----------------------------------------
DAY 6
----------------------------------------
Once lost, then found, then lost again at the end of the world, Mordwell Verune had found his truth.
Verune looked up, peering out of a darkened alley. The Sun had only just begun its morning climb; the skies overhead were still murked by Night. The towering buildings of glass and metal lit up like beacons as they caught the first rays of dawn.
Skyscrapers, Simon had called them.
They welcomed the day in a way that stone and wood never could.
It was dawn in the city of the damned. It was a beautiful dawn, and beautiful in more ways than one.
It was only in the deepest darkness that Light shined at its brightest.
Verune craned his neck back as he looked up, wary of an approaching roar. His neck had gotten longer. Slowly but surely, his changes were progressing.
One of the metal flying machines—aerostats—soared overhead. It shone down a brilliant searchlight as it roved over the city streets. The skyscraper corridor reverberated with its engine’s roars.
In but a single day in the Elpeck of the future, Mordwell Verune had been ground down and remade.
He’d witnessed horrors no man should ever know. He’d seen destruction, devastation, and desolation that defied the imagination. Yet, through it all, he hadn’t understood. He’d been so mistaken, so lost and confused that, for just a moment, he fell into mortal sin, doubting the existence of God.
But the truth had set him free. He was calm, now. The horrors no longer held terror for him, for he had the truth. It spoke to him as a whisper in his mind. Before, he hadn’t been able to hear it clearly. Or, rather, he hadn’t allowed himself to hear it. Before, his doubts had held him back, and kept him from hearing the fulness of the Angel’s words. But now he heard, and he vowed to listen.
The whisper was a voice. It dwelled within him, perhaps within his changing body, or perhaps within the invisible Light that gave him his powers. The voice was subtle. Its words were hardly even words at all. More like impulses or convictions, similar to the impulse he felt to feed, only far deeper. The hunger came from his body. The voice, though—that came from his soul.
The whisper was an ember in his soul. It had been smoldering before. But now, it burned brightly. It magnified his prayers several fold. Verune no longer needed to intone the words. He could use them without thinking, and his stamina never waned.
Hell would never know a foe like Mordwell Verune.
Stepping back into the shadows, Verune pushed back with his arm, motioning toward his gruesome cargo.
The lumpen mass behind him rolled deeper into the alley of its own accord.
Verune tried his best not to dwell on the horrid thing. He could not gather food for the others if he ate everything he found. The mass consisted of a handful of corpses. The Lassedite had scrounged them up from the alleyways. Some had been jumpers, and Verune had had to peel their remains off the pavement. It was vile work, but relatively simple, thanks to his powers.
He waited until the aerostat passed out of sight before pressing onward.
The problem of transporting the mass of bodies had solved itself. The fungus-ravaged corpses stuck together like putty, and it wasn’t long before the aggregation had ballooned into a boulder that Verune couldn’t see over, not even if he jumped. He used the Angel’s powers to roll the flesh boulder down streets and alleys, like the sacred scarab beetle of Benun—only with death instead of dung.
Stepping out into the street, Verune waved his hands—both now three-fingered—and the Angel’s invisible light rolled the flesh boulder out alongside him. His hands were no longer human. They were the claws of a divine beast, the scales a radiant, sunfire gold.
He’d been out for nearly an hour, for the third time in a single night. The others’ changes were progressing nicely.
After some aimless wandering, Verune, Anne, and Simon had found a humble Angelical church built into a repurposed old manor-house on Baker Street—none other than Jacob Rousas Sr.’s private home. The place jutted out from a line of modern apartments like a patch of naked brick. The church’s priestess, Mother Catherine, was a changeling, and had been sheltering a handful of other changelings. Had Verune not stumbled across Mother Catherine’s church when he had, the gang of infected men that had stormed the house of worship might have succeeded in killing Catherine and those under her protection. They men had called themselves changeling hunters.
Fortunately, Verune managed to quickly dispose of them.
