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Thursday, January 24

Fighting the Good Fight

"Fighting the Good Fight"
Short Fiction - Fantasy
by Rod Drake

The old windmill loomed in the rapidly falling dusk, the only structure on the red-streaked horizon. We were speeding our way towards it through the endless ranks of demon warriors running towards it, this impromptu Armageddon. Tension was so thick in our battered van that it could be cut with a knife, or more accurately, a demon’s razor claw.

The four of us had been through heaven and hell, to coin a phrase, in our pursuit of the weapons that we needed to stop the great dark evil from this infernal purpose. That windmill we were getting close to was going to be the site of a battle between the forces of Good and Evil not unlike the one in heaven when Lucifer was cast out.

But this time it’s we mere mortals against an immortal and limitless dark army. Somehow it has fallen to us to make the stand, to hold the line, to save the world (just as long as there is no pressure). Hopefully we can beat the demons to the windmill.

The windmill was closer now, and my team was as ready as they would ever be. Father Merrin had blessed weapons of antiquity strapped and belted all over him like some Christian commando, intoning a litany to calm himself. Gabriel gripped the Sword of Azrael so tightly that his hands were white, but his smile was full of youthful confidence and “game on.” Beth trying to figure out how this suit of holy armor that can shine with the Light of Divine Retribution in the heat of battle, fit her so perfectly like a second skin; He moves in mysterious ways, I tell her with an ironic smile.

She would laugh, but I can see that the endless rows of demons we are driving ahead of have taken her sense of humor away. But she and her armor will be ready when we make our stand. She gives me a crooked half-grin. I can see the barely controlled panic in her blue eyes.

Of course, it all comes down to me in the end. I possess the secret weapon, the trump card. More on that later.

We are still ahead, but barely, of the running demons-beyond-number, who are restless for this confrontation, to tip the balance for evil incarnate. We can see in their burning eyes the presence of their dark lord, and the desire to shred our soft bodies into so much chaff in the wind.

Our van skids to a stop, reaching the foot of the windmill first, its blades slowly spinning in the gentle breeze. We jump out, facing an advancing multitude of inhuman hate and rage. They raise their weapons over their horned heads and yell their war cry. The ground shakes from the sound. They are maybe 200 feet away.

It has come down to this. What we do here and now in the next few minutes could save the world. We’re its only chance.

We make a line of defense, weapons ready, the windmill under our protection, even though we don’t know what Divine Instrument resides within. But then that’s His Way, so we just focus on our task.

I can feel my team’s resolve as insurmountable odds rush toward us. They have played their part, played it well and with courage in previous skirmishes, but this final battle belongs to me.

I am calm and ready now. The first wave of demons is within 100 feet of us now. I possess the secret weapon. I know and can speak the One True Name of God. Nothing evil can hear it and live. Nothing. That is the ancient belief. I hope it’s true.

The demons are here, so I throw back my head and shout the Name.

Rod Drake lives, observes, thinks and writes in the neon capital known as Las Vegas. Check out Rod's longer stories posted in Six Sentences, Flashes of Speculation, Flash Forward, MicroHorror and AcmeShorts.

1 reactions:

Kelly Parra said...

Thanks for kicking off 2008, Rod!