“Yet,” Remy stated. “C’mon, Mike, don’t bullshit a bullshitter.”
The Keeper looked annoyed at Remy’s comment. “Where is your proof?” he demanded. “You talk of the general’s plans, but with him murdered . . .”
There was a commotion in the distance, and Remy saw Gareth step forward, close to the magickal barrier.
“I am that proof,” the young man stated. “I killed my father for what he wanted to turn me, and my brothers and sisters, into.”
Remy began to move toward the children, but a wave of debilitating magickal energy coursed through his body, bending him over at the waist. He could feel Malatesta’s eyes on him again, warning him to stay in his place.
The Archangel strode toward the corral.
“It was you?” the angel warrior asked. “You were the one to slay the general?”
“Yes, I killed my father,” Gareth admitted.
Michael paced before the young man, cold, black eyes unwavering. “Look at you,” the angel pronounced. “How could something so . . . small, be a danger to beings such as us.” The Archangel looked to the gathering of angels.
“We are not a danger,” Gareth announced. “All we want is a chance to exist like everybody else.”
“But you are a danger, boy,” Michael stated. “You killed one of the most respected of the Lord God’s generals.”
“I did it in defense of my brothers and sisters,” Gareth said. “We want to live, but not as things . . . not as weapons.”
Michael stared at the boy, but Remy could see that the Archangel was seeing much more. He strode back to the gathering.
“I have seen enough,” the Archangel announced.
The old Keeper bowed, turning his attention to Francis.
“And have you, spokesman of Hell?” he asked.
Francis seemed taken aback by the title. “Yeah,” he said, glancing briefly at Remy. “I think I’ve got it.”
Remy then noticed the Pitiless pistol had appeared in his friend’s hand, and a sick feeling began to churn in the pit of his stomach.
“We have been presented with the facts,” the Keeper announced. “And in these facts we have found what is to be considered the truth.” He considered both sides, from left to right. “And this truth has halted the escalation of war.”
The Keeper priest folded his hands before him, turning his attention to the children.
“And now, the question remains: What is to be done with this truth?”
Thunder above the island boomed as if for dramatic effect. Remy looked first to Michael, who studied Gareth and the children huddled behind him with an unwavering eye, then to Francis, who held the golden pistol up to his ear, as if on the phone, receiving a call from a higher authority.
It was Gareth who decided the moment.
“I offer myself up for the crime I committed,” the boy announced in a voice heard above the hissing of the rain. “I was responsible for the act that led to this, so it is I who must pay the price.”
“Gareth, no,” Remy called out.
“Silence!” the Keeper commanded.
Remy felt the tendril of magick again grow tighter against the flesh of his throat.
“The guilty has offered himself up as sacrifice for his sin,” the Keeper proclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. “How say you all?”
“It’s good,” Francis said, lowering the gun from his ear.
Michael nodded as well. “I accept this.”
“Bring the guilty forward,” the Keeper announced, motioning for two other sorcerers to bring the boy from the corral.
One created an opening in the enclosure, while the other stood ready to act. But there was nothing to be done, as Gareth calmly left the others, putting their fears at ease with a reassuring glance.
Something’s not right, Remy thought. Where was the fighter? The one who was going to strike against those who had abandoned them at birth.
No, something didn’t feel right at all.
“Halt!” the old priest’s voice boomed, and the youth did as he was told.
“Restrain him,” the Keeper ordered, and tendrils of magickal energy similar to the ones that held Remy wrapped around Gareth, making him cry out.
“The guilty is now ready to receive punishment,” the Keeper proclaimed to all in attendance.
Remy could now hear the other children crying out, calling their brother’s name in pitiful sobs. And the storm continued to grow more intense over the island.
“Come forward.” The priest motioned at Francis and the Archangel Michael.
Francis moved as Michael did, but the former Guardian turned to look at Remy. Remy had seen that look before, and it chilled him to the bone, for it was a look that said it was nothing personal, just part of the cost of doing business.
It still felt wrong to Remy. He could feel something invisible, yet dangerous, gradually building up, just waiting to explode.
The women from Rapture began to cry out, but were held back by the Keeper sorcerers. The old priest looked in their direction, annoyance on his wizened face, before returning his full attention to the guilty before him.
“Do you have anything to say before judgment is passed?” he asked Gareth.
Gareth slowly raised his head, and Remy thought he saw a flash of something in his eyes. He tensed, ready for anything, but nothing happened.
“Only that I am not sorry, but accept this punishment to absolve my brothers and sisters of any wrongdoing.” He lowered his head and fell silent.
“Is there anything that either of you wish to say?” the priest asked.
“Nothing personal,” Francis said, cocking the weapon forged with the power of the Morningstar.
Michael clutched his flaming spear in both hands, its tip turning white-hot. “I speak for the Almighty when I say that you are nothing more than a mistake,” the Archangel said. “And you are to be erased.” And with those biting words, the angel raised his spear.
“So be it,” the Keeper said, stepping away from the youth. “Let the punishment fall.”
