Scorn (The Age of Apollyon Trilogy Book 3)

By Mark Carver

REPENT... AND BEG FOR MERCY.

The new Messiah sits on the throne of St. Peter's. Across the world, the faithful rise up to reclaim God's kingdom with blood and fire. The heathen hordes are exterminated without mercy, while the flames of Hell laugh with wicked delight...

Yet there are those who would stand against this new terror, no matter the cost. And they will endure scorn and persecution that will test their bodies and spirits to the breaking point.

The world cries out for God, and when He answers, all shall listen. And all shall be judged...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Carver
• Release date: Aug 20, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311331731

Mark Carver

Mark Carver writes dark, edgy books that tackle tough spiritual issues. He is currently working on his seventh novel. Besides writing, he is passionate about art, tattoos, heavy metal, and medieval architecture.After living in China for more than eight years, he now lives in Atlanta, GA with his wife and two children.

Book preview

SCORN

by Mark Carver

Books by Mark Carver:

THE AGE OF APOLLYON

BLACK SUN

SCORN

INDELIBLE

CYN

BEAST (with Michael Anatra) – coming Fall 2015

THE JERUSALEM CHRONICLES (short story series)

COLONY ZERO (multi-author short story series)

SCORN

Copyright 2014 Mark Carver. All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. All names, places, locations, and corporate entities are either

the product of the writer’s imagination or are used in a satirical and/or non-literal

manner. Any resemblance to any persons, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

For my beautiful daughter Zoe Ann, who is exactly five days older than this book.

I am very grateful that you slept so much during those first months.

I love you always.

PART I.

"For he easily drives into all evil doings those whom he has deceived

in the matter of religion."

- Pope Leo the Great

CHAPTER ONE

"Get down on your knees! Now!"

Christine clenched her jaw as she stared at the man with the gun. Defiance flashed in her eyes and she fought to maintain control of her tears, but her gaze never wavered.

The man with the gun tightened his lips, then lashed out with his left foot. The blow caught her leg just behind her knee and she crumpled to the floor. Her hands were bound behind her back so she had nothing to brace herself against the fall.

Nothing except her forehead. Her skull cracked against the cold, wet cement floor and a wave of pain blazed through her brain like a wildfire. A gurgling groan slipped from her mouth and she rolled over like a helpless child. She stared up at the man, ignoring the gun and looking directly into his eyes.

The man frowned for a moment, then turned away. He tried to act like he was irritated, but Christine saw it for just a moment: shame. Blood seeped from the gash above her eyebrow and trickled slowly towards her temple before dripping to the floor in large drops. Her captor looked at the red puddle pooling beneath her head before cursing and storming out of the room.

Christine heard the door slam, and she groaned again. Summoning all of her strength, she hoisted herself into a kneeling position. Blood and sweat dripped down onto her heaving chest as she quickly scanned the room.

It was dark, too dark to see anything clearly. A glowing fluorescent bar flickered on the wall to her left, weakly illuminating the cave-like room. It looked like a cellar of some kind, with numerous pipes snaking across the walls and several open drains dotting the floor. A rat skittered from one drain hole to another, pausing for a moment to glance at Christine. With a grumpy squeak, it disappeared into the void.

There had been several moments in Christine’s life when she felt truly alone. Forsaken, abandoned, helpless. She was no stranger to these words. The first time had been that fateful day when she timidly ascended the steps to the temple altar, unable to look at the ravenous faces of the half-dozen men waiting to welcome her into Satan’s kingdom. When the babbling priest ripped the robe from her body and rough hands started roaming her skin like spiders, she felt an emptiness sucking at her soul that was wider and blacker than anything she had ever felt before.

She had made her choice to turn her back on God, her family, everything she had known. And she had paid a heavy price. But one good thing came out of that horrible experience: it showed her just how deep the abyss was, and it terrified her. She came running back to God and to her family, and though her world would never be the same, she knew where she belonged.

But now, trembling on her knees in a cold, rat-infested dungeon, she felt it again – that gaping darkness that seemed to smile at her with invisible teeth, savoring her fear before swallowing her forever. Her lips quivered as she let the tears fall and mingle with the blood on her chest. Her soul cried out to heaven, but she could sense nothing, could feel no comfort.

It was as if she was praying to no one at all.

