The Order

(06-23-2005)

-----

In the confines of the Cathedral of Saint Charbel, a small room was housed. It was only accesible to the Archbishop of the Church and some higher ranking Priests in the Diocese but only those who were members of the Sancte Ordo Excorcista knew of its existence and its purpose. The hallway that leads to the room was decorated with paintings of various Saints; mostly military saints depicted killing Demons and other forms of supernatural beings. The floor was carpeted with red, and the walls, cream white. It matches the Order's Coat of Arms. Part of the Church's secretive Ordo Militae, they acted as the Guardians between Humanity and Evil. The Grand Master of the Excorsist Order was trained by the Archangel Michael himself, until he ordered his apprentice to spread the knowledge he learned to a few picked ones. Outside the Order, there are other Exorcists who were not ordained priests, but rather faithful ministers trained to deal with all kinds of supernatural beings.
	The Order was formed before the Reformation of the Church. They follow only the Vatican I, strictly adhering to most of the laws written in it. When a spike in Demonic activity was detected after the Second World War, the Church formed the Order to help expel the Demons that roams the Earth. Alongside with the creation of the then-Protectorates, they acted as the first line of Defense against the Gates of Hell.
	Father Paul Wakefield walked across the hallway that will lead to the small room. He didn't paid any attention to the paintings that hung lifelessly on the wall. His sight was locked on to the wooden door at the end of the corridor. The lights flickered as he walked past by but that didn't make him lose his focus to his objective. His black clerical attire remained clean and neat despite of the day's activities. On his left hand was a thick black Bible that contains both the Old and New Testaments. His right hand remained free so that in case anything goes south, he might be able to draw the Sanctified Dagger hidden just in the back of his bastoned slacks.
	He stood in front of the door and adjusted the collar of his attire. He cleared his throat as he lifted his chin a little, as if he was adjusting the tightness of his outfit. He lifted right hand and knocked three times. He paused before knocking the fourth, then fifth time, before muttering the word, "Krazium," which is the Enochian word for "Open."
	He heard three locks being turned before the knob finally rotated. The door opened, allowing Father Wakefield to walk inside. He stepped in and was greeted by a Deacon in the same attire as his.
	"This way, Father." The Deacon says as he leads him to the corridor on his right.
Father Wakefield was a Caucasian man on his late thirties. His head was shaven clean that shines when light hits it. His green eyes shows both mercy and fury to those who gaze upon it, pointed nose and a flat-line mouth that rarely smiles when confronted with danger. He and the Deacon walked in silence across the identical hallway. Nothing changed except the absence of the paintings on the wall. Both men stopped in front of double doors that seemed to look out of place. Both doors were opened by two figures in camouflaged tactical gears. When fully opened, Father Wakefield caught sight of the guards on the door. They wore khaki shirts underneath the kevlar vests, cargo pants rigged with knee platings and hard materials and combat boots. An MP5 Submachine Gun was strapped on each of their chests. Father Wakefield recognizes the men on combat gear; Father Coulson and Father Keyes.
	"May the Lord shines upon your faces." Father Wakefield says with a nod. Both priests returned the nod before returning to their motionless parade stance.
	The Deacon led the Father Wakefield a few steps further before stopping in front of another door. He knocked the same way as Father Wakefield earlier, before uttering the word, "Krazium." It opens, revealing a three men in combat gears, feeding ammunition inside guns and other weaponries.
	The room was indeed, a war room. On the left side of the corner was racks of rifle that remained polished. Beside it was green crates of ammos, military grade. On the right side of the room were various sacramentals; holy water, silver cross, blessed statues of Saints alongside holy oil. In the center of the room was a map illuminated by the lamp that hung on the roof above them.
	"Father Wakefield," One of the men in combat gears greeted as he approached the priest with an extended hand.
	"Father Johnson," Wakefield greeted back as he took the hand of Father Johnson and gently shakes it.
	"I believe you've been sent here by the Diocese of St. Patrick's Cathedral."
	"I am."
	"Well," He gestured at the other priest nearby. "That's Father Atkinson," And then to the other one, "And that's Father Anderson." Both men nods at him emotionlessly before returning their focus to what they were doing.
	"What's the status?"
