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    No Rest for the Wicked
    No Rest for the Wicked
    No Rest for the Wicked
    Ebook138 pages1 hour

    No Rest for the Wicked

    By Dane Cobain

    ()

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    About this ebook

    When the Angels attack, there’s NO REST FOR THE WICKED.

    Father Montgomery, an elderly priest with a secret past, begins to investigate after his parishioners come under attack. With the help of Jones, a young businessman with an estranged child, Montgomery begins to track down the origin of the Angels.

    The Angels are naked and androgynous. They speak in a dreadful harmony with no clear leader. These aren’t biblical cherubs tasked with the protection of the righteous – these are deadly creatures of light that have the power to completely eradicate.

    When Jones himself is attacked, Father Montgomery knows he has to act fast. Will the final showdown force him to make the ultimate sacrifice?

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDragon Moon Press
    Release dateJun 1, 2016
    ISBN9781988256320
    No Rest for the Wicked

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      Book preview

      No Rest for the Wicked - Dane Cobain

      Dragon Moon Press

      Copyright 2015 © DANE COBAIN

      C:\Users\TORAY\Downloads\cclogo.png

      This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.

      Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work).

      Noncommercial — You may not use this work for commercial purposes.

      No Derivative Works — You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work.

      Inquiries about additional permissions

      should be directed to: [email protected]

      ––––––––

      Cover Design by Ashley Ruggirello

      Edited by Laura Bartha

      ––––––––

      This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.

      Print ISBN: 978-1-988256-31-3

      Ebook ISBN: 978-1-988256-32-0

      Chapter One: A Fair Trial

      Wednesday November 11th, 2009

      They grew out of the darkness, mysterious shapes hiding in plain sight in abstract mockery of the senses.

      In the living room of a dingy flat in Hammersmith, tall and proud and shimmering in the air like a mirage, they stood; the only other light was a flickering television set that broadcast white noise to the sleeping occupant of the sofa.

      Wake.

      Their shared voice echoed around the room like an organ in a cathedral, as powerful as independent thought. None of them moved—they just quaked with anticipation. The heap of dirty clothes on the sofa began to move and an ashen face emerged. He looked around the room in a sleepy daze. A matted beard framed his sunken eyes—grey on grey. He smelled like a pub before the smoking ban—an unpleasant cologne of nicotine and whiskey. When he saw that he wasn’t alone, he climbed unsteadily to his feet.

      Who are you? he asked, shading his eyes to look at them. What are you doing in my house? With every passing second, his eyes adjusted and grew wider.

      Our identity is unimportant. Their voices echoed around the room in perfect harmony, the eerie unison astounding, incredible, and terrifying. We are defined by our purpose. You should already know what we are.

      Angels, he replied, avoiding their ferocious stare. I’ve heard of you. But you’re not real.

      Are you? they asked, and he frowned.

      I’m more real than you are. You’re just rumours and hearsay, a hallucination.

      Does that matter?

      If I rub my eyes, you’ll disappear. You were never here in the first place. He closed his eyes and pinched the thin skin on the inside of his elbow, but he felt the pain and didn’t wake up.

      When he opened his eyes, the Angels were still there.

      Eric Solomon, they boomed, in a voice that demanded attention.

      He looked at them imperiously. You’re real, he whispered.

      We know that you are a sinner. You have wasted your life by drinking away the nights, bloated with lust for actresses and models. You have worshipped false idols, from musicians to cartoon characters. You have lied, cheated, stolen, and swindled your way through life.

      Solomon raised his hand to interrupt them, but they continued to talk as if he weren’t even there. The Angels didn’t raise their voices—they just refused to be unheard. It was as though they were talking silently and he was listening with his soul.

      You have committed each of the seven sins and an endless number of others. Your apocalypse is now. Do you have anything to say in your defence? Will you repent? Will you kneel and beg for forgiveness before the sheepdogs of the Lord? Justify yourself.

      Why should I? he cried.

      If you do not, you will be purged.

      What happened to a fair trial?

      We are a fair trial. Speak. It wasn’t a command, but Solomon felt compelled to answer.

