Anthrocide

Anthrocide.net is the official website for D.L. Hamilton, author of several Christian novels and essays.

The Armor

A pre-Civil War sailing vessel barely survives a furious storm along the Atlantic coast. The damaged ship, including the young crewmember and recent Christian convert John Stander, puts in at the nearest port for repairs. Unfortunately that port is the isolated Cliff Harbor, which John quickly discovers harbors more than ships—there are also horrifying secrets within its grim borders. Holly Young, a beautiful but mysterious young woman with whom he falls in love, reveals that she and the town are under a satanic curse. She can never leave nor marry. He prays that he be used to help her, oblivious to the hellish mission such an innocent prayer will initiate. After they marry in defiance of the curse, she is abducted by demonic creatures. John miraculously acquires the literal full armor of God described in Ephesians and sets out to rescue her. Alone he enters the lair of “that ancient dragon”—one novice Christian confronting all the powers of darkness. Yet he is not truly alone and receives assistance in his hour of greatest peril from a most unexpected source.

The Armor addresses the question, “What would it be like to actually combat the devil using the full armor of God?” Its answer is woven into an intriguing adventure of faith, love, and God’s power at work in us.

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Excerpt from The Armor

As the first attacker came at him with incredible speed, John realized that he had not faced an airborne opponent before. That well might require skills he had not acquired. He felt his confidence level slip a notch. It obviously would require precise timing. He decided he would slash with his sword so that it caught the creature the instant it was within reach. He stood firm, his shield raised, as the gargoyle swooped directly at him. He had not, however, counted on a last second burst of speed put on by the creature. He was just starting his swing when it hit. Though the creature hit him flush on the shield, the blow literally lifted John off his feet sending him in a complete back flip. He landed sprawling facedown into the dirt on the cavern floor, a considerable distance from where he had started. Though he was not badly hurt, he was disoriented. As a result he got back up too slowly to be fully prepared for the assault by the next gargoyle. It was a mistake he would not make again. He barely got his shield up before he was blasted backwards a good twenty feet. He landed in a clattering heap that sounded reminiscent of when his mother used to pull the bottom pot out of the cupboard. This time he landed on his back. Though still woozy, he rolled over and regained his feet as fast as possible. He forced himself to concentrate. He located the next oncoming attacker and formulated a quick battle plan. He would try waiting until the last instant and then thrust with the point of his sword while ducking aside. The idea was not a bad one except that he misjudged the gargoyle’s ability to adjust quickly. Although it missed him, its hind foot caught him a glancing blow as it sped past. It may have been only glancing, but it hit him on the nose—having the effect of his being kicked in the face. He spun to the ground and rolled several times, nearly slitting his own throat as his sword flailed out of control. He sat up, wiped the snot that had erupted from his nose onto his sleeve, and tried to collect his wits.

One thing was clear: he was in big trouble. His body in general was protesting from a hundred places and would not last long under this bombardment. Yet the creatures seemed to be only trifling with him. Worse still, even if he managed to perfect his ducking technique to avoid their blows, he had not inflicted the slightest damage on any of them. He decided to give it one more try. If and when that failed (if he could still walk), he would get out of there as fast as he could. He decided to just stand-in against the next attacker, shield low so he could see his opponent the whole way, sword ready. He would try to decapitate the beast much as he had done against the wolf-face. He hoped seeing one of their number rendered headless at his hands would earn him renewed respect among his enemies. However, he was not at all confident. The timing would need to be more perfect than he had managed to this point. A half-moon shaped chunk of the top of his shield was broken and hanging only by some strands of the shield material. It was also dented in several places and the handle and bindings had become loose. But there was no time to concern himself with that now, the next gargoyle was upon him. He saw the blade contact the beast’s shoulder and the next thing he knew he was again on his face, without either sword or shield, with the room spinning around him. As he gathered his senses, he wiped the wet from his stinging nose—this time it was blood. The sword and shield were lying on opposite sides of him, each about five feet away. As he staggered over and picked up the sword, he saw there was no blood on the blade. The gargoyle had wheeled and was flying back to rejoin his comrades, without a mark on him.

