The Lucifer Sanction

Chapter TWELVE

Outskirts of Maupertuis,

French Camp

September 17, 1356

3.15 P: M





Denis Campion laid prostrate across the blood soaked table, his teeth biting hard into a rolled cloth as the French physician dug deep, searching out the tip of the English bolt.

“Sacré Edward et son écume anglaise meurtrière,” he groaned in his best high school French. “Goddamn Edward and his murderous English scum.”

Two soldiers alongside of him nodded agreement as one held a bowl of hot bloodied water. “Oui, l’écume anglaise, ils doivent être conduits de nos terres. Yes, the English scum must be driven from our lands.”

The physician complained to the two assistants and ordered them to increase their grip of the patient’s arm. “J’ai le boulon, I have the bolt. Bite hard for this is going to...”

Shreds of tendon and muscle exited with the arrowhead as Campion tried to focus on the figure standing alongside him. “Moreau, is that you?”

Dominic Moreau smiled at the physician as he lowered his mouth to the patient’s ear and whispered, “Denis, how the f*ck did you get yourself into this mess?”

“Long story,” Campion groaned, “I’ll explain later.”

Moreau backed away. He gave his French his best shot, “Mon ami vagabonde et ne sait pas de ce qu’il parle. Je l’attendrai l’extérieur de la tente.” And then to Campion, “I’ll be waiting outside.” He stepped from the tent and strolled among infantrymen sleeping around a smoldering fire. He reached into his tunic, removed the small bundle, unwound it and carefully eyed the three red ampoules. He whispered to them like a father to a small child, “Not too long now my sweet, when we get back we’ll give them motherf*ckers in Zurich a real epi f*ckin’ demic.” He let out a depraved chuckle, “By the time we’re done - we can start fresh - even come up with a catchy name for the new world.” He gazed skyward. Grinned. “Hades? Yeah, I kinda like that. It’s got a certain ring to it.” His eyes rolled about like pachinko balls. He slid his tongue around the edge of cracked, chaffed lips. “But there ain’t an upside in the promotion of that one. Hmm, maybe it’s a little too warm. Let’s go with Valhalla. Yeah, that’s perfect . . . f*ckin’ Valhalla.”

In quite moments while seeking comfort, Moreau had often fondled the ampoules, savoring the power Lucifer afforded him; power to change history. Power. Power right there in the palm of his hand. He carefully re wrapped them, returned them to the inside of his surcoat and fingered about for the converter disc. He found it and smiled a self-satisfying grin, bit on his lower lip as the digitized coordinates once again failed to appear. He thought Campion can’t die, he’s back there in the chamber alongside of me – maybe Bosch and Beckman were wrong. What if I take Campion’s disc – maybe I can make it back. His mind rambled; he’d one mission and one only: get Lucifer back home, back to 2015.

Another two Frenchmen joined those sitting by the fire. Dom Moreau had removed his breastplate and found the fire to be a pleasant comfort as it warmed the metal of his chain-mail. Aware of prying eyes, he slipped a secure hand around the carefully wrapped ampoules.

“This war is killing my marriage,” one soldier grumbled to the other, a tall anorexic looking Frenchman who was mercilessly prodding at the flames. “The English pigs should have been driven back to their miserable island weeks ago. They laid chevauchée to our village - many of my friends were unable to flee the flames. I have heard farmlands have been laid bare by Edward’s ruffians. Now I hear we must wait two days hence for Maupertuis. We will slaughter them for sure, and their Prince of Wales, their precious Edward,” and he pronounced the word Edward with an exaggerated extension - sounded like Edwooard.

Moreau listened. Grinned with satisfaction. He knew too well the clash at Poitiers would prove to be a major defeat for the bragging Frenchman. It would be one of Edward’s best victories, resulting in a disastrous defeat for the French.

History had well recorded France’s King John’s blunder. He’d instructed his knights to dismount and fight on foot, leaving them open to the onslaught of English bowmen. The subsequent capture of the French King, along with many of France’s top noblemen, went down in history as one of the most significant defeats of France at the hands of the English.

Moreau thought have you French ever won any f*ckin’thing? No. He couldn’t recall a victory. This pleased him. How badly he wanted to tell these lice infested French of their pending doom, but as Bosch had instructed, make no changes that affect the course of events, allow history to play its role.

“That bastard Edward, he laid a chevauchée against the city of Bourges,” one soldier grumbled. “My brother and his son were fortunate to escape, they told me the English arrived with seven thousand men, they raided and looted villages where I had many friends, brutalizing the women and setting Bourges to the torch.” He shook his wine flask, swished it about and gulped the last of it down. “I hear they have captured Audley.”

