David
Tom Doherty Associates
Copyright © 2005 James F. DavidAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-1123-8
CHAPTER 1
CROW
One day the angels came to present themselves before the Lord, and Satan also came with them. The Lord said to Satan, "Where have you come from?" Satan answered the Lord, "From roaming through the earth and going back and forth in it."
— JOB 1:6–7
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA
He set the candles in their usual places around the pentagram. That done, he carried the chicken down to the basement — a jet-black rooster, its head darting through the slats of its cage, bright black eyes looking around fearfully. He would sever that head tonight, watching the life fade from its eyes. There was still some joy in that, but sheer repetition had dulled his pleasure.
With ebony hair and eyes to match, a hooked nose and bony frame, Manuel Crow looked like a large featherless raven. Only his voice distinguished him from his avian namesake. Instead of a squawk, it was deep, rich, and melodious. Crow had the voice of a lounge singer but music had never interested him, nothing had, except death.
Growing up in his neighborhood, other boys played Little League or joined Boy Scouts, but not little Manny. He was a loner, shunning the ball games and bike trips to the swimming pool. Instead, he rode his Schwinn along the highways, looking for small animals run over in the night. Opossum were most common, but he also found raccoons, dogs, and cats. Only skunks escaped his attention — his mother would have none of those.
He used a burlap bag to carry his treasures home, the bag bouncing and swinging from his handlebars. Once home he retreated to his "lab," which he had set up in the old woodshed. He opened the animals first, slicing them from sternum to genitals, probing their squashed innards, understanding little of what he saw, but getting a sensual rush from the lifeless graying tissues. Next he skinned them. By puberty he was well practiced at separating the skin from the meat underneath, and like a professional taxidermist, he never cut or tore the fur. With the skin removed, Manny next scraped the muscles — the meat — from the bones. He found little pleasure in that — it was kitchen work. Cleaning the bones was easy compared to the skull, which had many nooks and crannies where the soft brain tissue and fibrous nerves hid. There were eye sockets to be cleaned, too. When he was younger he dug the brains out with a spoon, then used a nut pick to clean the hard-to-reach places. When he was older he used a water pick that he rescued from the trash. Working on his animals absorbed him in the same way putting model cars together did other boys. He spent hours picking out brain tissue, squirting clean the smallest orifices, until the skulls were free of every speck of tissue. Clean skulls were gray, so the final step was bleaching, accomplished by soaking the skulls in buckets of Purex. The finished product was as bright and clean as skulls baked under a desert sun. His best specimens were mounted on boards and by adulthood the walls of his lab were covered with animal skulls. If the skins were in good shape, they were tanned. Bones were stored in shoe boxes.
His parents told their friends their son wanted to be a veterinarian, but it was a face-saving fiction. On the one occasion they brought him an injured bird to heal, he dismembered it while it was still alive. In truth, his parents were afraid of him. They had reason to be.
His fascination with death eventually took him into the mortuary business. It began as an after-school job, his attention to detail and enthusiasm quickly coming to the notice of the owner. Always an energetic employee, he put in extra hours, hanging around, watching others work, and learning the business. The embalming was his favorite and even when he became owner of the mortuary, he kept some of that work for himself. Applying cosmetics to the corpses was difficult for him, since he saw no need to cover the gaping wounds or to putty the crushed skulls. Worst of all was faking compassion for the grieving relatives, but even this he mastered in time. It was a skill that would serve him well later in life.
The death business suited him, but left him with an emptiness — a longing for something more. By young adulthood he began to seek out that something. Sex and pornography bored him but it led him to the darker side of sensuality: sadomasochism. The leather and chains crowd excited him for a time, but when he discovered they too feared death, never willing to fully embrace it, he became disenchanted.
From SM he drifted into satanism, meeting those who worshiped the master of the realm of the dead. Strangely, he found the satanists were mostly women and they welcomed him, eager to teach him their rituals and invite him to their covens. A guest at first, he quickly became a member, then a leader, as he dared to take them to new levels. Before he joined, their worship involved only pentagrams, candles, and ritual. He introduced animal sacrifice.
Now the doorbell announced his guests, and he let them in: ten women and two men. Joking and laughing they made small talk, mostly about jobs and the weather. There was flirtation and contact in anticipation of the sexual free-for-all that would follow the black mass. Donning black hooded robes, they changed mood, solemn now. Crow set the tone, his black eyes and drawn face ready-made for solemn occasions.