	"Bad," Father Johnson replied. "The Cult of the Devil's Horns has managed to rendezvous with their other reinforcements. They were inside New York at this very moment and judging by the previous destruction we have dealt against them, our scouts has reported that they have hired guards to protect them."
	"Guns."
	"Pardon?"
	"They've hired guns."
Father Johnson fell silent as he walked across the room towards the map of the table. Meanwhile, Wakefield approached the lockers at the back of the room. He opened one of the beige lockers and began removing his attire. He unbuttoned each buttons that held his attire together, then finally liberated his body from the black attire. He placed his discarded clothin inside the locker and replaced it with a combat vest, wearing it with white shirt underneath it. He removed both his slacks and black shoes and replaced it with cargo pants and combat boots. He placed the clothing inside the locker and slammed it shut.
	"Father Anderson," Johnson called as Father Wakefield started to arm himself with weapons.
	"Yes, Father?" Anderson asked back.
	"Who are these new 'allies' of our enemies."
	"They weren't 'allies' of some sort." Wakefield interrupted. "They were simply gangsters hired to do some bodyguarding. I've read the files and it seems like the Blood Seven Crips didn't know what they were getting into."
	"Why is that?" Johnson asked.
	"Because for starters," Wakefield let out a grunt as he hefted the heavy P90 Submachine gun on his shoulder. "They were an upstart gang that was formed three months ago."
	"How'd you know?" Atkinson asked as he finally joined Johnson on the table. Wakefield glanced back and saw that the three of them had congregated.
	"I worked juvenile detentions before our Diocese transferred me here. I've talked to one of their members. They were children."
	"But now it's not." Johnson replied.
	"I know." Wakefield replied as he glanced at Johnson with pistol at hand. He cocks it before placing it on his holster. "What's the objective?"
	Johnson turned at the map behind him. He cleared his throat as he begins. Father Wakefield saw red and blue lines outlining the surface of the map with arrows and circles in it.
	"The Cult of the Devil's Horns were conducting a black mass in this location. They aims to summon a Demon Legionnaire. You know that we cannot handle such mess if it was to happen so our mission is simple. We will interrupt the black mass and purify the area with holy grenades." He said as he held a white fragmentation grenade with a gold cross painted on it. "We will throw it in the middle of their ceremonial grounds."
	"What else?" Wakefield asked.
	"We extract in this position." He said as he pointed at the far end of the map.
	"Are there any reinforcements available?" Father Anderson asked.
	"I'm afraid, it would be just the four of us." Father Johnson replied. "But in case you have forgotten, a Protectorate was watching over us though he cannot interfere with us."
	"Why?" Atkinson asked.
	"It's an order from the Archangel. So, we should not question it."
	"If that's the case," Wakefield interrupts. "Let's roll."

------
Father Anderson was in his early thirties. Short blonde hair coupled with hazelnut eyes, his nose was pointed, yet one would see the scar in the bridge of his nose. He always wear an exhausted smile for some reason. Broad shouldered and muscled, no one would thought that he was a priest when he was on plain clothings.
	Father Atkinson was a newly inducted priest in the Order. He was on his mid-twenties with short brown hair and green eyes like Wakefield's, he was serious all the time, taking all his duties with fervent dedication. He more looked like a soldier than a priest in his combat gear, probably because of his service in the Marines before. He belongs in the 1st Battalion, 4th Company, had two tours in Afghanistan and one tour in Iraq. Upon seeing a Fallen Angel that killed most of his Squad Members in a firefight, he decided to become a priest upon his return on Louisiana.
	Father Johnson has also been on active service before. Among the priests inside the van, he was oldest. An Afro-American man with a scraggy beard and messy hair, his right eye was gouged out and his left remained functional. A scar runs from his upper lift to his left eyebrow. He was also in the Marines, 1st Battalion, 2nd Company, who have served in the Vietnam War before.
	They may have combat experiences in the past, but none could not equal Father Wakefield's experience in the battle against darkness. Born in Pennsylvania, he grew up in a pious household. He was inducted to the Church of Saint Bartholomew where he became a Seminarist, until he was ordained. He travelled to Rome to take up Exorcism courses where his fascination of the Supernatural has led him to become what he is today. In his 19 years of service in the Church, he has expelled more than fifty Demons. He had encountered Monsters; the cannon-fodders used by the Demons to wreck havoc. He had fought them than any other man could.

