Let The Light Of God Purge The Darkness!

I remember it being dark.

The sounds of screams, gunshots and the ungodly roars of the sickening abominations that stalk the night.

His hand is wrapped around mine, his body pulling mine forward as we struggle to escape from the sadistic bandits that raided our once peaceful camp.

We were nearly at the escape convoy, the darkness enveloping us, seeking to drag us down.

My heart was pounding in my ears, my breath was coming up short in raged gasps as we charged up the hill towards our salvation.

But then the worst happened: He was tackled and dragged down by one of those creatures. Its skin hanging off its body in flaps, its arms ripped free of a torn straight jacket and buckled restrains wrapped around its torso. He fell to the ground, my hand ripped out of his, the abomination clawing and beating at his face and arms, his scream saying: "Just Go! I'll make it up there soon!"

I hesitated, just for a moment, not wanting to leave him for one moment. But I turned and continued to run towards sanctuary: I trust him, I know he will make it.

I finally reach the convoy, my hand wrapping around the handle of an old, beaten down pickup truck. I yank open the door, about to dive inside and take up one of the weapons placed inside. But something grabs me by the waist and tears me away from safety, dragging me deeper into the darkness of the night. I try to scream, try to yell for someone to help, but the demon that had seized me cut of my scream with a fist smashing into my temple.

I remember coming to, my body bound by chains, a wad of cloth jammed in my throat. I was laying immobile underneath a bush, watching in horror as He found out I was missing. He shouted again and again, my name shrieked across the shadowed mountains, the pain in his voice all too obvious to hear.

Soon the other survivors of the group came, supplies packed in bundles on their backs, vehicles starting out as the approaching horde came into sight.

He eventually had to be forcibly thrown into one of the trucks, several of the others trying to keep him from charging back out to find me. They all drove off, his screams fading off into the distance, tears welling up in my eyes as the sudden realization that I would never see Him again struck me.

The Monster reappeared, blood running in rivulets down his tattered clothing. Twisted and perverse thoughts portrayed in every movement as he strode towards me.

I wake up, a cold sweat running down my neck and forehead, my hand darting to my neck to grasp at the comforting crucifix that dangled down from it. I sigh as my shakes and tremors of my dream and my past subside. I'm fine. The devil cannot harm one of God's chosen.

I get up from the cot, the wooden spars that make up the frame squeaking and whining as my weight shifts from it. The room that I have lived in for the past two years is just as sparse as the day I moved in. There is a cot placed against one wall, a thin sheet and a deflated pillow laid on top of it. Against the opposite wall is a plywood dresser, a washbasin sitting on top of it. Set into the far wall there is a large crucifix, the body of Our Savior carve into the oak wood of the cross.

I move to the dresser, splashing the water in the basin onto my face, the coolness of the water driving away the rest of the darkness from the dream. I pick up my glasses that are resting beside the basin and I put them on, the fuzziness of my vision clearing up as the lenses are set in front of my eyes. I frown to myself: 'Why can't I think of that man's name…I wish I knew his name…'

I shake my head dispelling the thought. We disciples of the New Order of God are never allowed to form any bonds with anyone outside of the Order, no matter how superficial or insignificant. Our only bond is with God, blessed and hollowed his name.

I kneel down in front of the crucifix, falling into the routine of saying the Morning Prayer. The written word of the prayer is hanging over the doorway, but I know the short conversation with God by heart:

"Blessed be this day, My Lord and Savior."

"Blessed be our duty to dispel the heathen that lives among us all."

"Blessed be our Brothers and Sisters that purge the Wicked."

"We of the Order guide the light into the darkness of all mortal man's souls"

"We of the Order slay the heathen that lives in the darkness and has darkness in his soul, no matter how small the amount."

"It is Our duty to follow you, until death and ever then sum in your service."

"Guide me, Angela Crosswright, along your path of unblemished and absolute light."