The door flew open and she jerked her head towards the light. A hulking shape with clenched fists walked into the room. Christine could almost smell the menace spilling off him like steam. She swallowed the fear thickening in her throat and blinked away the blood flowing into her eye.

The fearsome shadow said nothing as it stood in front of her. Christine couldn’t see his face, which was strange because he was half-turned towards the feeble fluorescent bulb and should have been illuminated. But he wasn’t.

Christine’s heart trembled. It seemed that the darkness boiling around her had congealed into this dark mass.

Without warning, a powerful hand reached out and clamped around her neck. A hoarse gasp was choked off as she was yanked to her feet. The ropes restraining her wrists bit into her skin as she twisted and lurched in pathetic attempts to free herself. Or even breathe.

She was dragged out of the dungeon and hauled through a series of featureless corridors before being flung through an open door. Her head crashed to the floor, tearing her wound even wider. A sob escaped her lips before she could choke it back, but she didn’t care. She didn’t even open her eyes; she just lay there on the floor, motionless.

Where is he? she whispered, not knowing if there was anyone else in the room.

A dry, raspy voice said, Christine? Christine, is that you?

Christine’s head jerked up off the floor, sending drops of blood flying in a red arc.

Papa?

Claude coughed violently, thick and harsh. Christine! Oh praise God!

Christine twitched and bucked frantically, trying to raise herself without use of her hands. Papa! Are you all right?

Yes, yes my angel, I'm all right…

Another bloody cough. Christine’s heart ached and she snarled in frustration. She finally managed to twist her body into a kneeling position and she looked around the room, but could see nothing. Only shadows.

Papa! she cried. Papa, where are you?

A light flicked on in the far corner.

Christine screamed.

Her father, Claude Jeraque, was lashed to a chair. He was covered in blood. His face was almost unrecognizable and his right hand had been mashed into a gory mess that looked like tenderized meat. Blood seeped from numerous lacerations across his bare chest and festering scorch marks were scattered across his skin.

Papa! Christine wailed, lurching forward and fighting a surge of nausea. Oh, Papa!

Claude looked down at her through swollen eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but his face suddenly froze in horror.

No! he shouted, blood gurgling in his throat.

Christine felt rough hands seize her from behind and drag her out of the room. She screamed and kicked, and she watched helplessly as the door closed with an echoing crash that sounded like a funeral bell.

****

Patric’s hands were burning.

He couldn’t see them, but he could feel it. White-hot fire, concentrated in the center of his palms, spreading searing heat throughout his body. It was agony, but he didn’t give in. He refused to open his eyes and wake up.

He knew the moment he did, it would all rush back to his mind. It was good to just lie here, in this cocoon of darkness, forgetfulness.

Oh God, the pain…

He couldn’t fight it any longer. Like a drowning man coming up for air, his eyes snapped open and he screamed with all his might. Three nurses and a doctor rushed to his bedside, their faces dark with concern and their lips moving with hurried words. Patric didn’t hear what they were saying. He felt the pain wash over him like waves on a beach, each ebb giving him time to breathe before allowing him to scream again.

The doctor’s gruff voice pierced through the fog for a moment, though he couldn’t make out what was said. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a nurse move her hand. Something flashed, and then darkness – beautiful, merciful darkness – rolled over him like a warm blanket.

When he awoke again, he tightened his chest in anticipation of another onslaught of pain. But he felt nothing.

Nothing…

His eyes bulged with panic.

My hands are gone.

He looked down at his arms and nearly fainted with relief. There were his hands, tightly bandaged with white gauze. A small amount of blood bloomed in the center of his open palms. Patric recalled a word his mother had mentioned a few times when he was a child.

Stigmata – when the wounds of Christ appear on mortal hands.

Silent tears trickled down his face and clung to his jaw like icicles.

The horror, the sheer indescribable horror, of his experience at St. Nero’s Square…

He choked on his tears, sputtering and gagging. A voice squeezed through the nightmare dancing in his mind.

"Signore, are you all right?"

Patric squeezed his eyes shut, trying in vain to exorcise the flood of memories. The assault on the compound, Christine’s brush with death, being captured by Vatican mercenaries…

The crucifixion.

The wounds in his hands blazed hot again and he clenched his teeth. He could hear the hammer pounding the savage iron spikes deep into the palms of his hands as he cried helplessly towards heaven.

To a God that didn’t hear him.