The stench of body odor wafted toward Moreau as one of the men peeled off his tunic. “I heard our infantry suffered defeats at Romorantin,” he said as he flung the tunic toward the tent. “The English dogs went west along the Loire, setting chevauchée’s before they turned south.”

“But we have a much larger force just fifty miles from Edward, large enough to overcome the English scum,” his comrade said with a smirk. “My friend, if it plays out, then a confrontation at Poitiers will not eventuate.”

Moreau’s grin grew even wider. He closed his eyes, dreamed of cable television, dreamed of better times. He chuckled, “You f*ckin’ French.”

Sunday September 18, 1356 6.32 A: M

Denis Campion limped from the tent with his stomach swathed in blood-soaked bandage. His eyes sought out Dominic Moreau still curled by the dying embers. He slumped to his knees by Moreau’s side, prodded him awake and whispered in a painful groan, “You realize what date this is?”

Moreau half opened one eye, slid it toward Campion and replied in an aggravated tone. “Yeah, we’re gonna see the Battle of f*ckin’Poitiers.” His voice was angered and he spoke with a sharp accusing tone. “I missed you in Venice. I waited at the basilica, why weren’t you there?

“I was uh, delayed in the English camp, you know

- giving some advice to Edward’s guys.”

For a half-minute neither spoke. Campion purposely attempted to stretch as though yawning. He let out a muffled groan, an argh groan, hoping to draw sympathy from Moreau. “My side,” he moaned, “the pain’s killing me. I’d give my left nut for an Oxycontin.”

The response was delivered with a note of reluctance. “You uh, you said you gave advice. What kind of advice?”

“No, no. Not shit that would change stuff, just a few strategies. I needed to buy time, to get me out of a sticky situation; I just needed to work ‘em a bit, you know, to save my skin.”

Campion ignored Moreau’s skeptical stare.

He waited through a long icy silence.

“So uh, c’mon, Dom, wha’dya wanna hear? You wanna hear that I’m sorry? Is that it – you wanna hear I’m sorry for f*ckin’ up . . . sorry I caught a f*ckin’ arrow? You want an apology for missing our date in Venice.”

Dominic Moreau lay motionless, ignoring the barrage.

“Okay - so I’m f*ckin’ sorry.”

“Denis, we were told not to go helping,” Moreau said in a monotone, cutting voice. “What the f*ck did you tell ‘em?”

Campion waved Moreau’s question away. He slumped to a seated position, and rested his head in his hands. After a minute’s silence he raised his eyes at a group of approaching riders. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered, “what now, we’ve gotta get the f*ck out of here. My disc’s shot

- I can’t go anywhere, and to make it worse, my French is only so-so. That’s why I couldn’t make it back to Venice. Okay?”

Moreau raised a settling hand. “Take it easy, Denis. Just take it easy, man.”

“Easy? Take it f*ckin’ easy? This - this - this 14th f*ckin’ century has gotta be the scourge of mankind. Have you seen the graves? Jesus Christ, those sonsofbitches back in Zurich must all be suffering priapism after your excursion to China. I never imagined Persinia could cause all that shit. Now we’ve got these guys burning towns, running swords through babies, we got villagers impaled along roadsides.” Campion choked a little as tears swelled. “Dom, I even got involved in raping a kid while those French sonsofbitches cheered me on”

Dom Moreau faked sincerity. “You raped a girl, Aw gee – ain’t that f*ckin’ horrible?”

“I swear to God, Dom, they would’ve killed me. They were all over her. When they were done they threw me on her. I haven’t stopped washing.” Campion took the disc from his surcoat and glared at it. “Those sonsofbitches in Zurich spent billions on their technology. They gave us these dinky devices that run about a buck-fifty a piece. F*ckin’ discs, Libra must’ve had ‘em made in Korea.” He threw his disc down hard, stomped on it. “I still can’t believe what they did to that kid - the look in her eyes, they took turns, one of ‘em dragged me off and they held her legs apart while another rammed a sword clean up inside of her. It was sick, man. Horrific.”

Dom Moreau squirmed at the image then made a sympathetic face. “Dennis, listen to me, man. Forget the girl. In times of war, there isn’t any reasoning. You’ve been around these French and English too long. You’ve caught yourself a fatal dose of pessimism. It’s as contagious as the plague. These English are born with that negative gene; they see the bottle half empty. Make no mistake - we are the angels of death. Retribution will be swift when I get back to Zurich. Those motherf*ckers at Libra will pay dearly, believe me.”