"Protect me in this day as I hunt the demons within mortal man's soul as well as my own."

"In this I say in thy name, guide me and protect me, unto your name always, Heavenly Father. Amen."

I get up from the ground, signing the cross in the air, my covenanted with the Lord renewed: 'It's time to see Hezekiah, I am sure that he has a mission to partake of on this heavenly crusade of Ours.'

I move back to the dresser, pulling out one of the drawers, the plywood screeching as it rubs against its housing. I take out one of my 3 pairs of clothes, each of them identical to one another, and put it on, the folds of the robes hiding my slender frame.

I walk towards the door of my 50 square foot room, the cramp quarters making me feel slightly claustrophobic. I step through the door, only to be greeted by a piercing scream of pain and fear. I run towards the banister leaning over to look into the courtyard three stories below.

On the cobble stones below a man is being dragged towards the stake set up in the middle of the courtyard by two of the Monastery Priests. The man continues to scream, his fingers grasping at the cracks in the stones, attempting to delay the evitable. One of the Brothers steps forward, driving the butt of his rifle into the man's side, the man gasping pain from the blow. The Priest hoists the man up onto the stake, binding him tightly to the wooden trunk with thick coils of rope.

The man screams in desperation: "What did I do? What have I done to wrong God?"

The Brother steps forward, the Priests tossing bungles of small sticks and brush at the base of the stake, pouring gasoline on the tender as they do so. The Brother says: "You have been found guilty in the eyes of the Lord. You have been caught having frivolous intercourse with a woman that you have not been wed to. May the flames of the lord purge your wicked soul and may Christ above have mercy on your soiled soul."

The Brother reaches inside his robes and pulls out a box of matches, the man screaming as the match is struck into flame: "That was my fiancé, God Damn you! You said that we would be wed this morning!"

The Brother glances up to the man, dropping the match on the gas soaked tender, saying as the flames leap up about the stake: "Time is absolute in God's eyes. You were not married at the occurrence of the action. So both you and she shall perish by Hellfire and Brimstone."

I sprint down the hall, wanting to block out the screams of the man. I know he did nothing wrong, nor did his love…but the teachings of God are absolute; no deviation from The Path of Righteousness, no matter how small, goes unpunished.

Eventually I made it to the High Chapel, the great oak doors barring the way to anyone that is not summoned. I step to the doors, the oak slabs swinging inwards, silently on steel hinges. On the other side of the door I see the two that have opened it- Robed adepts of the High Priesthood. As I enter the room I walk to a basin filled with water that is sitting just a few meters from the door. I dip my fingers in my hands and I draw the haloed cross touching the bridge of my nose and both shoulders. I move forward a few more steps and I kneel down in between the pews, waiting for The High Priest Hezekiah Kohen to arrive and give me a mission to carry out.

Not thirty seconds after I kneel down to the ground, in a flash of bright light, Hezekiah appears at the pulpit, his white robes billowing out from around him as if he had gotten there though a wind tunnel. He walks down from the pulpit saying: "Rise, Sister, God permits you to stand under His and my presence."

I rise to my feet, resisting the urge to dust of my shins and knees. I look up at Hezekiah's face, no less shocked at his appearance than I was the first time I saw it. His face is scared in multiple places, each scar looking like it was make by a shallow cut with a razor blade. On his face a goatee of grey hear clings around his mouth. Above his head, circling in a shallow orbit is The Fragment, a tiny piece of Jebus' Halo roughly the size of a bottle cap. His head is bald, shaved nearly every day by his Adepts. The only feature on his barren head is a large scar, circling the top of his head, matching the orbit of The Fragment. I suspect that the scar was made by Hezekiah's own hand, possibly with a large knife, but only God knows for sure.

Hezekiah gestures towards the light shining through a stained glass window depicting The Crucifixion, saying: "Isn't today a blessed day to be alive, Sister?"

