Armageddon - By James Patterson Page 0,59
farmhouse and devoured it.
“I wanted you to see the future of your dreams, Daniel. That way it would hurt all the more when you realized you will never, ever live to see such things. The future, dear cousin, belongs to me!”
The four horses of the Apocalypse came charging out of the burning barn, their manes dripping fire. Abbadon pulled another four-way split and mounted his abominable steeds. The four hideous horses, each one spurred on by a different Abbadon, circled me in a dizzying blur of black, red, white, and pale green. I was trapped—penned in by a swirling wall of colored horseflesh, stomping hooves, and Number 2’s maniacal laughter.
Then, just as suddenly as it had started, it stopped.
Abbadon and I had made a joint leap in time and space to the windswept planes of the abyss beneath the dome of the underworld.
“Of course, Daniel,” my enemy cooed seductively, “your future doesn’t have to end up quite so bleak. I am more than happy to share this planet with you. Just renounce your silly solemn vow to wipe out the alien outlaws inhabiting Terra Firma.”
I shook my head. “No thanks.”
“Why are you so stubborn, Daniel? Surely you have seen that these pathetic humans crave the darkness more than anything else. They long to be rich and comfortable and stuffed with food—to be just a little better off than their weakling neighbors. I can give them this, Daniel. And I can give it to you. Serve me and become one of Earth’s most pampered elites!”
An army of docile servants joined us in the abyss. Maids, waiters, and butlers. Coachmen, masseuses, and limo drivers.
Beneath the servant uniforms, I recognized many of the human faces I had seen in Washington and elsewhere, the ones who had been the first to stampede down into the safety of eternal slavery.
“Can I polish your shoes for you, Mr. Daniel?” groveled one of the eternally enslaved.
“No thanks. They’re Nikes.”
“Some pancakes, perhaps?” cried out a fawning woman in a maid’s uniform. She held forth a platter piled high with a stack of hubcap-sized flapjacks that were dripping with butter and syrup. “I used your mother’s recipe.”
“Sorry, but I’m pretty sure you left out her secret ingredient.”
“Tell me what it is, and I’ll add it!”
“Nope. Like I said, it’s a secret.”
Abbadon snapped his fingers. The submissive ones disappeared.
But a new man joined us.
I recognized him immediately: the leader of the gopnik in Moscow.
The young Russian street tough who had scarred Dana’s face with the broken vodka bottle!
Chapter 80
“YOU REMEMBER YURI,” Number 2 cooed.
“Yeah,” I said. “We’ve met.”
“Would you like to kill him, Daniel?”
I felt something materialize in my hand.
It was Lieutenant Russell’s survival knife.
“An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a cheek for a cheek,” said Abbadon.
“Actually,” I said, tossing the knife to the ground, “I believe they revised that one. If someone strikes me in the cheek, I’m supposed to offer him the other one, too.”
A second knife materialized in my hand.
It looked even more deadly.
“Forget all your antiquated morals, Daniel. In my new world, killing is not a sin. In fact, we encourage it. If someone strikes you, you are perfectly free to murder him.”
I tossed the second knife away, too. If I became who Abbadon wanted me to be, sure, I’d be alive, but would I want to live with myself?
“This is your lucky day, Yuri,” I said to the Russian, who was leering at me with hate in his eyes. “I’m not going to kill you, no matter how much your new Lord and Master begs me to.”
Number 2 tsked. “Are you really that cowardly, Daniel? You won’t fight to defend your lady’s honor? Not much of a man, are you, boy?”
“You are a wimp,” the Russian said with a grin. “The wussy.”
Abbadon’s face filled with glee. “Did you hear what he called you, Daniel?”
I could feel my ears burning. Rage surged through my veins. Abbadon, who moved like a magician, waved his hand.
The Russian raised his jagged bottle and said, “I am going to cut your other girlfriend next.”
“Oh, ho, ho!” said Abbadon. “Should I let him have a few moments alone with Miss Judge, Daniel? Shall I take this Russian lad to Melody’s cell?”
“You leave her out of this,” I snarled.
“That’s it, Daniel. Feel the hate. Feed on it. Take your revenge for Dana. Protect Mel! Strike this useless bag of Russian bones dead. Do it now!”
I bent down and picked up the knife. The grip felt good in my