A voice, nearly drowned out by his pain, whispered from a dark corner of his mind.

But you’re alive, aren’t you?

Patric gasped and he opened his eyes. He saw a kind face. A girl, young and pretty. Almost a woman, yet still rosy and childish. A strange kind of fear seized his heart as he looked into her warm, empathetic eyes, a fear that her pleasant face would suddenly transform into a hideous mask of demonic cruelty, eyes blazing with the fires of hell…

"Signore," she said again. Are you all right?

Patric stared at her for several moments, hardly daring to breathe. He suddenly realized that aside from the Italian word for sir, she was speaking heavily-accented French.

Y-yes, he stammered, blinking away a drop of sweat that wandered into his eye. I think so.

He looked around, trying to focus on the threadbare furniture and faded pictures that decorated the room. A living room, not a hospital. Patric blinked rapidly, struggling to grab the reins of his frantic emotions. He needed something to anchor his mind to reality.

Where…where am I? he rasped. His vocal cords felt like two stones rubbing together.

The girl poured a cup of clear, delicious water and held it to his lips. He drank greedily, sputtering the last few drops as he swallowed too quickly.

You are safe, she said as she set the glass on the table beside the bed.

Patric squinted, trying to read the expression on her face. And who are you?

I’m Sophia.

Patric swallowed gingerly, relieved that the pain in his throat was subsiding. How did I get here, Sophia?

The girl looked over her shoulder as a large man with a bristling black moustache approached.

We brought you here, the man said, also speaking in French. His eyes were kind and he smiled warmly.

Why? Patric frowned. His heart was racing with uncertainty. If these people wanted to harm him they would have done so already, but he wasn’t about to trust a couple of strangers, no matter how kind they seemed.

The rotund man smiled again, his massive moustache lifting at the corners.

Because we know who you are, Signore Bourdon.

Patric’s heart sank to his knees. They’re going to nurse me back to health so they can torture me for weeks before killing me.

The girl’s father must have seen the alarm on his face, because he chuckled heartily. "Do not be afraid, signore. We will not hurt you. No one knows you are here. We want to keep you safe."

Great drops of sweat trickled down Patric’s temples. Who are you?

I am Dr. Rosetta.

****

Julian Rossa Monte stared through the shattered windows at the burning city. He smiled mirthlessly. Saint Nero would have been proud.

Except this time the Christians actually were the cause of the blazing skyline. He could feel their energy surging through him, righteous fury from thousands of oppressed souls exploding across the city. It was a cleansing wave of judgment, washing away the years of blasphemy and defilement.

Corpses and debris were still scattered across the Vatican plaza, and several armored vehicles carrying heavily-armed attack teams had assembled in front of St. Peter’s Basilica. They didn’t attack though, and Julian shook his head at their cowardice. They were afraid of the man who had been blessed by the Holy Mother in front of countless witnesses, the man who controlled the sun with mere words.

An important-looking man was standing on the roof of one of the trucks and was shouting into a bullhorn. Julian paid no attention, absently stroking the triggers of the handguns still clutched in his hands. His ears were tuned to the sounds of chaos and mayhem echoing through the great Vatican halls. The screams of the dying and the sounds of slaughter had died away hours ago, and the rabid Christian mob was now destroying every remnant of Satan’s power, no matter how insignificant.

Yet he could feel something else, something within these walls that wasn’t there when he had visited the Vatican as a child.

It hung like humidity in the air. After several minutes of careful concentration, he knew what it was.

Satan’s energy still flowed through this place, through the walls, the windows, the domes, the porticoes. An infection, saturating the entire complex with evil and loathing. Julian feared that no matter how many unholy icons or blasphemous images were destroyed, Vatican City would never be clean again.

The chamber burst open and he whirled around, his weapons drawn with rock-steady aim. A middle-aged man spattered with blood and clutching a large knife rushed into the room and screeched to a halt. He looked like he might have been a mathematics professor or insurance salesman, but here, he was a warrior.

And he looked terrified.

Forgive me, Your…Holiness, he stammered, bowing low.

Julian lowered his weapons and narrowed his eyes. Your Holiness… I like the sound of that.

Speak, my son.

The man was at least ten years older than Julian but he seemed as humble as a child in his presence.

They’ve given us one hour to surrender, he said with a glance towards the broken windows. If we don’t give ourselves up, they say they are going to storm the Vatican.