I nod and says: "In the eyes of the Lord every day should be a blessed day, Father Hezekiah."

Hezekiah laughs: "Indeed, Sister Crosswright, each day is a blessed day because the Load governs over each and every one. Yet the wicked still overrun the world. Why do you think that is, Sister Crosswright?"

'This is so dull…he just repeats himself, on every nightly sermon and on every Sunday service. The same thing, day in and day out.' I say to him: "Because God is busy. He has a plan that he must work on above all else. It is our duty to drive out the Wicked in his stead."

Hezekiah nods and says: "Very good, Sister, and drive out the wicked we shall. You have an assignment in the stead of the Angels, Sister Crosswright. Some civilians that live under out jurisdiction have yet to pay their weekly tithe. Go there and observe them. See if they have the truthful soul to pay the Lord's Tithe. If not, then they have been tainted by The Adversary and they must be purged."

I bow to Hezekiah: "Yes, Father Hezekiah: The Lord's will be done by my hand."

I turn around and walk out of The High Chapel, the enormous oak doors closing behind me, driven by the High Adepts.

I head for the Armory, my fellow Brothers and Sisters training in the courtyard next to me. Today they seem to be doing unarmed attack drills, focusing on taking down a man with only their bare hands. Luckily I am in a high enough standing to be sent on missions instead of working in meaningless drill lines. The Armory is a well-protected room, The White Silence keeping guard over the steel doors.

They don't say a word, hence their name, but they are formidable fighters, chosen by the Angles to carry their robes and fighting techniques.

Just like their name sake, they don't say a word as I walk past them, opening the doors to the armory, but I can feel their eyes searching my every move for the slightest notion of ill intent. But they remain stationary, guarding the doors to the weapons from the Heavens. It seems that they stare me down more than anyone else; whenever I walk to or by the armory their heads instantly swivel and maintain an unblinking gaze on me, like they are trying to peer deep into my soul. Maybe it is because of my hair; given how long it is and its unusual color of deep Violet, hardly something you would expect someone like me to have in a place like this. But who knows what goes through their minds and even if they felt like speaking their minds their Code to the Lord prevents them from speaking it. Those thoughts disappear as the door closes behind me, silent on its steel hinges.

The room is completely white, the floor, the walls and the ceiling painted to look like you were just floating though empty space. Overhead dozens of bright florescent lights poured out even more white light, making the room almost blinding in nature. Across the large room a vestige of color stands out from the glaring room, a small desk, with a man in a cassock sitting behind it. He looks up from the scripture he was reading, adjusting his thin glasses as he does so. He smiles, the scar running across his face stretching with the expression. He stands up and says with a vague Irish accent in his voice: "Ah, well. If it isn't Sister Crosswright. I dare say it hasn't been much more than a day since you've been in here. What has Father Hezekiah got for ya this time?"

I smile at the old Irishman, he is one of the few people that seems to have a personality around here. Of course most people aren't really able to show much of themselves, Father Sanderson, however, doesn't really seem to care much about the unity of purpose that we follow. Nobody can really do anything about his habits and humor, being that he is our most powerful fighter, next to Father Hezekiah himself and also because he is the only one that can access the armory without being killed.

The thought of that event brings a shudder to my frame: the man that Sanderson pulled out of there was barely whole, the gashes and ripped muscle barely recognizable as a man. Father Sanderson just smiled when he drug the man into the courtyard and said: "This is what happens when you enter the Armory. Stay out if ya wish to live as whole being for longer than a minute."

But that was the past: "Father Hezekiah wants me to checkup on a family that resides under our parish. He tells me that they have yet to pay their weekly tithe."

Sanderson frowns greatly for the quickest moment, but as soon as the moment was gone I was wondering if I even saw anything other than a smile on his face. He says: "So t'will be the usual weapons for ya? Just give me a moment and I shall be back with 'em."

