The crowd bursts into a low roar as everyone begins talking at once.
‘That’s right,’ says Uriel. ‘I am already the Messenger in His eyes. God spoke to me and told me He has chosen me to lead the great apocalypse. I waited to tell you because I know that it’s shocking. But I have no choice now that Raphael has come back, trying to challenge God’s will.
‘How many signs do we need before you’re convinced that the End of Days is happening without us? How much of it are you willing to miss because we don’t have an elected Messenger to lead you into battle? Do not allow Raphael to keep you from the glory that is rightfully yours!’
The angels closest to Uriel open their mouths wide and begin what I can only call singing. But it’s not a song with words, just a melody. It’s a gorgeous, holy sound that’s so unexpected from these bloodthirsty warriors.
The beautiful sound ripples through parts of the crowd as a dozen heavenly voices join the chorus throughout the dome. Then a group of angels shifts out of the way, letting in a beam of sunlight.
The light hits a spot just beside Uriel. He subtly shifts into it so that he glows. His face splits into a genuine grin. If nothing else, Uriel is certainly a good showman.
Then he lowers his arms and bows humbly. There’s something about the ray of light shining off his head and shoulders, the way he bows, the way he quietly holds himself that implies that he’s communing with God. It makes me hold my breath. Everyone else must feel it too, because there’s a hushed expectancy.
When he lifts his head, he says, ‘God just spoke to me. He says the End of Days begins now.’
He sweeps his arms like a conductor.
A crash hits the cliff at the end of the golf course. I assume it’s a huge wave, but I can’t see it with all the angels blocking my way. Then they all turn to look, and I can see the beach through the spaces between their bodies.
The water is boiling near the shore. Something is rising up out of the sea. At first, I think it’s a cluster of animals, but as the heads clear the water, I see that it’s a single monstrosity. The waves crash around it as if the ocean itself were raging against this unnatural thing.
The beast shakes off the water with a scream, and races toward us.
It’s shockingly fast. In almost no time, it’s close enough for me to get a good look at it.
Laylah has outdone herself on this one. It has seven heads clustered around the shoulders, but one of the heads appears dead. The one that looks dead is the head of a man. The face is split and trickling blood, as though he was recently killed with an ax.
The rest of the heads are alive with each one looking like a mix of human and animal – a leopard, an eel, a hyena, a lion, a giant fly, and a dead-eyed shark. The torso of the beast looks vaguely bearlike.
‘And a beast shall rise up out of the sea,’ says Uriel in a prophetic tone. ‘And upon his heads is the name of blasphemy. Let us count the number of the beast, for it is the number of man. And his number is six hundred threescore and six.’
Each of the monster’s heads has numbers tattooed in a puckering scar on its forehead.
666.
32
They’re just numbers, I tell myself.
Just numbers.
I know the beast was concocted by Laylah according to Uriel’s instructions. I know that Uriel copied his monsters from descriptions out of the apocalyptic prophesies. I know this is a fake – a fake.
Then why is my skin prickling with goose bumps?
The numbers are not subtle, and it’ll scare the bejesus out of anyone who sees it. I’m guessing that tattooing the number on the foreheads was Uriel’s idea.
The dripping beast roars and screams and yelps through all its faces except the dead one. It pauses near us before racing by and disappearing into the broken landscape.
Uriel raises his arms again, as if in a trance.
The ground shifts and puckers beneath my feet. It’s like worms frantically boiling in the ground.
Fingers burst out of the soil.
A hand reaches for the sky like a newborn zombie.
A head pushes its way through the dirt.
All over the old golf course, dirt-covered bodies claw their way out of the ground and climb onto the lawn. Thousands of them.
The angels on the ground spread their wings and take to the air. Raffe looks at me, but I understand that he can’t lift me up without betraying weakness. A hand claws the air near my leg, grasping. I jump, trying to get away from the hands, wishing I could fly too.
When the bodies climb out of the soil, they’re so dirty that I can only tell they’re human by their shapes. That and their gasping sobs.
‘And the dead shall rise,’ says Uriel, his voice carrying over the wind.
Some of the bodies lie on the lawn, gasping for breath. Others scramble away from the hole they crawled from, clearly afraid something will drag them back in. Still others just huddle on the churned-up lawn, sobbing.
What I thought at first was all dirt turns out to be dirt on dried, shriveled flesh. These are locust victims. They look traumatized and terrified, staring down at their arms and legs as though seeing their jerkylike flesh for the first time. Maybe they are.
Uriel must have had them buried alive while they were paralyzed. He was prepared to impress the gathering even before Raffe came. If anyone could have timed something like this, it was him. His team knew just how much venom to use to keep the victims paralyzed until showtime.
I wonder if the locust stung know what happened to them. I wonder if they think that they are the rising dead.