Евгений Попов – PROPHECY (a collection of speculative fiction) (страница 1)
Евгений Попов
PROPHECY (a collection of speculative fiction)
Foreword
I dedicate this book to all who Seek—those for whom the Soul and the quest for God are not mere words, but the very compass for Self-Transformation and spiritual Purification.
May the Inner Light of Divine Revelation illuminate your Souls.
I wish you Love and Inspiration.
2026, Krasnodar
Evgeny Popov
PROPHECY
Contents
Prophecy .............................. p. 2
The Hunt for Gods ................ p. 6
The Lesser Angel .................. p. 14
Ophelia ................................. p. 18
Icy Death .............................. p. 25
Hell's Kitchen ....................... p. 30
Guardian Angel .................... p. 34
Merlin ................................... p. 38
The Reborn .......................... p. 43
The Secret of the Old Stove .. p. 48
Prophecy
The Sunday morning was surprisingly sunny for the damp, chilly Washington October. Alex and Nika sat in a cozy restaurant in Georgetown, famous for serving the best almond croissants in the city. They had been together for two years, and these leisurely breakfasts had become their small ritual.
“What are you thinking about?” Nika asked, taking a sip of her scalding cappuccino. Her chestnut hair kept falling into her eyes, and she kept brushing it aside with a familiar gesture.
“How lucky I am,” Alex smiled. “And that maybe it’s time for us to move in together. Enough with the suitcase life.”
Nika smiled back, but her smile carried a hint of caution. Alex knew that look—it meant her work in the “analytical department” (as she called it) was once again wrapped in secrecy, and there was something important she couldn’t share. He didn’t press.
“Waiter!” Alex called over the young man. “The bill, please.”
The waiter, impeccably polite, handed over the check folder. Alex waved his hand as if to say “keep the change,” and pulled out his card. But before inserting it into the terminal, he glanced at the paper. Just to be polite, to check the total.
Two coffees, two croissants, eggs Benedict, juice… Everything added up. But the final amount made him blink and rub his eyes.
$666.00
Nika, noticing his confusion, leaned across the table.
“What is it? Alex, what’s wrong?”
“The amount is strange,” he said, turning the check toward her. “Exactly six hundred sixty-six dollars. For breakfast. It’s just ridiculous.”
Nika glanced at the numbers. Her face momentarily hardened, becoming as unreadable as a statue. She quickly scanned the room: an elderly man reading a newspaper at a corner table, two men in business suits near the entrance, a woman with a child.
“Don’t pay with card,” she said quietly, but very firmly. “Leave cash. Exactly six hundred seventy. And we’re leaving. Now.”
“Nika, it’s just a terminal glitch, or…”
“Do as I say. And smile.”
Alex, accustomed to trusting her sudden bouts of paranoia—which, as a rule, turned out to be justified—silently pulled out bills, placed them on the table, took Nika’s hand, and stepped outside.
At that very moment, in the basement of an old library on the outskirts of the city, candles were lit. Eight figures in dark robes sat around a heavy oak table. Spread across it were a city map and a monitor displaying footage from a surveillance camera positioned across from the restaurant, La Madeleine.
“The signal has been received,” the Elder’s voice rasped like an unoiled door. “The terminal in the restaurant displayed the number 666 precisely at 11:11 in the morning. This is the sign.”
“The prophecy states: ‘And you shall see the number of the beast at the hour of the feast, for the one who bears the light shall appear in the shadow of the sign,’” quoted a thin-lipped man. “He is here. The Messiah. The true Christ, descended into our world to judge the living and the dead.”
“And we must kill him,” the Elder interrupted. “To prevent him from ushering in the Millennial Kingdom. We preserve the balance. We will allow neither Heaven nor Hell on Earth. Only free will. Only chaos. The Messiah must die, barely born into this world.”
On the monitor, Alex and Nika appeared, exiting the restaurant.
“He is young. There is a woman with him. Identify them. And eliminate them within the next twenty-four hours, before sunset. Before his power fully manifests.”
An hour later, they were in a safe house—an apartment Nika had once rented under a fake identity. It was strange to see his girlfriend in this role: she moved quickly and efficiently, retrieving weapons, signal jammers, and folders of documents from hidden compartments in the walls.
“Nika, for heaven’s sake, explain to me what’s going on,” Alex said, sitting on the couch, pressing his hands to his temples.
Nika took a deep breath. The mask of the analyst fell away.
“I’m not just an analyst, Alex. I work for a department dealing with anomalous threats. It’s an unofficial branch of the CIA. We track… cults. Secret societies. And there’s one, very old and very dangerous, that we call ‘Gehenna.’ They believe that the Second Coming will be heralded by the appearance of the number of the beast. An inverted sign. Evil as a pointer to Good. They believe the Messiah will come under the devil’s ‘false flag’ to confuse the world. And they’ve been waiting for this sign for two thousand years. To kill him.”
“And you think I…” Alex laughed nervously. “I’m the Messiah? Because of a stupid check?”
“I don’t know what you are,” Nika answered honestly. “But I know that they believe it. Which means you’re in mortal danger.”
Just then, there was a soft but insistent knock at the door. Three times. Then two more.
“It’s my people,” Nika exhaled. “Backup. We’re leaving.”
What followed was a chase, punctuated by gunfire. The men in black—whom Nika called “saint hunters”—pursued them across rooftops and through underground passages. Alex, an ordinary programmer, ran, holding the hand of a woman who held a pistol in her other hand, feeling like he was in an action movie. At one point, as they took cover in an old bomb shelter, a bullet whizzed past his temple, chipping a piece of concrete.
“They know our every move!” Alex shouted.
“I know!” Nika frantically typed a message on an encrypted phone. “I’m activating Protocol Phoenix. Full surveillance purge and disinformation. If we’re lucky, they’ll think you died in the explosion.”
Twenty minutes later, the entire block shook with a massive explosion in an abandoned garage, where Nika, with the help of her people, had led the false trail for Gehenna. Alex and Nika, having left an hour earlier in an old ambulance, crossed the state line.
They settled in a small town in Oregon, under assumed names. Nika quit the CIA—or pretended to (Alex never quite figured out which). They bought a house by the woods, and for the first time in his life, Alex felt truly at peace. As if the very earth itself gave him strength.
A year later, they married. The ceremony was modest: they exchanged vows under a massive old pine tree, with two trusted neighbor friends as witnesses.
A year after that, their son was born. His eyes were incredibly clear, sky-blue, and when Alex first held him in his arms, he felt as if the room filled with light. Nika, exhausted after childbirth, smiled as she watched them.
“What name should we give him?” Alex asked.
“Michael,” Nika whispered. “After the archangel. The protector.”
Michael grew at an astonishing rate. By one year old, he was speaking in complex sentences. By two, he could recite books from memory that his father had read to him. And at three, while they were walking through the woods, he suddenly stopped, looked at an anthill teeming with life, and said:
“Dad, do the ants know we’re watching them?”
“No, little one. They’re too busy with their own things.”
“I feel sorry for them,” Michael said, his eyes welling up with tears. “They’re like people. Running around, bustling, while someone huge just watches and doesn’t interfere. It’s good that God interferes sometimes. Right, Dad?”
Alex froze. He remembered that day in the restaurant, the rooftop chases, and the insane theory about the Messiah. He looked at his son.