Father Sanderson turns on his heel and walks to a pair of doors hung behind the desk. He pushes open the doors, the sounds of his footsteps descending down the stone steps through the white washed doors, the sound of a whistled Irish jaunty tone drifting up, fading and disappearing all together has he delves deep into the depths of the Hallowed Armory.

It seems that Sanderson is the only one that can ever enter the Armory without provoking whatever creature or entity that lives down there. I'm pretty sure that Father Hezekiah could make it through there without a scratch, but with how confidently Father Sanderson strolls though those doors makes me wonder how much I really know about this place.

Soon Father Sanderson rises up from the depths of the armory, his whistling replaced by the steady tap of his shoes on the stone stairs. Sanderson pushes though the doors yet again, the double doors closing back on themselves as soon as Sanderson clears them. I take a quick look past the doors, trying to get any sort of information on what might lie below. But as soon as the doors close all I see is darkness and the stone passageway that leads down into it.

Father Sanderson places the weapons and their respective ammunition on the desk, naming off each weapon and its aspects as he puts it on the varnished surface of the desk, just like he always does:

"OSV-96: Russian Sniper Rifle, Fires a 12.7mm by 108 mm cartridge. Range up to 1800 meters for engaging infantry, 2500 for material targets. Stock Telescopic scope and standard iron sights. 5 round box magazine. Modifications: Longer barrel than stock weapon, hand manufactured before Rapture for a wealthy stock broker for the use of being a conversation piece. Barrel is plus four centimeters in length. Muzzle break attached to end of barrel to ensure you don't break your shoulder when you fire it. In a few words: Accurate, Robust and Reliable. Uses: Long range confrontation and first strike raiding actions, armor piercing and anti-material capabilities."

Sanderson pulls out a small pouch and places it on the table: "One extra magazine provided along with 30 additional 12.7mm full metal jacketed rounds."

Along with the extra ammunition he places a handgun on the table: "AMT AutoMag V: American made handgun, fires fifty caliber Action Express rounds. 7 rounds per magazine, 3 addition magazines provided. Stock everything, standard ammunition. White paint to prevent rust and to show our standard to the Heavens."

Father Sanderson comes to his last item, a long-sword, bound in a light colored leather sheath. He grabs the hilt of the weapon and pulls it from its covering, the blade a glistening pure white color, its edge smooth, straight and sharper than any other blade in the armory. Sanderson eyes the blade with a touch of uncharacteristic envy and an understandable amount of awe as the blade slides free from its sheath: "Michael's Sword, a mortal relic version of one of The Weapons of Christ, made by Father Hezekiah himself under the guidance of Angels, given to you to pioneer a new generation of saints under your wings and guidance."

I smile weakly, trying to hide the touch of color that rose to my cheeks. I wave off his explanation as to why I was given such a powerful relic: "I'm sure that is not the reason, Father, It's only because I am good with a sword and had a touch of luck on my side."

Sanderson chuckles, saying as he slides the sword back in its sheath, placing it on the table: "Your modesty on proves my point. Most people here consider you an angel in mortal flesh. Your prowess in battle and your concrete sense of righteousness has given them this view of you."

I step to the desk, taking the sword, fastening the hallowed blade to a belt at my waist, the AutoMag V in my robes and the Russian Great Rifle strapped across my back. I ask: "I doubt that. I'm just serving The Order. Nothing more to it, Father."

Father Sanderson lowers his voice, saying with a hand held up beside of his mouth, shielding his words from the invisible man next to him: "And that's not all. From the whispering that I hear every now and then it is partly because of your beauty. A lot of people say it's…Angelic."

The memories of so long ago in my mind and I can't help but wince at them…yeah...angelic…But I recover quickly and I say: "I'm sure they don't say that. We all swore an oath to have service only to the Lord and no other being."

Sanderson laughs: "Fine, say what you will; but men will be men, women will be women no matter what organization they are sworn too."

