by R. E. Vance
“I’ll be back,” I said (this time without the Arnie accent. I just said it … and meant it). “Do you remember what you said to me the day you died?” I asked, stepping away from the portal. “Live well …”
I blew my Bella a kiss as I stepped back and, with hope that I was right and that the twice-fallen angel would never kill me, I turned and waited for the darkness to wash over me.
End to Part 3
Chain Guns, Shooting in the Dark and Misguided Teenagers
Marc runs out the door, fumbling in the impossible darkness as he retraces his steps back to the helicopter. It isn’t easy, and he feels fear; every dry leaf’s crunch, every rustle of the wind, every sudden silencing of a cricket’s chirp gives him pause.
He knows there are more hellhounds here. And he also knows that they are but the canine bitches of their powerful masters. The woman of impossible brightness, for one, but there are others, too.
He knows this because she entered the fight as a scout, not a warrior. A warrior would have attacked without hesitation. A warrior would have stalked her prey, not revealing herself until the last possible second.
This creature let him run. And she did not pursue, sending her hellhounds after him instead.
No, she is not alone. Of that much he is sure.
Fumbling to the helicopter, Marc almost knocks himself out cold as he runs into the damn metal beast. The only thing that stopped him was his near perfect memory of where it was.
Perfect, because he found the helicopter after running out of the Millennium Hotel’s back door and straight to it. Near perfect, because he miscalculated the distance and hit its side at almost a full-out run.
GoneGodDamn it, he thinks. Not as precise as I would have liked. And Marc makes a mental note to take better stock of his surroundings next time.
Normally such simple clumsiness would bruise only his ego. But given how badly injured his shoulder is, he couldn’t stop the yelp of pain that just escaped his lips.
A yelp of pain that will betray his location. And almost immediately he hears the footsteps … not from the outside, but from within the hotel itself.
Using his hands as his eyes, he yanks himself into the helicopter’s belly. Searching the bowels beneath the seats, he finds what he is looking for … a chain link of bullets.
Even though he—or rather, Jean-Luc—has never loaded a gun such as this, he quickly runs through the logic of such a device, and without incident manages to load the chain gun.
Then he waits, pointing the gun at the door he just exited.
It does not take long for the scout to exit, her face illuminating several feet around her. She has five hellhounds with her, not that they will be of any use to her.
Unleashing the fury of the chain gun, he cuts down the three hellhounds in front of her before piercing her stomach with three bullets.
He is careful to not kill her. She is an enemy, yes, but she is not the one he must worry about.
The creature falls to the ground, clutching her stomach and screaming in pain. Green blood flows out of her—fae blood. At least now he knows the manner of creatures he fights.
And the nature of their magic.
“Ahhh,” the creature—more a girl than anything else—moans out as she tries to plug the holes within her. Already blood has made its way into her stomach, and she cries tears the color of autumn leaves, grass-green blood painting her lips.
She is afraid, for she knows she is dying. But she is also in awe, for never before has she suffered such an injury. Never before did she think her body capable of producing so much blood.
The pain has yet to register. It will … and soon.
Not that Marc will wait for that. Now he watches the young fae’s face intently until she does exactly what he knew she would.
The fae girl points toward the forest in front of the Millennium Hotel, her hand reaching out for help.
Help from the others.
“Bingo,” Marc whispers to himself as a devilish smile creeps across his face.
Turning the chain gun in the direction she pointed, he releases the full fury of human-made death.
He screams out his war cry as he does so, spraying the darkness with bullets he is sure will hit their mark.
The chain gun clicks empty, the spinning of its rotating barrel the only sound remaining.
And as if releasing the trigger was also the switch to turn off the darkness, the world lights up again with the morning sunlight.
There he sees another fae creature who looks much like the one dying by the hotel, only older.
He also sees a young boy crouched near her, holding his head down even though the bullets are no longer flying.
Marc takes a second to search Jean’s memories before realizing who the boy is … the one called EightBall. The one who is angry at the angel Penemue.
What is he doing here? Marc wonders, but before his mind can come up with any theories, the air before him rips open with a sound similar to fabric ripping.
And hovering over the garden’s floor are Penemue, Jean and … is that Bella?
Part XVIII
EARTH
Marc’s Story—Part 2
EightBall is doing something he hasn’t done in a long, long time.
He’s stalking his prey.
Making his way up through the trees lining the Millennium Hotel, he plans to find a good hiding place and wait for the fucking twice-fallen murderer of his parents to stumble out. It’s only a matter of time before the alcoholic angel gets so drunk that he passes out somewhere outside.
And when he does, EightBall will … well, EightBall will introduce him to something that he made long ago, when he vowed to avenge his parents’ death.
A baseball bat with three nine-inch nails hammered through it.
It took multiple attempts to create this instrument of death—the wood kept splitting—but EightBall stayed patient.
This was how he wanted to avenge them. With the symbol of America’s favorite pastime and one of the only joys he remembers sharing with his dad: baseball. And the vengeance and ire of the nails that, once upon a time, killed a god.