Verune ran down the street as quickly as he could, despite the numbness in his legs and feet. He used his prayers to roll the flesh boulder forward; he wouldn’t have been able to move it otherwise. His mouth watered at the sublime smell. Even though Verune had to fight his urge to eat it, that desire helped move him along, like a carrot for a horse.
Several days ago, the comparison would have shamed him, but now, he no longer cared. Speed was paramount here. He had to avoid detection by the military. Detection, capture, conflict—all were to be avoided.
Verune was confident he would be able to take down an aerostat if he so wished; the Angel’s whispers told him so. But, as much as he would have liked to humble the soldiers of the godless Trenton Republic, Verune stayed his hand, hiding in alleys whenever they were near.
It was a matter of pragmatism.
Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.
Now that he understood his true purpose in the Last Days, he could not allow himself to be taken off the board. Not yet.
He had new responsibilities to attend to.
Verune made good time, closing in on his destination.
Two blocks left until Baker Street.
And no sign of the military—though he could hear their war-machines roar in the distance.
It had only been two days since Hilleman’s coup, but it felt like a lifetime, and it had left Verune with many mysteries to ponder: his encounter with the Beast, his passage through time, his emergence as one of the Blessèd Chosen, his terrifying transformation, and, above all else, the whispers in his mind. At first, he’d nearly snapped under the combined weight of those unknowns.
I would have spared myself much grief had I listened sooner.
For ages, the Angelic Doctors had debated the form the Last Days would take. From whence would the Blessèd come, and how would they lead the righteous to Paradise. The answers were more miraculous than Verune could have ever imagined.
In the end, the answer was simple, and that was fitting: for God was simple, and simplicity was beautiful.
The voice had been speaking to him since his encounter with the Hallowed Beast. The Angel had not forsaken him; He had been there all along.
In a moment of divine insight, Verune understood that Green Death was but a part of the Angel’s plan, as were all things. Not a single sparrow fell to the ground without the Godhead’s knowledge.
The Last Days had come.
The Green Death was the Angel’s righteous judgment, as fierce as the Hallowed Beast Itself.
Verune was fortunate enough to not come across any other of the military’s war machines on the remainder of his journey back to Baker Street, traversing the last two blocks in no time at all. However, as he began turning the flesh boulder through the intersection, he spotted a magnificent ruby glow emanating from an alleyway on the opposite side of the intersection. Drawing closer, he noticed the scale-like patterns shining on the alley’s walls.
Nodding, Verune walked over to the mouth of the alley. The source of the ruby glow stepped toward him. It was a young woman—a girl, really—perhaps only fifteen years old. Foul-smelling stains covered her skirt and stockings and her lavender chemise, and her buckled shoes were badly scuffed. The ruby glow was an aura that enveloped her entire body, and was strongest at her hands, both of which had transitioned into three-fingered claws, covered in luminous, ruby-red scales. It looked like she’d been badly burned. Her skin was dying in patches on her face, chest, and arms. Black fluid weeped from the cracks in her skin, holding her form together like putty. Fire had eaten away at the fringes of her skirt. On closer inspection, Verune noticed bits of food and ooze clinging to her clothes.
Looking down the alley, Verune saw trash scattered on the ground—wrappers, packaging; forgotten leftovers. Their source lay further back: a toppled trash bin.
The girl must have knocked it over in search of food.
Poor thing, he thought.
That explained the smell.
She was repulsive, and Verune’s heart broke for her.
“What happened to you?” Verune asked, shaking his head in dismay. “Scrounging for scraps? The young deserve better than that.”
“There’s nothing left to eat,” she said, “and I’m so hungry.”
Drool burbled down her jaws as she gaped at the flesh boulder several yards behind Verune.
She pointed a claw at the horrid thing. “Why does that smell so good?” she cried. There was terror in her manner, but her hunger was clearly overpowering it. “And why do I want to eat it?”
“Because you are in the midst of a metamorphosis,” Verune said, “as am I.” He nodded. “You are becoming something… beautiful.”
“B-Beautiful?” she stepped back, staring at him warily. “Are you crazy? I’m a freak! I nearly burned alive! And now,” she looked down in dejection, “I’m dead. I’m less than nothing; I’m a ghost.”