Sanderson's happy expression drops and he says seriously: "Remember that, Sister: No matter who someone is allied with their actions are independent from the actions of their allies ALL people hate, all people have fear and sadness. But more importantly, all people want love and happiness in some form or another."

Sanderson's brow furrows in anger and he says shortly: "Go on with your mission. I won't take any more of ya time."

I hesitate for a moment, what was he saying.

He sits town angrily, slamming the scripter closed, the wafer thin pages smashing together and crinkling: "Just go! I have work to do!" He half shouted.

After that I hurriedly darted out of the room, the soldiers of The White Silence looking off after me, curious as to what made me run out of the room. I will just do my mission. Its best to forget what he said: how can we trust those heathens outside of Our Order?

The family's home resides on the very edge of town, sitting on the outside of a forested bluff. I look for any sign of moment though my scope, peering out from my perch on table in a room on the 13th floor of some law firm building; the soulless predators that once resided now gone. The only words attesting to their names are on the front of the building in great gold letters: "Heart and Soul Law Firm."

The building is roughly 750 meters away from the house, my scope already adjusted for the distance and this surprisingly calm day left me with no adjustment for wind. From the height I am sitting at the bullet is not going to drop as much as it would on level ground, my distance attuned for this detail as well.

Over the first fifteen minutes of observing the house I could see no movement, save for the occasional Undead Demon wandering by the building's barricaded windows. Eventually the door opened and a man cautiously steps out into the open, a crowbar held in his hands, my crosshairs instantly sighted in on his chest. He looks around the building, stepping a few more meters away from the safety of his home, checking for any sigh of the demonic Flesh Eaters. He looks back and says something back at the house, a women with a small child clutched to her chest emerging a moment later. After her a young child, roughly 14 years of age comes out of the house, dragging a sizable cart loaded down with bundles and blankets.

The four of them gather together into a small group and start heading into the city towards The Monastery. It seems that they are giving a little extra this time to pay for their tardiness and possibly to pay their tithe for the next week or two. Although it is a bit odd that the women is taking her child with them. Then again it is probably best to travel in a group in this city with no one, no matter how young or old, left behind.

I set down the rifle, grateful to of not of fired it not even one time. I pull out a radio that I had grabbed before I left the monastery and I say into the device: "Holy Ghost, are you there?"

The radio crackles and buzzes, feedback bursting from the speaker as a gravelly voice comes over the line: "This is Holy Ghost: what do you have to report?"

I reply: "The family is heading over to the Monastery, a large tithe in tow. They should be there in a little over two hours at the pace they are going."

The voice crackles over the radio yet again: "Much obliged, Sister Crosswright. May the Lord see your safe passage home."

I think to myself for a few moments, not really wanting to go back to that stuffy building. Finally I hit the call button again, saying: "One more thing Holy Ghost: I saw a small bandit group sifting through the rubble from my overwatch point. I am going to see what they are up to and purge them if the Lord wills it."

Holy Ghost crackles back over the line: "So be it. I'll be sure to let Father Hezekiah know of this new turn of events."

"Thank you very much. Holy Ghost. Have a blessed day." I said back.

My only reply was the radio shutting off with a sharp click, the screen showing the frequency number flashing off at the same instance.

Perfect…the next few hours I have to myself now. I smiled with glee as I walked from the dusty room: even though my devotion is stronger than steel, this small feeling of freedom magical to me. I'm sure that the Heavenly Father will let slide this one White Lie. After all, even saints need some time away from their duties. I smile and I think to myself: 'This is going to be a great day off.'

Roughly a kilometer away from that soulless building is a small run down three story apartment building. The windows and doors at the very bottom level are smashed in, the glass and wooden splinters that remained from them scattered all over the bottom floor. The building is in what would have been the slums of the city, lying underneath some huge overpass that cuts across this corner of this city, throwing this neighborhood into eternal shadow.

