FAN HQ, AD 3999/AE 1999
Malachi sat in his cell. Waiting. He lay on the cot that was the only piece of furniture in the spare cell. Monks in the Dark Ages lived more ostentatiously than did he, and Malachi, though not proud of that fact, was happy to suffer for his cause.
He was nude. The darkness of the room caressed his body, touching it with the gentle feel of a lover. He savored the darkness. His eyes were rolled back in his head, as though he were trying to look at his own brain. To see why it made him think the way it did, as though visual perception of the gray mass would be able to further confirm what he already knew: genius resided in his mind. Genius and more.
Malachi was one of the elect. He had served well, and would continue to do so.
Fire flared in the darkness. The breath sighed gently from Malachi's lips as he watched the ghostly incandescence dance through the room. No heat came from it, only a dry coolness. That was what told him that the flame existed only to him.
A vision from God, it had to be.
The flame danced, and Malachi thought he could see the last bodies of the last men and women on earth as their lives extinguished.
The final face he saw dying in the fire was his own.
His hand clenched into a fist, as though tightly gripping the barrel of his gun. He remembered shooting Lucas, and replayed it in his mind: that wonderful moment when the man realized that his life would end. Lucas’ eyes trying to look in every direction at once, as though the more he could see, the less he would lose.
The moment of clarity was something Malachi treasured. That moment when they all realized, yes, they were going to die. It came to everyone, though they all experienced it differently. Some refused to accept it until the last, others knew instantly.
Lucas had known from the moment Malachi shot the bartender. The urine that sprayed out of him testified to that, and he wished he could have taken a small trace of the urine back with him. He supposed he could have, had he thought of it earlier. He could have emptied out a whisky bottle and stored some of Lucas’ fluid in the glass vessel. Would the glass hold it? Or would it burst under the pressure of Lucas’ holy urine?
Malachi would never know. But next time, perhaps he would try. Perhaps he would make his next victim urinate into a cup. If it was a man, perhaps he would arrange his attack at a time when the man was aroused, to gather the man’s seed, the fluid of life.
He had no idea how he might do this, but he had no doubt that such could be accomplished, should the desire arise within him.
He would never take blood, though. Blood was holy. Sacred. It was the redeeming power that had brought him here, to this place, to this very room. It was blood that drove him to kill, to destroy, and thereby to create.
It was blood that Malachi had spilt, and would spill again. But he would not take it with him. The blood must soak into the earth, to become a testament to his greatness; to the Work he had done.
An intercom, small and all but hidden in the bare stone wall of his room, beeped.
Malachi ignored it for a moment. It beeped again, and he swung his legs over the side of his bed. A lighting-stemmed crucifix swung near his chest, its metal warm from laying against his neck. Malachi touched the intercom. At the other end of the line, he knew, another man would be reading a piece of paper. The paper would hold a name, a place, and a time.
"Yes?" asked Malachi.
"We’ve found another one."
"Good."
"A woman."
Malachi’s heart raced. The last one. The end was near.
"Even better," he said.
Malachi stood and began dressing. He pulled on the clothing quickly, because when he received new prey, he liked to move fast. But he still took the time to make sure the clothing was clean, and comely.
He put on good clothing, because killing a woman was something that demanded respect.