Free End of Days by Frank Lauria

couldn’t believe what he saw.
    It was bad. What made it worse was that it hadn’t been caused by some horrific circumstance like a land mine or cluster grenade or plane crash. This was deliberate. Not sadistic, but cruel. Not crazed; methodical—with prejudice.
    Thomas lay splayed open against the ceiling like a laboratory rat. His ravaged flesh was pinned—no … crucified —by scalpels and scissors that pierced his hands and feet. His organs hung down in greasy clumps and his eyes had been gouged out.
    The TV played bright counterpoint to the dark horror of his fate.
    â€œâ€¦ Witnesses say the explosion caught them completely by surprise…”
    â€œFuck me…,” Chicago whispered. It sounded like a prayer for help.
    *   *   *
    â€œâ€¦ And while the death toll has risen to thirty-five, officials still don’t have any idea what caused it.”
    Watching through the window of an electronics store, the man followed the newscast intently. He stepped back and felt a hard bump. He turned and saw a teenaged skateboarder lying on the asphalt.
    â€œHey asshole—watch where you’re going.”
    The man gave him a paternal smile. “I like your shirt.”
    The skateboarder looked down. His T-shirt read, SATAN RULES . “Screw you!” he spat, getting up.
    The man shook his head regretfully. He thought he had a live one. He watched the kid mount his board and roll off. When he reached the intersection, the man whispered, “Hey kid…”
    Despite the traffic noise, despite the heavy construction in the background, despite the jackhammers … the skateboarder heard the man’s whisper. Right there, in the middle of the intersection.
    The skateboarder turned, just as a bus entered his lane. He never saw the bus and probably never heard the sickly thud as his body was hurled high in the air.
    The man smiled. “Nice shirt,” he said under his breath.
    *   *   *
    Jericho was on the verge of homicide. The huge, obsequious cop guarding Thomas Aquinas insulted their intelligence with his lame story.
    â€œI’m telling you,” the cop insisted, as the doctors and orderlies removed the body from the ceiling. “Nobody entered the room. Maybe he did it himself.”
    That did it. Jericho grabbed the cop’s tie and jerked his head up. “Yeah? Then how did he get that last scalpel in?”
    *   *   *
    As the orderlies lowered Thomas’s mutilated body to the stretcher, Detective Francis noticed something. Under the tattered hospital gown were strange, triballike patterns of old scars. She pulled the torn gown aside. It was writing of some sort that Thomas Aquinas had carved into his own skin.
    She looked at Jericho. “Just keeps getting better.”
    One of the orderlies, a lanky Jamaican with dreadlocks, began backing toward the door. “There’s evil here, mon,” he declared. “Evil.”
    The doctor in charge examined the gnarled scars. “This is written in Latin … been a while since med school, but I think I can read it.”
    Everyone waited as he traced the bizarre cuts in Thomas’s chest and belly. “And now the thousand years … are expired … Satan shall be … loosed out of his prison.”
    The doctor paused and looked around. “The next part isn’t quite clear. It might even be in English.” He turned back to the ravaged body. “Christ … in … no … York. I think … Christ in New York?”
    Suddenly Thomas Aquinas bolted upright. For one horrifying minute, his flayed body jerked and flailed like a marionette. As Jericho watched in disbelief, Thomas got to his feet.
    Bestial growls foamed from Thomas’s mouth as he grabbed Jericho’s jacket. Behind them the orderlies were screaming. One of them had a hypo.
    Thomas snatched the hypo with one