Fitting way for an angel to go down. Very fitting, indeed.
↔
But vengeance isn’t as straightforward as he’d thought.
A helicopter sits on the lawn near the back door. Not far from where EightBall waits, three young women step out of the forest line. They are beautiful, armored, and each carries a bladed weapon; he knows they’ve come to pick a fight.
EightBall considers warning everyone in the hotel, but then he remembers why he’s here. To kill, not save. Still, he likes Jean. The man was kind to him. So was Judith, in her own judgmental way.
And should the hotel have guests, they will probably be innocent too, and—
Before he can decide what to do, the world grows dark. He can’t see a thing, and he knows that no matter how long he stays here, his eyes will never adjust to this absence of light.
He considers fumbling his way to the hotel, calling out for help—when he hears the unmistakable sound of dogs growling as they scamper across the field and … What was that sound? Shattering glass. The dogs are inside.
Unsure what to do next, EightBall stays put and does something he knows is useless.
He prays.
He prays for the darkness to lift. For the dogs to leave this place or be killed, and for himself, EightBall, to be able to crawl away unharmed.
As if by some cruel joke, his prayers are answered. First he hears the thunderous sound of machine-gun fire. Then there is light.
The light reveals one Jean-Luc sitting in the bowels of a helicopter, chain gun in hand, and another Jean-Luc hovering in some sort of magical portal with Penemue. Behind them, a woman he recognizes from somewhere he can’t quite place and …
What the fuck? he thinks, seeing a familiar face. One he thought he’d never see again.
In shock and awe, EightBall only manages to whispe
r one word to himself. One single, damning word.
“Mom?”
↔↔↔A Very Brief Interlude↔↔↔
Little Newton might have been a young boy when his parents died, but he remembers everything. Up to a point.
He remembers playing near the old oak tree in front of his house. The one where his mom could see him from the kitchen window.
He remembers waving to her from beneath the tree’s canopy as his mom stood in the kitchen, drying dishes.
He remembers what she was wearing the day she died: her floral dress that she wore all the time, even though his father called it her “Sunday dress.” That day wasn’t a Sunday—most days aren’t. Didn’t stop her from wearing it.
And it’s not just what she wore that day that he remembers. He remembers what everyone was wearing: he, his blue V-neck sweater and new red running shoes. His father had on the same sweater, only bigger, and a red tie with a knot so big it almost filled the whole V part.
Dinner was roast beef and mash. Dessert was apple pie with vanilla ice cream and a bowl of cut-up strawberries.
He remembers thinking that if he cleaned his room and asked just right, he might get a second dessert—apple pie with vanilla ice cream and blueberries … his favorite.
Then he remembers the sky turning a strange shade of red, like it did that morning he went fishing with his dad so super early that it was still dark when they got in the car. They drove out of the city, out of Paradise Lot, pulling over on a hill so they could watch the sun rise. Little Newton thought the world was on fire that morning, and the day the gods left, he thought it might be again.
A strange voice rang in his head, both inside and out. It said, “Thank you for believing in us, but it’s not enough. We’re leaving. Good luck.”
Little Newton wasn’t sure what that meant. He’d have to ask Mom about it. And just when he was about to run upstairs to see if she heard the voice, too, the apartment building blew up like it did on those Knight Rider re-runs his dad liked so much.
Except with this explosion, no talking car rolled in to save the day. There was just dust and fire and heat and … and … Where did his mom go? He couldn’t see her at the window. He couldn’t see the window at all.
It took little Newton a few seconds to realize that the window was gone. That the apartment building was gone.
He started to cry.
For his mom. His dad. Anyone.
But none of them came to help him. Running into the rubble, he went to look for them. The place was covered in clouds of dust and dirt, but eventually little Newton found his mom. She lay on the ground, blood all over her. He shook her.
Once.
Twice.
And when he started screaming at her to wake up, desperate for her to wake, that was when his little mind stopped recording.
As a young man, the last thing he remembers of that day is finding his mother dead. Then he remembers waking up under the oak tree, a fireman examining him. He always assumed he passed out and the rescue worker took him there.
What he doesn’t remember is what really happened.
That, as a child, he sat dumbfounded by his mother, who wouldn’t wake up. She wouldn’t wake up and all he could think about was the little bird he found one autumn morning. The poor little thing had a broken wing and Mr. Miller’s nasty cat tried to take advantage of its flightless, frightened state and eat it.
Little Newton had saved the bird from the cat’s claws, but the bird still died.
Just like the day the gods left. He hadn’t gotten to his mom fast enough and then she was gone, too.
He started to cry. Gentle, reserved sobs flowed out of him as he held her hand.
He was alone for a little while, until a strange, huge man with blond hair and dirt-covered wings appeared from around the corner. The man carried little Newton’s dad and placed him next to his mom. He muttered something in a language little Newton didn’t understand.
The huge man was crying and his face was covered in something that made it glow.