The white van streaked across the silent highway. It was in the middle of the night, the blackness had enveloped the city with most lights of establishments already killed. They sped past across the road, made a sharp turn to the right, then to the left then stopped in front of a dark alleyway that leads an open sewer. Its occupants, all armed and armored, disembarked from the vehicle and slowly made their way in the dark area.
	"You know what to do," Johnson reminded. "Don't mess up."
Nobody replied as they advanced in darkness. Shadow completely envelops them as they walked further. They moved tactically, covering all sides with the muzzle of their rifles. As soon as they got near the open pothole, Father Johnson takes a peek inside and whistled. The ground the covered by a green moss. Ankle-deep water flood the canal that seems to came from the main network of the sewer. On the left side of the canal's wall was a red neon arrow paint that points at east.
	"We've found what we've been looking for." Father Anderson says as he nods towards the neon spray paint that seemed to glow in darkness. He glanced Father Johnson, who nods at him. "I'll go first."
	With that agreed by the rest of the party, Wakefield aimed at one corner where an enemy might spring out. One by one, Anderson, Atkinson and Johnson started to jump below, disappearing in the shadows provided by the sewer. Slowly, Wakefield started to take backward steps before finally jumping down below.
	Father Anderson was in the lead this time. The sewers were lit up by yellow bright bulbs hanging from above. Their environment stank with rust and stale odor of rotting oil. Their footing were also slippery due to the moss on the ground. They take extra cautious steps as they traverse the sewers. They would have difficulties fighting in this kind of environment when they run with roving gangsters.
	"I heard something," Father Atkinson whispered. True, even his companions heard the low noise of people cheering and wildly shouting. Metal music also accompanied the growing noise. They continued moving for five more paces but immediately stopped when they heard footsteps approaching. Father Wakefield could make out two men chattering in street slang, talking about women. Usual ganger stuff.
	"Ya see," The first voice says, "My girl has such a nice ass."
	"Yeah?" The second voice replied. "Tell me more about it."
	The men appeared at the end of the corridor, each were wearing grey vests and red shirt underneath. They wear oversized pants and necklaces. Both guys were armed with submachine gun pistols, UZI. Simultaneously, the priests raised their rifles and aimed at the gangsters. The duo weren't unaware at first, but they stopped when they see the priests in combat gears pointing their submachine guns at them.
	"Open fire." Johnson whispered quietly.
In an instant, the priests showered them with muffled shots. The gangsters danced as bullets perforated their bodies. The sound of their weapons firing had been surpressed, and so are the muzzle flashes. They coninued this time, with increased pace.
	"Somebody's gonna start finding those guys soon." Father Johnson says as they stepped over the couple.
They navigated the sewers quickly with Anderson in the lead. Wakefield was on the rear and Atkinson and Johnson between them. They moved and find themselves in an intersection that branched out to north, east and west. They could hear the sound of dripping water in a distance. Consulting the map he had memorized in his brain, Anderson moved to west. There, he came across a duo of gangsters that seemed to appear out of nowhere. Another pair of gangsters appeared behind them, and Wakefield was expected to take care of them. Without waiting any second, he put his left knee on the ground and inhaled. He fired at the first gangster, hitting his stomach, then his chest. Blood and organs escaped from his already ruined body. His aim jumped to the second one and fired, hitting him luckily on the neck twice, then chest once. The gangster fell backwards with a powerful force.
	"All clear." Father Anderson says.
	"All clear." Father Wakefield reported in reply.
The quartet continued further before moving to the right. They moved further until they were greeted by another pair of guards. The gangsters moved with swag, yelling a curse before raising their weapons. Wakefield whirled behind him and fired a quick shot, hitting one of them in the hand. His weapon had flown from his wounded hand. Johnson finished the job with a shot to the head. The last and remaining one turned to the ladder behind him and started to climb up. It leads back to the surface, possibly to the area where the black mass was taking place. Anderson fired thrice, hitting the gangster in the ribcage. He fired another safety shot that ensured the death of his target.