Denis Campion cringed momentarily as a fresh wave of pain shot through his side. He gave Moreau a look of mistrust as he tried reading between the lines, was going to reprimand him, thought better of it. He was in too vulnerable a condition to question this lunatic’s intent; disapproval would certainly result in his never leaving 1356.

Moreau reached in his pocket and removed the ampoules. “Yeah,” he said, “it all seemed so f*ckin’ believable.”

Campion stared unbelievably at the ampoules in Moreau’s palm. “Jesus Christ, if they’re what I think they are. I thought the red ones were still in an experimental stage

- that they were still locked away in the lab in Zurich.”

“Yeah well – you’d be mistaken now, wouldn’t you? These babies are the one and only, the merciless mother of all viruses, Lucifer Pecillius. I was sent back to do some more dirty work for Beckman. Well f*ck him, ‘cause I got my own plans for these honeys.”

They gazed at the three glowing containers and Moreau mumbled an insane whisper. “Those a*sholes in Zurich with their bullshit sales pitch. I’ve seen millions die. I’ve seen Libra even con their elitist f*ckin’ sponsors.”

“The Triumvirate?”

“Yeah, the very same, the Triumvirate. Those Bilderbergers too.”

Moreau drew deep into the back of his throat, made a guttural gurgling sound and ejected a capacious amount of phlegm and drew his sleeve across his moist lips. “I’ve seen villages wiped out, bodies thrown into ditches, lime shoveled on ‘em to speed up decomposition. And that smell, I won’t ever get rid of that f*ckin’ smell.” He tapped on his throat. “The taste is burned in - way down here. And those guys, le Blanc, Bosch, Beckman, and Danzig. My first impression of them was - well, I thought they were all facetious little pricks. Guys like them; they go through life sharpening their egos on the failed grindstones of others.”

“Maybe they stole my grindstone,” Campion said in a self-pitying tone. “Yeah, that’s gotta be it - they stole my f*ckin’ grindstone.”

“There you go again,” Moreau said with a wicked grin, “raving on with all that pessimistic crap.”

Moreau wrapped the three ampoules back in their protective packing. “I sense some kind of subliminal anxiety struggling to get out of that beat up body of yours, Denis. We need to get our asses out of here.”

“Yeah, and go where?” Campion probed. “Where are you gonna take those things? You’ve got a converter disc that’s f*cked. Neither of us is going anywhere.”

“I’ll take ‘em away from the f*ckin’ French, for one,” Moreau replied as he helped Campion to his feet. “We’ve one shitload of trouble headed this way and I need to get these babies back home. If they fall into the hands of these warmongers, well - for sure they’ll snap the tops or crush the glass and let Lucifer kill off what’s left of the f*ckin’ planet.” He waved a hand at the stars. “You realize the implications of this shit if Lucifer’s let loose here? It’d reduce the human race by millions - who knows - maybe annihilate it completely, not just eliminate thirty-two million the way Yersinia did. This ain’t the bird flu. This shit is germ warfare off of the scale.”

Campion swayed as the wound began to bleed more freely. He took a few long seconds to digest the scenario, slipped his eyes to the crazed face of Dominic Moreau, made a feeble attempt to inject a little humor into the moment. “We’ve both been immunized, so given the worse possible scenario we’ll have each other, right Dom?”

“You ain’t hearing me. This ain’t Persinia, this is Lucifer and there’s no f*ckin’ cure. How much do you think they’ll pay us to hand these babies over, huh? The Americans will offer plenty and Beijing or North Korea or some Arab prick will up the ante.”

Fear was stamped on Campion’s face. Moreau’s insane, he thought. He asked, “You’re gonna hold a major power auction?”

“Auction?” Moreau laughed. “Auction, yeah man, gonna put ‘em on eBay.”

Denis Campion clutched at his side, teeth again biting hard into the rolled cloth he clutched in one hand. The French physician had indeed dug deep as he searched for the tip of that bolt. The talk with Dominic Moreau acted as a conversational anesthesia of types. It had offered temporary respite from the pain. When talk had ended, when the anesthesia dissipated, the agonizing pain resurrected itself.

****

Five English riders cantered into the camp-sight. They wore visored helms, chain-mail, burgundy leggings and gray jerkins identical to those Moreau had seen days earlier during a chevauchée. He recognized the broadswords hanging menacingly from their waists, recalled how easily one had removed a man’s arm, his severed hand still clutching his own weapon. Campion limped forward, stumbled over a soldier’s leg as the man knelt with his head bowed before the new arrivals. The foremost knight wore black armor and there were calls of, “My Lord, my Lord,” spreading throughout the camp.

Edward Prince of Wales had arrived.

Poitiers lay at hand.