Shaking his head, Verune gave a gracious bow. “I can assure you, young lady, my mind has never been clearer. I spoke the truth: you are turning into something beautiful, you simply cannot see it yet. But you will,” he said. “I promise you, you will.” He raised up from his bow. “But there are more important questions to be answered. Why are you here, all alone? Do you have no parents? No guardians?”
“My parents haven’t come back,” she answered. “Dad was always a little off-kilter, and then the plague hit, and then, last night, that footage played…”
“What happened?”
Tears from her eyes intermixed with the drool from her lips. She shook her head. “What does it matter? The world’s ending!” She looked down at her claws in shame. “And I’m turning into a monster. A hideous monster!” She let out a bitter laugh. “I should be broken and crushed, but all I can think about is food and getting something to eat. Angel,” she shook her head, “I’m so hungry.” Turning, she pointed down the alley. “I had to use these… claws to pry open the garbage bins so that I could… so that—“
Her eyes bulged. “—Moonlight, I—” she swooned. “—Oh God…” Filling with realization at what she’d done, the girl quite literally overflowed with disgust; leaning over, she wretched, vomiting sizzling splotches of green ooze onto the pavement.
Verune outstretched his hand, offering it to her. A chance for connection. “You don’t need to be afraid anymore,” he said.
The girl clutched her claws to her chest. “I’m turning into one of those monsters!”
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Lizzie,” she answering meekly.
Verune got down onto his knees, just as he had when he’d been trying to reach through to Orrin. He looked up at her, staring her in the eyes, willing her to see her as he saw her.
If it worked, she showed no indication that it had. And, if it hadn’t, well… he’d keep on trying, anyway.
“Lizzie,” he said, “you are not a monster. You are becoming beautiful, I swear to you, I—”
“—Just, stop it already!” Lizzie screamed “Why do you keep saying that?”
“Because it is true!” Verune roared. “Because this is a time for celebration, Lizzie.” He raised his hands to the sky and shook them with fervor. “You’ve been chosen, Lizzie!” Verune breathed in deeply, calming himself. His next words were gentle and tender. “Please,” he said, “no more tears. You don’t need to cry anymore. And you don’t need to be alone anymore.” Reaching out,Verune grabbed Lizzie’s claws. She froze in his grip. “The Angel sent me here, Lizzie. I am here to guide you, and those like you. The Godhead has given us a glorious new purpose. I will show you the way.”
Lizzie stared at the flesh-boulder, drool dripping out of her mouth. She tried to catch it in her hands, but it dribbled over her claws. Her saliva hissed where it fell onto the pavement.
“It’s alright,” Verune said, gently. “Eat.” Waving his arm toward her, the flesh boulder rolled across the street, settling to a stop right beside them. Turning back to face it, Verune waved his arm again. A damaged limb tore off from the flesh boulder and levitated over to Lizzie.
She gasped. “How did you do that!?”
“First,” Verune said, “you must eat. It will make the hunger pain go away.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Lizzie reached out and grabbed the floating and stuffed it into her mouth. She cried as she chewed. Her whole body shuddered.
Verune rose to his feet. “There is plenty more where that came from,” he said. “Though I ask that you come with me. Please, Lizzie, follow me.” He looked up at the slowly brightening sky. “It is not safe here, out in the open.”
Then, turning around, Verune walked off, wheeling the flesh-boulder along with him by the power of the Angel’s miracles.
“Who are you…?” Lizzie asked.
“I will answer all your questions,” Verune said, without stoping, “just… follow me.” He turned back to her. “I will not force you to join me, nor to stay against your will. I genuinely want to help you, Lizzie. The first step, however—the first step must be yours.
Then the Lassedite resumed his walk.
Forced faith was meaningless. It was just a seed for future apostasy. Converts had to be willing.
Seconds passed.
And then, the squelching of the flesh boulder as it rolled down the street was joined by another sound: the sound of Lizzie’s footsteps on the pavement as she followed along.
And Verune smiled.