I step underneath the shadow of this gargantuan structure, glad to be out from under the oppressive heat of the sunless, blood red sky. This building is the one that I stayed in before I joined The Heavenly Order, the majority of my old possessions sitting on the very top floor. I walk into the rundown building, my AutoMag drawn, listening for any noises that might belong to a squatters or a Flesh Eater. Fortunately the only signs of either are a pair of socks nailed to the wall for whatever reason and a slight trail of blood leading out of one of the windows.

I head up the stairs, pushing past the second floor and up to the third and final floor, arriving at a door locked shut by a burglary cage. To the right of the door is a shallow hole in the wall, something that everyone would expect to find in a rundown apartment building such as this. I reach into the hole, worming my hand down the wall until I feel the cool steal of a steel lock box. But what most people don't realize is that even a hole is more than it seems.

I take the lock box out of the wall, spinning the combination dial and popping open its lid and take out the small silver key. A few moments later I was back inside my home; my true home.

I close the door behind me, a sigh bursting from my lips, my shoulders sagging in relief of finally being somewhere that I feel free to be in. After placing my rifle in the small closet next to the door I just closed, I walk into one of the other rooms.

The room was once a bedroom, probably lived in by some guy who was just barely scraping by on some minimum wage job and whatever kindness that he could find. I wonder what had ever happened to him. Did he die in the mass panic that claimed so many lives over five years ago? Is he still alive somewhere in the wilderness? Living as he did then, facing ever greater consequences if he were to fail? I don't know why…but I just wonder…

But there is only so much that one person can know. As of now the room is mine and mine alone, a small yet comfortable bed nestled in the corner of the room and a small, squat table set next to the bed, a large, bulky duffle bag resting on top of the near insignificant table.

I unbuckle my sword, resting it gently against the wall beside the table, taking care to balance the weapon so it wouldn't fall to the floor.

I step to the table, unzipping the bag full of my old belongings. Inside are a few changes of clothes, a couple of books, a huge folder full of roadmaps that helped me find my way here, a small switchblade and an old and empty Glock 18. But the most important items, the ones that a value so much more than my covenant and life itself: An old CD player and a 50 slot CD case.

I take out the CD play, flicking the switch, the device humming slightly as it turned on. I sit down on the bed, placing the player beside me. I take out the CD case, flicking though the plastic sheets, reading though the titles for something that jumped out at me to listen to.

Most of the CD's were from older bands, like 'Lead Blimps', 'Sliding Pebbles', 'Putrid', 'Program Of An Up', but none of the titles really jumped out at me. I flipped to the back of the case, where my most percious CD's were kept safe; finally something jumped out at me: the album 'Pin Points and Gin Joints' by 'The Mighty Mighty Bosstones.' They were a band from Boston, a little known band, but all of their songs were just so amazing to listen to.

I pop the disk into the CD player, the rotor inside of the small machine accelerating and whirling as it read the disk. There is one song I have to listen to first, I press the skip button a few times, an action that I've done so many times before to get to this one song. Soon the song 'I Wrote It' starts playing over the tiny speakers, Dicky Barrett singing after the opening instrumental. I smile to myself, my eyes sliding closed as I lay down on the bed. This is definitely my favorite song…mostly because it reminds me of Him. After all, he showed me this band and all of these CD's were his in the first place…I hope I find him someday, if not just to be with him again, to just give back the music that has gotten me though the darkest of times.

The lyrics was over me, the happiness of the past washing over me:

'I wrote it with a golf pencil I pulled out of my blazer,

A crest sewn on the chest read: "Old Gold Rugby Football Club."

Worn at one time by a man, that at one time went to Yale.

Then he worked a while on Wall Street, 'til the market collapsed.

I was in a barroom that was somewhere on the southern shore of Boston.

The tender of the bar poured me a whiskey on the house.

I have a love for whiskey, I chased it with a beer.

I have a love for Boston and I loved writing it there.