The candles were lit, the coven called to worship. The black velvet covering was removed, exposing the statue of the Master. It was a devil, posed on one foot, the other leg held high as if frozen in mid-jump. Its hands reached up as if to catch something falling from the sky. Its head was tilted up; its eyes were closed. Complete with hooved feet and horned head, it was the classic image of Satan — the Devil — the ruler of the underworld Crow's coven worshiped. He had purchased the ceramic statue at a gas station parking lot, painting it red to make it more "satanic."
Crow led the others in worship, calling on the Master to favor them, to empower them through demons. They pledged to do his bidding and cursed the one who had cast him from glory.
As he led the ceremony, his disgust grew. It was nothing but a game to the worshipers, a useless ritual conducted as an act of rebellion, not unlike the tattooing and body piercing the women practiced. It was trick-or-treat for adults, no more real than Sunday morning worship rituals practiced worldwide. No more effective, no less. He had been disenchanted for a long time, and made up his mind then and there that this was his last night as a satanist — time to move on, to continue his search to give his life meaning.
The chanting began, the worship continuing. Candles splattered shadows of the swaying worshipers across the walls and ceiling. Eerie to those who feared darkness, watching the shadows comforted Crow. He found the shadows seductive, arousing him like few women could. Dark places had always been special to him.
Crow swayed with the others, chanting the ancient words, believing none of them. Then it was time for the sacrifice. He picked up the knife from the center of the pentagram, raising it to the dark deity, pledging loyalty, asking the Lord of the Underworld to accept their humble sacrifice. Crow had sacrificed many chickens, but always thought it was a poor sacrifice. If he were a god, he would be insulted by the offering. That was one reason he knew no deity listened to the nonsense they chanted — no deity would tolerate such an insult.
As Crow released the catch, the chicken retreated into the cage, sensing its doom. Expertly, Crow snagged its neck tight in his fist. The coven's unified voice rose now in anticipation, Crow participating by rote. With the chicken in his right hand, and the knife in his left, he held them high in front of the statue. Then with a last loud supplication he severed the head in one quick stroke. The body flopped to the ground, then was up and running, blood spurting from the stump of its neck — this was the fun part. Then the unexpected happened.
"My time is soon!" a deep voice boomed.
Suddenly silent, the worshipers looked at each other, shaken by the unexpected voice. They turned to Crow, suspecting fakery. He shook his head, denying their silent accusations. The basement room was silent now. Shocked into a few seconds of silence, they began to speak, to explain away what they had clearly heard. Then one of the women pointed in horror. Crow turned to see the devil statue moving. The raised arms came down, the raised leg lowered until the cloven hooves both rested on the pedestal. Crow felt the others back away, leaving him to face the little horror. Then the head turned slowly until it faced Crow. There was a pause — a long moment of terror. Then the eyes popped open, glowing red as if lit by the fires of hell.
"Prepare the way!" a deep voice demanded.
The others ran, but not Crow. There was no fear in him, only joy. It was true — there was an underworld ruled by a deity of death and it had spoken to him. Now falling to his knees, he worshiped the idol, not from ritual, but from conviction.
CHAPTER 2BREITLING
Then the Lord said: "I am making a covenant with you. Before all your people. I will do wonders never before done in any nation in all the world."
— EXODUS 34:10
COLUMBUS, OHIO
Her tears angered him, his foot involuntarily pressing the throttle closer to the floor.
"What are you crying for? It was the right thing to do."
"It wasn't right, it was convenient."
His foot pushed harder, the pitch of the engine whine reaching a new level.
"You're still in college, and I've got a year of graduate school left," he argued. "We couldn't take care of a kid."
No answer, only more blubbering.
"Maybe someday we would be ready," he said.
"Someday? You'll never marry me! I'm so stupid. I loved you so much."
He hated it when she talked of love. Maybe he didn't love her, but he did like her, so it wasn't like he had been using her.
"It's not a big deal," he said. "Lots of women have abortions."
"Not in my family. Not in our church."
She was right. In their church abortion was preached as murder. They had known each other since Sunday school but she was three years younger and at that age no boy was interested in a girl that much younger. Only when she showed up at the university did he see her differently. A lithe young woman with shoulder-length brown hair, she dressed conservatively but even so her pretty face set her apart from most of the freshmen that year. Her ready smile and bright personality attracted other boys, and eventually him. He still remembered what she said the day he approached her at the library.
"I know you, Ira Breitling," she said with a slight smile. "Your family sat on the left, next to the organ. We sat by the piano."
"I know you, Ruth Majors," he replied.
"In all the years we went to church together you spoke to me a grand total of — never," she said.
"I'm smarter now," Ira said.