Remy held his breath as Francis extended his arm and took aim, and Michael drew back his spear and brought the fiery point down.
Both weapons delivered their payload at exactly the same moment, the report of a single gunshot emanating from within an explosion of blinding light.
Remy looked away instinctively, but then forced himself to look into the diminishing brilliance. Francis and Michael stood over the prostrate form of Gareth, his punishment delivered, his penance done.
The old man returned solemnly to inspect the body. A fine, gray smoke now drifted up from the young man’s clothing.
“I believe we are done here,” the Keeper announced, addressing both sides. There were children’s mournful cries in the background, accompanied by shrieking winds and rumbles of thunder that sounded like the approach of a mighty army on horseback.
And Remy still felt that something was horribly, horribly wrong.
Francis had turned from the body, the golden pistol sliding back inside the waist of his pants, when the Archangel spoke.
His voice was like the blast of a trumpet. “We are not yet done.”
The angel spread his wings and leapt into the air, landing before the corral and the young within. A sword of crackling fire appeared in his hand, and he directed its point at the frightened children.
“We are not done, until they are no more.”
Remy knew at once what the Archangel was up to.
“No,” he screamed, not as man, but as a Seraphim, his own voice projecting across the island. “The boy made a deal for the safety of his brothers and sisters.”
Michael turned his attentions back to Remy, now a fearful visage of God’s wrath.
“And that compact will now be broken,” Michael spoke with grim finality. “For there will always be a danger to Heaven . . . Hell . . . and the Earth itself if these creatures are to live.”
The children began to panic, pushing again
st the magickal bands that kept them captive. The spell of containment bit back, painfully repelling those who tested the strength of the bonds.
“They should not be,” Michael proclaimed. “They are freaks of nature . . . abominations, and a harsh reminder that we were not ever meant to be part of this mortal world.”
Michael looked directly at Remy, and the Seraphim stared back defiantly.
“So, because of your weakness, innocent lives will be taken,” Remy said.
Michael did not respond, but Remy was sure that he’d heard him. The Archangel looked to the children again, cowering behind a fence of magickal force.
“Nobody likes to be reminded of their imperfections,” the Archangel spoke. “And every time I look at them . . .”
Michael quickly turned away, his mind made up.
“Put them down,” he commanded, striding toward his soldiers. As he walked he looked toward Lucifer’s men. “Feel free to join us if you care; they could be as much your problem as ours.”
Remy watched helplessly as the nightmare continued.
Angels of Heaven and Hell setting themselves upon the captive children. The Keepers dropped the magickal barriers to let the slaughterers in.
It was more than Remy could stand to see, but he felt compelled to watch, to see it all in every grisly detail.
To remember every horrible thing.
The children tried to fight back, to use their newly given abilities, but against the combined armies of Heaven and Hell, there was very little they could do.
It was bad enough that he felt compelled to watch, but to hear their cries was even worse. Again Remy fought against the magick that restrained him, but only managed to cause himself more pain.
Maybe it was some sort of safety mechanism: If he caused himself enough pain he would be rendered unconscious, and then he would no longer see them dying, or hear their pitiful cries.
But oblivion chose not to come for him, and he was forced to witness the atrocities as they unfolded.
Remy managed to rip his gaze away momentarily to see that Malatesta had turned his back to the carnage.
“Don’t you dare look away,” he cried, reaching up to yank upon the tendril of magickal energy entwined around his neck.
The sorcerer stumbled forward. “Please, Remy,” he begged. “It’s for the better.”
“Turn around,” Remy screamed, his anger beyond measure. “Turn around and see what’s happening . . . then tell me it’s for the better.”
He suddenly realized that the screaming had stopped, and found this even more disturbing, for it meant the act was done. There was nothing more he could do.
He watched the shapes of angels flying in circles above the mound of dead, like carrion birds. The bodies were burning, thick oily smoke snaking up to collect against the magickal barrier that still covered the old playground. The storm had subsided, the patter of rain and the faint roll of thunder now a ways off in the distance.
“Release him,” Remy heard Michael command, and turned toward the Archangel who now stood before him.
“Is there something you wish to say, angel?” Michael asked.
Remy’s thoughts raced, but he could not find the words. There had always been a part of him that believed someday he would return to where he had begun, that the deep psychological wounds he’d received during the Great War would eventually fade, and that he would be able to go back to the joy he remembered in the presence of God.
But now he saw that the poison he’d first recognized during the war had continued to flow through the veins of Paradise, killing what he had known, and making it impossible for him to ever return.
“It’s a sad day,” Remy managed, something suddenly missing inside of him.
The Archangel looked toward the smoking pyre. “Think of it as an act of mercy,” he said. “Something released from its suffering.”
Remy could only stare in horror at the being from Heaven.
“Come now, Remiel,” the Archangel spoke. “Do you seriously believe there was a place for creatures such as they?”
Remy’s gaze fell upon the pyre. He could just about make out the shapes of things that had once been alive, now reduced to smoke, charred bone, and ash.
“I used to think there was,” he said, remembering a time that was gone now, never to return. “But now . . .”
