No Rest for the Wicked Read online

  NO REST

  FOR THE

  WICKED

  DANE COBAIN

  Seattle, WA 2015

  COPYRIGHT 2015 DANE COBAIN

  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 978-1-62015-902-6

  EPUB ISBN 978-1-62015-933-0

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015907227

  CONTENTS

  COVER

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT PAGE

  CHAPTER ONE: A FAIR TRIAL

  CHAPTER TWO: ROBERT JONES’ EDITORIAL, THE TELEGRAPH

  CHAPTER THREE: AN OLD FRIEND

  CHAPTER FOUR: THE LARGE HADRON COLLIDER

  CHAPTER FIVE: A DAY AT THE ZOO

  CHAPTER SIX: FATHER MONTGOMERY’S LECTURE

  CHAPTER SEVEN: RETRIBUTION

  CHAPTER EIGHT: A CLANDESTINE MEETING

  CHAPTER NINE: A NEW DEVELOPMENT

  CHAPTER TEN: A CLIPPING FROM THE OBSERVER

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: BEINGS OF LIGHT

  CHAPTER TWELVE: THE RENDEZVOUS

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN: JUST ANOTHER DAY AT THE OFFICE

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN: THE ORPHANAGE

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN: GET WELL SOON

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN: A STATEMENT FROM CERN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: THE AFFAIR

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: ANNIHILATION

  CHAPTER NINETEEN: MIXED REPORTS ON CHANNEL FIVE NEWS

  CHAPTER TWENTY: REBELLION

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: CONSPIRACY THEORIES FROM NATIONAL NEWSPAPERS

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: CONGREGATION

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: POSSESSION

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: VISITATION

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: EXORCISM

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: THE PLAN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: CERN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: VENGEANCE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: MONTGOMERY’S VOICEMAIL MESSAGE

  CHAPTER THIRTY: THE MEETING

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: THE WORLD STANDS STILL

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: RESEARCH

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: THE END IS NIGH

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR: EXODUS

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE: COMEUPPANCE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX: THE LAST SUPPER

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN: THE LAST STAND

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT: EYES IN THE SKY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE: PARLEY

  CHAPTER FORTY: SACRIFICE

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE: JONES’ CLOSURE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  JOIN THE CONVERSATION

  MORE GREAT READS FROM BOOKTROPE

  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 inscrut
able 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 the inscriptions, daydreaming about the people that inspired them. He remembered stashing whiskey behind one of the stones as a teenager and cursed himself with a mixture of disgust and regret.

  Jones finished his cigarette with a long drag and flicked it over the mossy wall before pushing open the heavy doors and slipping inside. It was his private place – apart from the tired-eyed vicar; it was rare to see another face, and he’d known Father Montgomery forever.

  He sat on a pew by the door and closed his eyes, more from exhaustion than in prayer. A couple of rows in front, a timid old lady uttered a quiet salutation to a statue of the Virgin Mary. She didn’t look well, and Jones wondered whether she’d always been religious. She looked the type, with her pious optimism in the face of the blatant, depressing truth. She was dying, he knew.

  Those troubled thoughts were interrupted by heavy footsteps, and Jones turned to see the wizened figure of Father Montgomery weaving through the pews towards him. He always looked out of place in his robes – his nose had been broken in a schoolyard fight, and he dyed his greying hair. Fit for a man in his sixties, he believed in a strict regime of mental and physical fitness.

  “Robert!” Father Montgomery exclaimed, shaking his visitor’s hand. “How are you? I haven’t seen you for months. What have you been doing with yourself?”

  “Oh, you know – the usual. Peterson’s backing an important bid, so I’ve been stuck in meeting after meeting. No-one wants to take the risk because of the recession.”

  “Sounds like a nightmare,” the priest replied.

  “It’s no worse than usual. I sometimes dream about quitting.”

  “You shouldn’t. You’ve worked too hard to throw it all away.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right,” Jones said. He noticed that the old woman had finished her prayers, and he remembered how fragile she looked. Nodding at her, he asked Father Montgomery, “Is she okay?”