Julian regarded the man for a moment, watching the sweat carve skin-colored rivers through the blood smeared across his face. He took a couple of steps forward, and with each step, the man’s head bowed lower and lower.

What is your name? Julian asked.

R-R-Ronaldo.

Ronaldo. Tell me, Ronaldo, what do you think will happen if we give ourselves up?

Ronaldo was silent for a moment. Well, I suppose we will be executed. There’s no way they will let us live after…after what we have done.

And what have we done?

A tear mingled with the sweat dripping down Ronaldo’s face. We…we…

Yes?

We followed the will of God and cleansed His holy church.

Julian nodded slowly. Yes, we did. And did we do all this for our own glory, or for riches, or fame?

No, Ronaldo answered with a shake of his head.

Then why? Why did you take up a weapon and charge into the holiest building on earth and slaughter the heathens hiding inside?

Ronaldo began to weep. He collapsed to his knees and dropped the bloody machete, raising his hands to cover his face.

It’s okay, my son, Julian said quietly, it’s okay. He reached down and placed his hand on the man’s shoulder.

Ronaldo flinched at his touch. A dark smile spread across Julian’s face, then vanished quickly. It was an incredible feeling, to be feared and loved.

What shall we do? Ronaldo sobbed.

Julian turned away and directed his gaze towards the pillars of smoke rising above the city of Rome. The wailing sirens, the blathering idiot shouting furiously into the bullhorn…it was music. The labor pangs before the birth of a new age.

He whirled around, gazing fiercely at the man groveling on the ground.

How strong is your faith, my friend?

****

Patric’s eyes snapped open. He didn’t know long he had been asleep. He jerked his arms up, as if he had been expecting them to be bound with chains. Instead, his bandaged hands flew up and collided with his face. Scorching pain seared through his arms and he cried out in agony.

Sophia flew to his side like a bird, her face tight with concern. Are you all right, Signore Bourdon?

Patric blinked away droplets of sweat that trickled into his eyes as he stared up at the ceiling. Before he could control himself, tears began to flow down the side of his face and were absorbed into the bedsheets.

He remembered the relief, the joy, at that moment in the square when he realized that he was going to live, that he had been saved from an agonizing death by mere moments. But now that joy was gone. Despite the presence of Sophia by his bedside, he had never felt so alone in his entire life.

What did he have now? His life with Natasha and their unborn child had been a lie. His half-brother, the fanatical assassin, was dead. So was Christine, and if she wasn’t, she probably wished she was. He had no family, no friends, and no god.

Perhaps it would have been better for him to have burned upon that cross in St. Nero’s Square…

Patric.

He sniffed back his tears and opened his eyes. He turned towards the voice and his heart flooded with warmth.

Father!

Father DeMarco smiled and his eyes sparkled with tears. He knelt down and gently embraced him.

How…how are you here, Father? Patric asked, gingerly hoisting himself into a sitting position. Sophia’s face clouded with concern but she did not try and stop him.

Father DeMarco clasped his hands in front of him and exhaled slowly. It truly is a miracle, Patric. God’s hand was upon us – you especially.

He paused and a shadow passed over his eyes. When the fighting began, I thought we were finished. As I held you in my arms, you slipped into unconsciousness. You had lost so much blood but I was too weak, in my body and in my spirit, to help you. I expected a death blow at any moment. I prayed for one. I no longer wished to live in this world that God had abandoned.

The priest took a deep breath and glanced at Sophia. And then…I saw an angel. This wonderful young lady came running through the battlefield with her father, who was not as beautiful, but was no less of an angel.

Sophia smiled and Father DeMarco placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. I don’t know how we made it through the chaos. The blood, the screaming. Oh God, how could Your children commit such atrocities?

The priest turned his face towards heaven and squeezed his eyes shut to keep the tears from spilling down his cheeks. His whole body trembled and his fists were clenched. Sophia and Patric watched him fearfully, afraid that he might collapse in anguish.

But the moment passed, and Father DeMarco looked at them. I cannot say why, but we were spared, Patric. You and I. It is not a coincidence that this child and her father found us.

Why not? Patric asked.

Father DeMarco looked at the girl. Because this brave young woman helped me find my way to you.

You mean you met her before she saved us?

Father DeMarco nodded. This is how I know now that God has not abandoned us.