He picked up the shield, which was now little more than a tattered piece of junk, and suddenly felt himself being lifted off the ground. One of the gargoyles had picked him up with its hind claws and appeared bent on transporting him to their landing ledge high above. By so easily having their way with him, the creatures had evidently decided he was no threat at all. He was about eight feet off the ground and rising. He thrust his sword up into the gargoyle’s side as deeply as he could. The two of them dropped to the ground instantly, John landing on his left hip. The creature was stone dead. As John rose to retrieve his sword, he felt an excruciating pain in his hip. He hobbled over and pulled the sword out, only to see another attacker on its way. He began to run, if limping along as he was doing can be called running. Gone were thoughts of victory, revenge, or even continuing the battle. He was thoroughly beaten up and there were still six or seven of them left. Like a mouse released on an open floor, he was reduced to running for the nearest wall or corner to hide. He was “helped” on his way by a blow from behind. It sent him hurtling toward the wall of the cavern in a spectacular series of somersaults that would make an acrobat proud. He landed on his back with his feet in front of him and heard several vertebrae pop in protest. As he crawled to his feet, he saw along the wall to his right a small boulder about four feet in diameter some five yards away. There, he hoped he might gain some respite from the merciless battering. First, he would have to endure one more assault, for the next attacker was upon him. He stood with his back to the wall and crouched for the hit. But when the beast arrived, there was a second’s hesitation before it cuffed him off his feet over next to the boulder. It was a powerful blow, but significantly less so than the previous ones. Dragging his ailing leg, he scrambled behind the rock. There he found a hole in the chamber wall just large enough for him to crawl into. He backed down into it, not willing to turn his back on the gargoyles. He continued down into the hole another five or six feet where it widened enough for him to turn around. Several gargoyles landed and congregated around the boulder. He could hear their gruff voices, but they seemed unwilling, or perhaps too large, to follow him into the tiny tunnel.

“The fool does not realize he is too late,” he heard one of them say. There followed that eerie guttural noise which was supposedly laughter.

John crawled through the claustrophobic passage for a considerable distance. He went down for a ways then up, dragging the remains of his shield and grunting in pain each time he moved his injured hip. At last he came out into a larger perpendicular tunnel that allowed him to stand up. As he stretched out his cramped muscles he noticed a crevice directly opposite the hole he had just exited. He was back in the main corridor where he had been earlier, a short distance from the gargoyle chamber.

“And no way to get past it,” he moaned aloud. He looked at the sword blade and read:

I CAN DO ALL THINGS…

“I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me,” he quoted. “Hmph,” he grumbled as he leaned against the cave wall. Maybe Paul could, but not me, not against those things. He shook his head slowly. I went in full of confidence and ended up retreating through a hole like a rat. His shoulders sagged and his arms hung limp. Again he spoke aloud, “It’s hopeless. I can’t beat those fiends. I just can’t.” He tossed the sword aside and slid down until he was sitting on the ground with his knees up in front of him. His hip complained with every movement. He removed his helmet and ran a grimy hand through his sweat-soaked hair. He felt for his handkerchief to wipe some of the blood from his face. Then he remembered that he had given it to Holly that day he had told her about his faith.

“Holly. My precious Holly, how I’ve failed you,” he groaned miserably. “I’ve let you down when you needed me most.” He was in deepest despair, and even though every cell in his body was in pain, the agony of his failure was the worst of all. “Forgive me, my love, please forgive me.” He was bruised in more places than he could count, exhausted, sweaty, dirty, bloody, lame, and generally more miserable than he had ever been in his life. His only prospects consisted of two options. One, turn retreat into surrender and make the long trek back out to Cliff Harbor. Or, two, go back in and be brutalized by the gargoyles until—until death.

He crossed his arms atop his knees. Still whispering pleas for Holly’s forgiveness, he laid his forehead on his arms as tears of frustration dripped from his weary eyes.

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