Reaching out his hand, the huge man offered little Newton comfort. Young and afraid and grateful that someone was there to take care of him, little Newton ran into the huge man’s arms, cuddling against his massive chest.
Once the huge man had him in his arms, he carried to him to the old oak tree. There, the huge man joined him in his tears, cradling him as he repeated over and over again, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Little Newton didn’t know why the man was sorry. Not that he cared. Right then, he embraced the small amount of solace the stranger had to offer.
And as is true of all little kids who have been overcome by more than they can comprehend, eventually little Newton fell asleep. When he woke, a fireman was listening to his heart with one of those flat, cold thingies.
The strange, huge man with dirt-covered wings was gone.
EightBall and Bats, Darkness and Hell
That was what happened on the day his parents died.
Not that EightBall remembered ... until now, that is, standing on the front lawn of the Millennium Hotel with his nail-filled baseball bat, looking for revenge for something he doesn’t fully comprehend.
It’s a strange scene before him. First the blackness, then the unrelenting sound of machine-gun fire, followed by light and … Penemue and Jean standing in some open slit in the sky. It’s like they’ve literally torn the air apart to step from one reality into another. They stand with a woman whom EightBall recognizes from the pictures in Judith’s room. Her daughter, was it? Bella.
Not that EightBall really cares who she is; he’s more interested in what’s behind them. He recognizes the dining table, the chairs, the pictures on the light-purple walls. This is a scene from his childhood living room, his parents frozen in what he knows to be their last dinner together. It is an image that permanently resides in his mind: the last moment they were together. The last moment they were alive.
The last moment he felt whole.
“Mom?” EightBall says again. Forgetting the chaos around him, he stands up and approaches the portal. As he does, he sees his father and then himself as a young boy. None of them move; they sit perfectly still, like wax statues.
It is then he realizes that the people behind the twice-fallen angel and hotelier aren’t people at all, but something else entirely.
“What the hell is going on here?” EightBall cries out.
“Hell is exactly what’s going on,” Jean says. “Seems our mutual friend here has made his own personal hell. The grand prize, reliving the day your parents died, kid. A moment he blames himself for. A moment that has become his personal hell.”
Jean gestures behind him, wearing a maniacal smile that belongs on a tortured game show host. “Welcome to your life, EightBall. Penemue has recreated this day so that he can experience it over and over again. On repeat, forever.” Then Jean’s face loses all expression as his shoulders sag. EightBall has seen this expression before, when Jean has been bone-tired, taxed to the point of both physical and mental breakdown.
Bella touches his shoulder and, as if she’s given him strength, Jean stands up straight before saying with a voice full of mockery and sarcasm, “Think of it as a malevolent scene painted by Norman Rockwell’s evil twin. Then animate it and make it real painful.”
EightBall, ignoring Jean’s attempt at levity, points his bat at Penemue. “Is that what you’re doing? Reliving my worst moment … to do what? Make yourself feel better?”
“To punish myself,” the angel says.
“Like anything can make up for what you did,” EightBall growls. “There’s only one kind of punishment and it isn’t that. Reliving that moment over and over again will not redeem you, because the only reason you’re putting yourself through it”—he points with his bat again—“is because you’re a selfish asshole who thinks that somehow the pain makes up for what happened. For what you did.” EightBall’s voice is filled with vicious mockery.
But despi
te all his anger, EightBall’s words are controlled. Calculated.
Then, feeling his bat, he says, “There is only one kind of justice in this world. And it’s not the voyeuristic crap you’re pulling in there …” EightBall voice trails off as he refocuses behind the angel. Something in the back of EightBall’s mind tumbles to the forefront. An old, locked-away memory finds its way to his consciousness—the day his parents died … the explosion … finding his mother … passing out only to wake up by the oak tree.
All of this and more replays in his head.
It is the more he finds overwhelming, for EightBall remembers more now. He remembers that he didn’t pass out, but instead a huge man found him and took care of him until he fell asleep. And that huge man? “It was you who found me that day. You were the one who carried me out of the building. Who placed me under the oak tree. It was you.”
Penemue nods. He points at the bat. “Is that what you wish for me?”
EightBall doesn’t say anything, only looking at the bat’s pierced wood. Nine-inch nails … how fitting that this type of nail should end an angel of God.
The twice-fallen sighs, understanding his fate. “You know, I have watched over you since that day. I know you don’t remember this, but do you remember that fight you had with the asag? That grotesque demon chased you and your gang of HuMans away, but not before getting your scent. He sought to hunt you down, end the Paradise Lot chapter of the HuMans that night. I intervened because—”
“If you’re trying to get my sympathy, you can shove all the ‘guardian angel’ crap up your celestial ass,” EightBall whispers with scorn.
“I intervened because I could not allow any harm to fall upon you …” EightBall begins to protest again, but Penemue lifts a hand, begging for patience. The boy complies, but only because he is so confused by the scene before them. Seeing his parents, his old home … it’s all so disorientating.