      ‘I’ve enjoyed myself, isn’t that the point? I’ve led a happy life and been nice enough to the people I’ve known. I’ve never been violent and I’ve always worked hard, I’m just down on my luck at the moment. There’s a recession.

      We know everything and more.

      Then you already know what’s going to happen?

      Correct. But knowledge of the future is not meant for you. Do you have anything else to add to your defence?

      I’m not afraid to die. Solomon sighed and stood tall, a fraction of his former self.

      Without seeming to move, the Angels grew nearer, and Solomon was surrounded. He could feel the heat from their bodies and see the wall-mounted clock through their translucent flesh. He stared at the second hand; it ticked, and the Angels stepped through him.

      Solomon shrieked as white-hot pain passed through him, and he whimpered as he smelled his own burning flesh. He thought that the pain was unbearable; then, it intensified. The Angels were strengthened by his imminent death, and their bodies started to solidify. Solomon slipped into an unconsciousness from which he’d never wake, and the Angels caught his falling body with ease.

      As they held him, draped across their arms like a battered rug, he ignited. None of the Angels flinched; they stood, staring at the fire, with an inscrutable expression on their androgynous faces. In the distance, a car horn honked impatiently. Seconds later, it sounded again; the flames began to die down, Solomon’s body reduced to dust and ash.

      You lied, Mr. Solomon, they said, scattering the powdered remains across the floor. "You were afraid to die."

      The Angels walked towards the wall, passing through it as the widescreen television behind them continued to broadcast static, and the eerie sound kept the ashes company.

      Chapter Two: Robert Jones’ Editorial, The Telegraph

      Friday January 1st, 2010

      No-one knows when the attacks started, but they grew more frequent towards the end of the year. Likewise, we didn’t know what caused them. There were rumours of co-ordinated kidnappings and terrorist plots, but they had no more substance than the whispers that spread them. Conspiracy theorists claimed the attacks were the work of an Orwellian secret society, hell-bent on changing the world by removing one person at a time. The truth was, we were all stumped.

      There are no statistics because the Angels never officially existed. The whole world was riding the Mary Celeste, and no-one knew how to drop anchor and signal for help. The police did nothing (how could they fight an unknown enemy?), and the politicians claimed that the problems were caused by the public. But they couldn’t explain the reports from African tribesmen or quarantined scientists at faraway research stations. How could these people perpetuate the hoax if they hadn’t heard of it?

      It happened everywhere. The rumours spread across the globe and were met with universal derision. El Fantasma, Les Séraphins, Der Schleichender Tod—The Angels. We didn’t know what to think, so we tried not to think at all. By the beginning of December, the number of global disappearances surpassed 100,000, but authorities refused to act.

      More people attended churches, prayer meetings, and ceremonies, driven to religion by fear of the unknown. Occasionally, the papers wrote about isolated communities disappearing overnight, and alcoholism and drug addiction were at an all-time high. Society was falling apart, and no-one knew how to stop it.

      Chapter Three: An Old Friend

      Wednesday November 18th, 2009

      Robert Jones parked his brand new Beamer in the empty churchyard and sighed. The petrol light was flashing, but that wasn’t why he stopped. His head ached from prescription drugs and complicated spreadsheets, and his body was vibrating again. The palpitations were getting worse, but he wouldn’t have it looked at. Robert’s school of thought was old-fashioned—as long as he was breathing, why worry?

      Jones twisted the key and cut the ignition, feeling his headache subside with the radio. He reached for his cigarettes and stepped out of the car, pausing to collect his cold Starbucks from the cup-holder. He flicked a button on the keys and walked away, not bothering to wait for the chirp of the central locking. Potential theft didn’t bother him—he knew this part of London like the back of his hand, and he loved it like a father.

      Robert felt unholy as he walked across the grounds with a cigarette in hand, wondering whether priests hid nicotine-stained fingernails inside their pockets. Almost unconsciously, he drained his coffee and threw the cup into a litter bin.

      Walking through the tiny graveyard that skirted the southern wall of the rectory, Jones paused to read

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