  “Mrs. Forbes? She’s having a tough time. Her husband died in January, and she’s just been diagnosed with cancer. They gave her three months to live.”

  “Jesus Christ,” whispered Jones, and he immediately regretted it. He’d been raised to be respectful.

  “She comes here when she’s lonely, but there’s only me to talk to. Even that’ll stop, soon. Strictly speaking, she should be in a hospice.”

  “There’s no justice,” Jones muttered, shaking his head. “How are things with you?”

  “I’ve been bored. I know I shouldn’t say it, but nothing happens here. People just aren’t religious, these days.”

  The old priest spent his time working on sermons that no-one ever listened to.

  Jones shifted uncomfortably, a disbeliever. “You should get the locals involved. Back in the day, the church was the pillar of the community, right? I bet this place would be full of people if they knew it was here.”

  The old man smiled, wanly. “We both know that’s not true. People don’t care anymore. My friend, I’m a fossil.”

  “I’ll visit more often.”

  “No,” replied the priest. “You’ve got your career to worry about, and a child to support. I don’t need charity. I’m supposed to give, not receive. How is your boy, anyway?”

  “Kate doesn’t let me see him, but he’s probably better off without me. Maybe if I just keep paying the child support—”

  “You should meet with her,” Montgomery interrupted. “Talk it through. You can’t keep living like this.”

  “I know. But I can’t look after him at the moment. He’s better off without me.”

  Montgomery touched Jones’ arm and glanced at his face with concern in his wise eyes. “What do you mean? Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” Jones replied, feeling faint. “I can look after myself.”

  “You can talk to me at any time. I’ll always be here if you need me.”

  “Of course, Father. Thank you.”

  Jones felt the priest’s sad eyes on his back, following him as he walked away. Back in the car, he lit a cigarette before gunning the engine and driving towards a meeting that he hadn’t prepared for.

  CHAPTER FOUR: THE LARGE HADRON COLLIDER

  Wednesday September 10th, 2008

  DEEP UNDERGROUND, surrounded by thick windows and expensive machinery, Professor Klaus Boerman was sitting impatiently in an uncomfortable chair, waiting for his assistant to return. Excitement coursed through him like an electric current in a puddle, and he shook with built-up adrenaline. This is the most important thing I’ll ever do, he thought, bracing himself for the responsibility.

  The computer screen read 10:22. Where the hell is she? Six minutes to go. Fleur didn’t really need to be there, but this would only happ
en once. She’d never forgive herself if she missed it.

  Boerman looked around and saw the same pent-up excitement in the faces of the crowd that surrounded him. Half of them had spent their academic life in pursuit of this moment, and the other half were simply lucky. A hand on his shoulder made him jump, and he looked round to see the tall, slim figure of Fleur Montmaison, clutching a cup of coffee and grinning behind her horn-rimmed spectacles.

  “I thought you’d like a drink,” she explained, her accent thicker than the sludge that came out of the dispensers. “Did I miss anything?”

  Boerman accepted the Styrofoam cup with thanks and burned his tongue as he took a sip. “No, you’re here just in time.”

  As though he’d heard overheard the conversation, the chief co-ordinator cupped his hands around his mouth. Vince was a fearsome man – six feet tall with Celtic red hair and a flowing crimson beard.

  “Five minutes to go,” he bellowed. “To your positions. Get ready to witness history.”

  There was a flurry of activity, and Boerman handed the coffee back to his young assistant.

  “No rest for the wicked,” he said, sliding back onto his seat before the screen.

  Behind him, he could hear the humming of a hundred other physicists, all eager to witness the scientific event of the new millennium. He felt Fleur’s presence behind him, and it reassured him. As a rule, he didn’t work with a team, but he’d been with her ever since he’d got the job.

  “Three minutes to go, take your places.”

  People were still slipping into the room, but they were unimportant. Everyone that mattered was in place. The late arrivals were a mixture of support staff, assistants, and journalists. They were just there to see the show, not to take part in it.