I wrote it in a notebook that somebody let me borrow:

"Don't use all the paper please and if you could bring it back to me tomorrow."

It was a fair request and I was grateful for the loan.

I had to jot a thought down that I came up with on my own.

I wrote it in October and I mention that because,

Out of all the months there are I've always liked that one the best.

I don't know why I bring this up but there are times I wonder what

had ever happened to that man, I wonder, after the collapse.

I wrote it in a notebook that somebody let me borrow:

"Don't use all the paper please and if you could bring it back to me tomorrow."

It was a fair request and I was grateful for the loan.

I had to jot a thought down that I came up with on my own.

I wrote, I wrote it for you...

I wrote, I wrote it for you...

I wrote, I wrote it for you...

I wrote, I wrote it for you...

I wrote it in an hour so, so really not much longer.

I put the pencil in the shot glass and I buttoned up my blazer.

I stepped out of the bar in to the cold October sun.

I must return the notebook, it's not important what I wrote...'

I sit up, sadly pushing the pause button as it switches to the next song. I wish I knew where he was…I would abandon the order in a heartbeat if I just knew…His writings I loved to read, his smile I loved to see and his laugh I loved to hear. I know it is impossible…but he has to be alive. Until I find him, I will always believe that he is alive!

I am about to press the play button when my radio starts buzzing, Holy Ghost trying to contact me. I groan in frustration, what in the name of Saint Peter do they have for me to do? I calm down and I pick up the radio, asking: "This is Sister Angela. Is something wrong?"

Holy Ghost responds: "Yes, something very wrong indeed. The family that was supposedly on the way here to pay their tithe has changed course. Father Hezekiah has had a premonition: they are being lead to AAHW Compound Zeta by a man in a cloak. The man also wears the symbols of an Agent, a dark black suit and black shades. But this man is different from the others. He is strong, powerful and more over wickedly evil. Hezekiah himself said that he has felt very few entities of this corrupt persuasion and he has to be dealt with immediately!"

I ask: "Does he want me to go out there and deal with him? If this man is as powerful and evil as he says he is wouldn't it be better for either him or Father Sanderson to take him out? I feel that I am a bit out of my league dealing with someone as evil as he says he is."

Holy Ghost exchanges a quick word with someone else and relays back to me: "Father Hezekiah sees this as a test for you. He believes that your powers are much better put to use on a man of this caliber. Don't worry, Darkness can never overcome the light of the Holy Order. You will conquer this Demonic Personage."

I nod, half regretting to be called away from my 'happy place.' I reply: "Thank you Holy Ghost. May God see your safety and my safety as he always does."

Holy Ghost grunts: "As he always does, Sister. As he always shall."

I stand up from my bed, grabbing for my sword. I unbind the blade, the weapon seeming to give off light in the dim space. "As he always shall…but the Lord cannot save all. We have battles we must face on our own. The Lord's power is not absolute, outside of the following minds of his disciples…But fight I will…It is only way that I can find Him. It is the only way for me to find My Love."

I stalk towards the door, grabbing my rifle as I leave, locking my sanctuary up behind me. It is time to work for the lord, soon I will be back here to reminisce in the man I hope to find. Someday…

Authors Note:

First and foremost: I OWN NONE OF THE LYRICS OR TITLES OR ANY COPYRIGHTED ASPECTS THAT I USED ABOVE! They are simply a means to covey the story and emotion of those inside of it. All rights go to The Mighty Mighty Bosstones and any other bands that I mentioned (As you can tell I flubbed all of the names except for The Bosstones, but this way I am playing it safe.)

Thanks to GameZone and A Random Bystander from the M:PN2 forums for giving me the name 'Hezekiah Kohen'

A thank you to S070 from the M:PN2 as well for helping me write a part that I left out by accident.

A thank you to any readers and supporters of the story. Hope you've enjoyed it!

(PS: Please Write A Review!)