He walked away from the angel, not wanting to be in the presence of something so foul. He watched as two of Hell’s soldiers swooped down from the sky, each grabbing one of Gareth’s ankles, hauling his corpse toward the still-burning mound comprised of his brothers and sisters.
“I had no idea,” said a familiar voice.
Remy didn’t want to talk to him, but Francis forced the issue.
“I didn’t even know where we were going, and suddenly I’m here and being told that I’m representing.”
“I promised them that they’d be safe,” Remy said, trying to keep his anger in check.
“I had no idea what I would be doing,” Francis said again.
Remy turned to stare at his friend.
“But you did it,” he said, eyes dropping to the golden pistol shoved in the waist of his pants.
“Didn’t have a choice,” Francis said. “Part of the deal I made. He says jump, and I ask how high.”
“Exactly how high can you jump, Francis?” Remy asked.
Francis touched the butt of his weapon.
“Guess we’ll just have to wait and see,” the former Guardian angel said, walking away, heading back into the abandoned mining city of Gunkanjima.
The roar of the transport Chinook’s engines filled the air, and Remy watched as Malatesta walked behind the old Keeper and the other sorcerers, up into the belly of the craft, as the loading platform began to rise behind them.
Their work here is done, Remy thought, wondering what the next atrocity they would preside over would be.
He watched as the helicopter lifted off from the ground, but he was distracted by the angels who still flew above the island city now that the magickal barrier had fallen.
One by one Remy watched as they disappeared, not sure if they were legions of Heaven, or Hell.
And finding that he didn’t really care. They were all the same to him now.
The Archangel Michael remained, standing beside the still-blazing pyre. Spreading his wings, he pushed off from the ground to hover aloft, above the site of the massacre.
“You might consider leaving now,” the angel Montagin said, walking past Remy.
Squire, Heath, and the mothers of the slain children were with him. Remy could feel the pain of the mothers as they passed, and wanted to tell them how sorry he was, but knew that if the shoe were on the other foot, he wouldn’t have wanted to hear another word from the likes of him.
He looked back to the sky, and to the Archangel that still hung there. There seemed to be something forming around him, a whirlwind of flame.
“What’s he doing?” Remy asked Montagin.
“He needs to be sure,” the angel said.
“Sure of what?”
“That there isn’t any trace of them remaining. That they’re all dead.”
The flames around the Archangel were growing, swirling, creating a vortex of divine fire that had begun to reach down to the island below.
“Are you coming?” Montagin asked.
Remy looked over to see that the angel and the women were waiting, Squire having opened a passage in the shadow thrown by the shell of a concrete storage shed.
“C’mon, Remy,” Squire said. “Ain’t nothing good gonna come from you sticking around here.”
Remy looked back to the sky. An enormous tail of writhing fire snaked down from the body of the whirlpool to spear the ground where the bodies of the children smoldered.
“Go on,” Remy told them. “I think I need to see this.”
He could hear the hobgoblin begin to protest, but Remy ignored him, shedding his human visage as he walked in the midst of fire.
He didn’t know why he wanted to stay, but he felt that he should, to show in some way how sorry he was that this had happened.
The fire swirled around him with hurricane force, and he watched as the buildings that had stood upon the island since it was a coal-mining facility and prison camp began to crumble and were soon scoured from the earth.
“I knew that he would betray me,” said a voice beside him within the fire.
Remy turned in disbelief to see the forms of Gareth and the children, standing there, untouched by the Archangel’s cleansing fires.
“But I’d hoped that he wouldn’t,” Gareth said.
“Are you real?” Remy asked, knowing how stupid the question was, but still needing to know.
“Yeah,” Gareth replied.
“Are you ghosts?”
The young man shook his head. “They really didn’t kill me; I just made them all think that they did. . . . I wanted to see if the angel would keep his part of the bargain.”
“He didn’t,” Remy said. “And come to think of it, neither did I.”
“What are you talking about?” Gareth asked.
“I promised to keep you safe,” Remy said.
The boy shrugged, the fire swirling around him and the kids, but doing no damage.
“You did what you could.”
“It wasn’t enough.”
He shrugged again. “It was more than most did for us.”
The air became full of flying pieces of concrete and other debris that were eventually reduced to powder by the intensity of Michael’s divine maelstrom.
“So you’re not ghosts,” Remy said. “And you’re all fine?”
“The kids are a little spooked, but they’ll be all right.”
“You did this?” Remy asked. “You made the angels think that they slaughtered you and the children?”
“Yeah,” Gareth said. “Give them what they want and they’ll leave you alone.”
“You can’t ever let them know that you’re still alive,” Remy stressed.
“That’s the intention,” Gareth answered.
“Good,” Remy said as the fires of Heaven swirled around them. “Any idea where you’ll go?”
“No,” Gareth answered. “But I’m sure we’ll know when we find it.”
The firestorm appeared to be dying, the island city of Gunkanjima leveled to the scorched and now-barren ground.
Walking In the Midst of Fire rc-6 Page 33