Ruth smiled at that, and they talked about common acquaintances. He'd long since left the church, spending his Sundays hungover in bed, but to his surprise, she brought him back. They became a couple, attending church together, holding hands during prayer, sitting close in the pews, sharing hymnals. He was a prisoner of his feelings then, sure she was the most wonderful creature in all creation. He would have married her, but she'd promised her parents not to marry until she finished college. It was a stupid promise, but she'd made it and would keep it. When it was clear she would honor the promise, his frustration grew and he pressed her to go further, kissing wasn't enough. Wanting him as bad as he wanted her, she finally gave in and they became lovers. She was never comfortable with it, tolerating the intimacy because he wanted it. He tried to assuage her guilt by blaming her parents for forcing on her the promise not to marry.
With his lust satisfied, he saw her in a different light; no longer the unattainable goal, she became ordinary in his eyes. Soon, other girls caught his eye, each as unattainable as she had been, some even prettier. He began to wonder if she was the right woman for him, and doubt weakened his feelings for her. He noticed other girls — sitting next to him in classes, flirting with him in the Student Union. He was attractive, after all. At five feet ten, with a husky build, red hair, and blue eyes, he had always been noticed by the girls, and now he realized they wanted him. He was ready to talk to Ruth about giving each other some "space," when she told him she was pregnant.
"I still say it's not a big deal," Ira argued. "In a couple of weeks you'll forget all about it."
"I'll never forget — it was murder," she whispered hoarsely.
His foot hit the floor, the little four-cylinder engine knocking loudly.
"You're just depressed. The counselor said this might happen. You'll get over it. And don't call it murder. There was nothing to murder. You know what they told us. It wasn't a baby yet."
She'd stopped crying now, but her eyes were set in a stare, her mind focused on a single thought.
"God will punish us for this," she said.
"You didn't have to do it," he said defensively. "I didn't make you. We agreed it was best — together."
She wasn't listening, she'd slipped into a prayer.
"God, please forgive me for what I did."
At least she wasn't blaming him in her prayer.
"It was just tissue; that's what they called it, 'fetal tissue.'"
"I have sinned ..."
"Maybe we should go somewhere and talk about this," Ira said, even knowing it would do no good.
Her prayer softened to a whisper, then she came out of it, looking at him.
"Please slow down," she said.
He lifted his foot from the floor, rpms dropping, the car slowing.
"You're going to be late for your shift at the lab," she said.
"I could get Constance to stay late," he said weakly, hoping to get away from her as soon as possible.
"Don't bother, I have to get home," Ruth said. "I'm bleeding."
"Bad? I mean more than normal?"
"How would I know?" she said angrily. "It's not like I've done this before."
"You want me to take you back to the clinic?"
"Take me home." Then she began praying again, softer now, barely above a whisper. He was relieved he couldn't hear her God talk.
"You'll get through this," he said weakly, doubting it even as he said it. She was taking it much harder than he thought she would.
Her prayers continued. He gave up trying to reason with her, riding in silence to her dormitory. She got out without a word.
"I'll call you later," he said through the window.
She walked away without looking back.
He cursed her as he drove away. He didn't feel guilty and he wouldn't let her push her guilt off on him. She was too old- fashioned — he should have known that and never gotten involved with her. He'd grown up with the same kind of narrow-minded people — his parents were like Ruth. The world they lived in was gone, their religion out-of-date, replaced by new theologies that allowed people to be human, to make mistakes.
No, he wouldn't feel guilty — he refused to feel guilty. They had done nothing that wasn't done a million times a year. It meant nothing — in fact it was a good thing. They weren't ready for a baby. Her family would have disowned her if she had a baby out of wedlock and she couldn't live without them. It was the right thing to do! he shouted to himself.
He pulled into the parking lot nearest his building, easily finding a spot. It was late Friday afternoon and most faculty and students were gone, getting an early start on the weekend. He and Constance Wong, however, had long days ahead, working in shifts, layering metal atoms on exotic ceramic surfaces. Dr. Kurtz was working against a grant deadline and his graduate students were paying the price.
Grabbing his lab coat, he was apologizing to Constance before she was within earshot. Constance had delicate features, blond hair, almond-brown eyes, and a ready smile. She was good-natured, generous, and as such popular among the physical chemistry graduate students. Once more Ira had counted on her generous spirit. Now close enough that he could be heard, he began his apology again. He only managed "I'm sorry ..." when she started the vacuum pump, the noise drowning out his words. She frowned briefly, then smiled, pulling him to one side and leaning close so he could hear what she said.
"Kurtz came by an hour ago," Constance said, referring to their adviser. "I told him you were in the bathroom. You're just lucky he didn't come back. I had a diarrhea story ready to cover for you."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Judgment Day by James F. David. Copyright © 2005 James F. David. Excerpted by permission of Tom Doherty Associates.
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