Upon a Pale Horse

Four days, ten different people, and hours of mindless drivel would have probably driven him to rage if he wasn't already to the point of madness. He had arrived at CIA headquarters weak and weary from his trip. His pale flesh seeming to fade even more as his pristine silver eyes looked at the gate guard who now lay in a pool of his own urine. Death would have been easy for a man who only seconds before had screamed like a small child as the hand of the man gripped his throat. It wouldn't have had to happen that way if the man had cooperated but upon examination of the ID badge he turned into a raving lunatic.

Strange that thought the man who stepped into the now open gate and walked towards the building. The rain was falling at a steady clip, but it affected him not. He only smiled wider. He knew the layout to this place better than its designer probably. As an agent of Traxis he was trained to infiltrate this place as a beginner lesson. He took one step to the right, pushed his way through some shrubs, lifted an airway grate, dropped down, and began the war. He walked as if he knew the schedule of the guards. He didn't but his mind was more powerful than he knew. It told him when to step right, back, left, forward, and to double back. If he did by chance encounter guards he dispatched them so easily and not lethally it was if he was trained for it. He was not a lawgiver he was the bounty hunter. He was to bring them back alive no matter what. He reached an elevator shaft which in fact was a stair well hidden quite obviously in what was claimed to be a broken shaft which could never be used. He walked up it knowing where he was going, the heart of the beast. He was merely walking through its clogged, putrid artery now. He felt the ungodliness, the impurity, and the utter sacrilege to the god he served. He stepped into the waiting area for the most secret part of the CIA. The secretary looked up but soon there was no need for her eyes stopped functioning for without a brain there is nothing to receive the visions. These were not to be brought to justice by another, they would just buy someone off. They were to die. He looked at her said her names and listed her crimes. As he moved further and further through the offices death was dealt and sentences read. The wicked were chafe for the slaughtering.

He entered the main office to find it empty but one lone clerk who was cowering in the boss' chair. He looked toward and raised his pistol. He began in the voice of a preacher who was delivering a message of damnation to his wicked followers, "And death shall ride upon a pale horse. He shall wipe clean the wicked. Their blood shall flow freely staining him evermore. He shall cast them down and pass judgment for they are guilty. No trial shall be held and no sentence shall be read, but death shall be delivered. The impure of faith, the untrue to godliness, and the wicked by their greed shall bow to him. He shall carry upon his back the destroyed remains that represent his god. The red, white, and blue tattered cloth that screams for justice and death of the foolish warmongers, hate mongers, pride mongers, and lie mongers. It screams they should fall and repent or be cursed with eternal damnation for their own lack of piety. It will be in his shadow that they tear away their own flesh to grant him no peace, but as long as they are dead the god shall be happy. Deliver this message to the wicked. Tell them Death comes draped in the torn icon. Tell them I shall find them. Tell them I spared you for your righteousness so they may see you and repent. Tell them I still live. I am Death. I am Zaphiel. I am that which was left in hell. I am." The clerk ran out terrified his clothes stained with sweat and urine. He was the lucky one Zaphiel thought. He would never have to worry if the bloodstains ever were removed from his body or if his family could reconstruct his face. He was lucky for he was godly.