	Quietly, the four surrounded the ladder. As usual, Anderson was the first to climb up. He hung the rifle behind him and started to ascend the ladder. Johnson followed closely below him, then Atkinson and Wakefield. Father Anderson slowly pushed the sewer cap aside and scanned the area for any enemies. Seeing none, he climbs up. He peeked below and offered his hand at Johnson, who gladly takes it. He crouched beside Anderson, covering his back while he assists the other priests.
	As Wakefield finally ascends, he was greeted by darkness. The moonlight on the small windows above them shines, giving them little illumination. It was enough to make out something in this room; steel shelves covered either side from floor to roof, angular ceiling, a roll-up accordion in front gaping wide open. Far ahead, he could see that they were in a forest. A light caught his attention ahead; it was burning like fire.
	"Listen up," Johnson says once more. "Have you guys remembered Heather Smith?"
Of course, Father Wakefield remembered the teenage child who used to visit the Church back in St Charbel. As far as he could remember, she was just 18 at this moment. She was a church-goer, not unlike the other youth of this generation. He could remember her ginger hair, freckled face and light blue eyes that displays innocence.
	But as of as of last week, she was reported missing.
	"What about her?" Father Wakefield asked.
	"Heather Smith was taken in this woods, tied and gagged, then burned at stake as an offering for the Demon Legionnaire." Father Johnson replied without skipping a beat. Virgin sacrifices had been common among the Devil Worshippers around these areas and that leads to one thing: Demonic Invasion.
The news stung Father Paul Wakefield really hard that he felt a hole in his heart. He gasped at the thought of the young Heather Smith, bound and gagged and slowly burning as the spirit of some Demon slowly consumes her soul. He wonders if the Angels above or his Holy Protectorates could even save someone in those position. He shook the thought away. She does not deserve that.
	"Let's move." Wakefield says as he nods at Anderson.
The quartet moved out of the forest; branch and twigs snapped crisply beneath their boots. Leaves and shadows covered mostly their vision but that does not hindered them. Moonlight shone brightly amidst dark bluish nightsky. City lights sparkled far ahead; ocean separated the woods and the city by hundred meters. They moved silently, gliding among the shadows, heading towards the fire ahead.
	Out of nowhere, a man in his early twenties appeared. He was wearing black shirt, black pants and a black bracelet on his left hand. Black eyeliner outlined his brown eyes and his lips matches the color of it. Wakefield whirled to his direction and fired three shots. He fell on the ground, dead. A silver knife dropped from his right hand. The sound of metal music playing and loud cheering is starting to get nearer and nearer as they closes in. Within Wakefield's mind, adrenaline is rushing. His heartbeat was pulsing fast. This was the first time he ever had been so hyper. The thought of revenge for those virgins they have killed appeared in his mind. Realizing that his thought would not only be a distraction but evil in itself, he muttered a Prayer to Saint Michael in Latin, hoping to expel the thoguhts. Far ahead, his teammates kept on advancing. He wasn't sure if they have encountered some enemies along the way but given the fact that their rifles are silence, it is likely so but he just didn't hear it. He moved further, catching a motion on his left. Another gothic kid came out, holding a knife. He fired four shots, hitting him squarely in the chest. He whirled behind him and detected another assailant. He was too close for Wakefield to raise his weapon at so he simply launched his right elbow at the kid's face, forcing him to take a step back. He shoved the weapon's butt at his face, blood had flowed freely from his face. Wakefield sent a kick at the kid's chest, taking him down. He detected another movement behind the kid and raised his rifle at that direction. Without hesitation, he fired twice, then another shot. A shadow fell to the ground. He aimed at the squirming kid below him and ended his life with a shot to the forehead. He gazed far ahead and moved, following the other priests towards the direction of the black mass.
	Upon arrival, they hid behind a bush. Wakefield could see a lot of teenagers in the same attire as the first ones they have encountered earlier. They were wildly cheering while at the same time, muttering black prayers in the air and blaspheming the Name of the Lord altogether. In the middle was a burning pile of wood with a stake pointing upwards. A figure was tied on to it. It was already burning, charred and reduced to nothing but black flesh.
	"Alright, on the count of three, we hail them with bullet fire and head to the center, dump these grenades at them and run to extraction."
	"But if the ritual is complete," Anderson interrupted. "What do we do?"
	"Let's just hope it doesn't happen." Johnson replied.