Patric couldn’t hide his irritated smirk. I'm sorry Father, but meeting someone twice in one day does not mean that God –

Father DeMarco held up his hand and Patric fell silent. Patric, do you remember when you came to the monastery? When Tourec appeared on our doorstep just hours after you arrived?

Patric nodded reluctantly. How he wished that he had never gone in search of his brother…

Patric. The priest’s voice was low and tense. Do you know who helped him escape his pursuers so that he could come to us?

There was a curious gleam in his eye. Patric frowned and shook his head. Father DeMarco looked at Sophia, then back to Patric.

Patric followed his eyes, trying to decipher his meaning. Then he gasped.

You… he stammered, fixing his eyes on Sophia, you helped my brother?

Sophia nodded. "He was wounded and broke into our pharmacy. I discovered him and brought him to my father. We fed him and dressed his wounds, but the police followed his trail and came to our home. My father gave him the keys to his car and he escaped just before they broke down our door. Luckily I had already cleaned up the food and the bandages, and I’m sure they suspected us of helping him escape but they had no proof. And since most of the police force was involved in the raid that killed Tourec’s friends, they couldn’t spare any men to interrogate us, so they threatened us, saying that we would be prosecuted if they found out that we had helped him, and left.

"When they had gone, my father took all of our money from the safe and told me to pack a bag. We left our home that night and came here to Rome. We thought we could disappear in a big city, but when we heard about what was happening in St. Peter’s Square… Well, my father has a kind heart, and he told me that it is a doctor’s duty to help those who are suffering, no matter what. When we arrived, everyone was fighting and killing each other. I was terrified and I begged

Reviews for Scorn (The Age of Apollyon Trilogy Book 3)

[sknhammerstone · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The Age of Apollyon is a gothic supernatural/ horror novel about two estranged half-brothers. In a time when Satan rules the Earth, one of them has fallen to the allure of Satanism while the other remains true to God, becoming an assassin to fulfill what he believes to be the will of his Lord and the church. The Age of Apollyon is not for the weak of heart. Do not read this book at night. It will lead you to question many things while keeping you completely riveted on the story. As soon as I started, I couldn’t put it down. I finished it by the second day. As someone who has read numerous books of numerous genres, I can say this book has made it into my top 100. Carver has woven an apocalyptic novel unlike any other I have read to date. It was reminiscent of works by authors such as Dan Brown, Ted Dekker, and Frank Peretti. The characters that were so opposite of each other were still both relatable to the reader in their own way.My only criticism of this book is that one: I wish the “storyline”, so to speak, had started sooner. Roughly the first fifth of the book is introduction. Don’t get me wrong; it was still intriguing. Just a little long for an introduction.I would highly recommend this book to any who enjoy gothic, supernatural, paranormal, or horror literature. I would especially encourage someone who is interested in breaking away form traditional literature to read this book. I give it four out of five stars.

[tlsmiles · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I find it difficult to give a rating to Age of Apollyon that that will be meaningful to others. The pieces I found well done in the novel were stunningly good, and the pieces that fell short missed by quite a bit. In this novel, categorized as Christian speculative fiction, author Mark Carver has created an interesting character in the protagonist, Patric – a man who, although he belongs to the Church of Satan, neither believes nor disbelieves in the deities in whose names a dark religious war has erupted around him. Patric credibly vacillates in his views as he is played as a pawn by an unknown force. Carver is masterful in his use of setting and description to create at times chilling and at time ominous tones for the novel. On the other hand, the story stops short of a complete and satisfying plot. It is unclear at the end whether the protagonist has changed over the course of the story or remains nothing but a pawn. I was also disappointed that the twist at the conclusion of the novel was predictable as the only outcome that made sense of the world Carver had created.The craft that shines through in this first novel, however, is promising for future tense and riveting works from this author.

[debdebtig · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Age of Apollyon by Mark Carver brings two brothers together during the time of Satan on Earth. Tourec has been told to find his half-brother Patric. They each have a plan, and each is following a different ruler. With the return of Satan the world has changed drastically. Christians and religions other than those who follow Satan are no longer safe. It has been many years since his return and things are changing. An edge of the seat novel that keeps you guessing right to the last page. I give it a wholehearted 5 stars and can't wait for another novel from Mr. Carver.Disclaimer: This novel was received as a LibraryThing giveaway.