Lockey vs. the Apocalypse by Meadows, Carl (7 ebook reader TXT) 📗

children of my dark resurrection will be humanity’s end. Your time upon this earth is no more, John Maddock. Humanity is irredeemable.”

Desolation, soul-deep and crushing, pervaded every atom of Maddock as his dream-self hung alone in the silent, eternal abyss.

Was this his fate? Oblivion? Perpetual darkness until time itself died? His sanity threatened to shatter with the concept.

“Or… can you be redeemed?”

The question was a lifeline, a shining light of hope cast into the black sea of devastation in which he drowned.

“You, John Maddock, have always dreamed of being special, standing centre stage in the theatre of your unremarkable life.” The voice softened a fraction, but it was enough for Maddock’s hope to flare. “Were you to be granted the chance to atone for your decadence and sloth - for your boundless and selfish pride - would you grasp it?”

For the first time, his weightless body relaxed enough for him to sob a response.

“Yes! With all my heart, yes!”

The words exploded from him in choked relief, his intent genuine and heartfelt, desperate to redeem himself to the dark divinity holding him in the void.

The pause that followed was an eternity, and the silence a gargantuan emptiness surrounding him. Maddock could still feel the presence of the divine entity – for it was divine, of that he was certain – but it said nothing for an age while it measured the depth of his sincerity.

“Your followers BELIEVE in you, John Maddock,” came the voice in his mind again, blowing through his senses like a mournful gale, and the whispering breath of the dead. “You will NOT betray them again, for they are the hope for ALL humanity. They are the Children of MY Dark Resurrection, and you are my first disciple, but know this, John Maddock; there are those still living who will bring about the end of all things if they remain unhindered.”

“What would you have me do, my Lord?”

He had no care for how desperate and sycophantic he sounded. Pride was an empty gesture against this towering, timeless presence.

“Always, John Maddock, the enemies of humanity will come in three, for three is the accursed number. They will be wolves in sheep’s clothing, professing unity and compassion, but just as you have been, they are the betrayers of the people they swear to protect. Their tongues speak honeyed words, but the sweetness obfuscates the bitter venom beneath, and you must not be swayed. You must remain resolute if humanity is to have its chance at redemption.”

“How will I know them, Lord?” pleaded Maddock, eager to please.

“This is YOUR test, John Maddock,” cautioned the darkness. “Redemption must be earned, not freely given.”

“I understand,” he replied in meek contrition. “Forgive me.”

“I will, however, grant you a gift, to bind your followers closer still.”

Maddock realised with growing relief that he would survive this encounter with the dark force of his dreaming. He would awaken.

“As the enemy are three, so shall WE be three. When I release you to your waking world, you will choose two of your followers loyal to you. I will give you a gift, that you in turn can grant your two most loyal supporters. You must show your people this gift even as you accept yours, but it will come at a price to each of you. Nothing in your redemption shall ever come without cost, John Maddock. This is the price for humanity’s failure.”

He listened in mute awe as the darkness revealed its magnanimous gift, fear of the act he was required to perform shifting to a trembling excitement as he realised the power he would be entrusted with.

“Awaken, John Maddock,” breathed the darkness, its sibilant rasp fading to an echo. “And RISE.”

Maddock shivered as he woke, the hiss of the dark, eternal voice still echoing in the shadowed halls of his soul.

Was it just a dream? Nothing more than a vivid nightmare?

One trembling hand reached to his cheek. Crumbling under the warmth of his fingertips, he touched the icy track of frozen tears against his skin.

All eyes stared at Maddock, every expression expectant and afire with reverence for the man who stood before them. John Maddock, Prophet of the Resurrection, was resplendent before them, his blue eyes sparkling like the summer sky.

The gleaming pure white of his cotton shirt, buttoned to his neck, was a direct contrast to the black shimmer of his silk waistcoat. Black trousers and boots completed his simple ensemble, but as he stood gazing out at faces that adored him, he seemed a man out of time. He was a preacher of a bygone age, reborn to guide his children through this dark resurrection consuming the world, radiating power and assurance in this time of greatest uncertainty.

There were no whispers or muted conversations. All attention was focused entirely on him alone, as they waited in breathless anticipation for him to speak.

“Brothers and sisters,” he began, then smiled, as though catching himself in error. “My children,” he corrected with a benevolent look of affection. “Our day is finally here. Even as I speak, the pillars of humanity crumble under the weight of the rising dead, called from their eternal slumber to judge our species for its vast litany of sins. We are ready, and we will rise.”

“We are ready, and we will rise,” repeated the crowd with passion, echoing their community’s mantra that Maddock had penned at the beginning. He had thought it catchy and laughed at the time, but now, he felt the truth of it in his blood.

“Last night, I was visited in my dreams by the Lord of the Dead, He who wakes the damned, and the dark judge of all humanity.”

He waited for disbelief or outcry, but none was forthcoming. The acceptance of his words warmed him to these people, and he inwardly cursed himself for ever thinking of betraying such good, honest folk who invested all their trust and faith in him. He would never take them for granted again.

“I have