Altogether, they sprang out of the bush and pulled the trigger with the muzzle aimed at the back of the crowding teenagers. Three, six, twelve have fell in their attacks. The Cultists turned at them, all armed with silver knives and started to rush them. Wakefield focused his attention to what is in front of him. He sighted his first target and bursted someone's head. He moved three steps forward, whirled to the left and fired, downing a Cultist. He aimed to the right and fired, riddling his chest with holes. He continued moving; he noticed that his fellow priests have been keeping pace with him. They moved, advancing slowly but surely, wiping out opposition after opposition. Wakefield leapt back as a Cultist launched herself carelessly at him. He returned fire, hitting her in the chest. They moved again, he noticed that they were 10 meters away from the funeral pyre in front. The light left blank spots in his vision but he made sure that it does not stop him from his function. He moved carefully, firing at targets after targets, taking them down. He stopped to reload, removing the empty magazine and replacing it with a fresh new one, then continued moving. He fired another shot, bursting another head with a bullet. He whirled to his right and received a kick in return. He slid across the muddy ground, weapon knocked away from his hand. He stood up and was about to retrieve it when his assailant charged again. He shuffled his feet as he sent his left knee launching at the jaw of his enemy. Taking a step back, the kid righted himself but a left hook and a right uppercut greeted his face once more. Shuffling his feet again, the priest sent a 45 degree kick at the back of the assailant's neck, knocking him out cold. Father Wakefield wandered his eyes at the sea of panicking crowd and searched for his weapon. When he caught sight of it, he jumped towards it and grabbed it. Another Cultist jumped towards him. He rolled away and aimed at the enemy in pointblank range. He showered bullets in his face, killing him.
	The flame in front of them has started to rise. Wakefield could feel the heat in his face; it was too hot to be a regular fire made from gasoline. He realized one thing; it's Hellfire.
	"Father Wakefield!" Johnson screamed.
Father Wakefield glanced behind him and saw Johnson pinned down. He has a stab wound on his chest, yet he was still standing. He thought that the wound didn't penetrate deep enough which is why he's still standing. Beside him were three more Cultists dead. "Toss this in the fire!" He yelled as he hurled a belt of grenades clustered together. Grabbing it with his hands, he moved across the field, jumping and sprinting. He finally reached the offerings, stopping at a safe distance. He pulled all the pins and tossed it at the burning pile.
	The explosion made it worse; the impact had knocked Father Wakefield off balance. He moved backwards and watched as a shadow appeared amidst the flames. Slowly, it took form of an armored Demon; its head was a burning skeleton, body encased in bulky green armor trimmed in silver. Its shoulders were mounted with twin cannons. Hands were equipped with Ragepyre Shotgun, a rusting weapon with big housing.
	"Die for our Dark Lord!!" It yelled. "For the Blood Slaughter Legion!!" It charged at Wakefield with an increased speed. Knowing it was his end, Father Wakefield closed his eyes and prayed. He was glad that the Father was going to retrieve him from this evil world.
	"I don't think so!" A voice yelled behind him.
For the first time, Father Wakefield has come face to face with one of the most powerful beings in the world. He could see another figure in white armor with black trimmings. Hand occupied with a huge blade. His long black hair hung loose, his eyes showed fury and anger. "Protectorate Jemwolf, reporting in." He muttered.
	"You Savages are pests!" The Demon Legionnaire yelled in a growling voice. "Die in the name of Hades!" It charged forward with its shotgun aimed. Jemwolf whirled counter-clockwise as he swung his sword, severing the Legionnaire's right leg. He had tripped the Demon off-balance. He stabbed its chest, driving the blade deeper and deeper until the Demon yelled.
	"Do both of us a favor," Jemwolf says as he pried the shotgun off its armored fingers. "Stay in Hell and never return." He said, pumping the shotgun. "And while you're at it, tell your ugly masters I said hi!" He fired the shot. He turned behind him and saw Father Wakefield on the ground. He offered him a hand and he gladly takes it.
	Johnson, Atkinson and Anderson stood in silence as Jemwolf and Father Wakefield approached them. The Protectorate grinned as he pumps the shotgun.
	"Don't just stand there! Make some fireworks!!" He yelled as he and the priests aimed their weapons at the Cultists and began firing.