The Fallen 4

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  The power of the Nephilim coursed through the dog, his yellow fur throwing sparks, his very bite filled with the fire of the divine. Gabriel felt the energy of Heaven rush through him. There was an awful shriek, and suddenly he was falling to the concrete floor.

  Gabriel recovered himself almost immediately and watched the scene before him with a curious eye. The monster’s hand smoldered with divine fire, and the animals that composed it broke apart and fell to the floor.

  “Where is the machine?” Gabriel barked. He bared his fangs, which crackled with preternatural fire. “You know I can hurt you. I won’t ask a second time.”

  The monster considered this threat, still gazing with many eyes at where its hand had once been.

  “Protect,” the animal voices grumbled. “Protect the machine.”

  And with the last pronouncement the great beast turned upon its stocky legs and began to run away.

  Gabriel yelped in surprise but quickly recovered his wits and chased the abomination across the empty space.

  The monster stopped in front of a crumbling wall, and as Gabriel watched, its body dissolved into the multiple animals that constituted it. The Lab reached the wall just as the last of the animals, a mangy raccoon, escaped. Frustrated, Gabriel lunged forward and snatched the fleeing animal by the scruff of its neck. It screeched and hissed as Gabriel pulled it from its freedom, and shook it, savagely snapping its neck. He dropped the dead animal to the floor, watching it twitch before it finally succumbed to death.

  Gabriel stuck his snout through a crack in the wall and took in the scents behind it. He could smell the animals that had formed the body of the monster. But there was something else too, something that he couldn’t identify. Presuming that it was the engine, he did not hesitate. Gabriel squirmed through the opening, feeling the ground beneath his paws suddenly arc downward.

  Into the hungry darkness of the earth.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Aaron stepped over the debris as he approached Mallus and an older man in a wheelchair.

  “Who were those people out there?” he asked, ruffling his ebony wings angrily, a sword burning in his hand.

  “Old friends that left me a long time ago,” the old man spoke. “Didn’t have the heart to let them lie down, I guess.”

  Aaron wasn’t sure he’d heard right. “So they’re dead, but… ,” he began.

  “I kept them around to watch the place,” the old man said. “Like guard dogs, only older.”

  Aaron looked at Mallus, shocked by the man’s words.

  “This is Tarshish, Aaron,” Mallus said. “The last of the Malakim.”

  “A Malakim,” Aaron repeated. “But I thought the Powers—”

  “Yeah, the Powers,” Tarshish said with a snarl. “I saw what they were up to with my brothers, and I kept out of sight.”

  “You let the Powers kill your brothers?” Aaron asked him.

  “No love lost with my siblings,” the Malakim said. “They got what was coming to them.”

  “Nice,” Aaron said with a slight shake of his head. He turned to Mallus. “Is he why we’re here?”

  “He’s part of it,” Mallus said.

  “What have you been telling him?” the Malakim asked.

  “Only that I made a huge mistake and that I’m asking him to help me correct it.”

  “Correct it?” Tarshish asked, his withered old face twisting in confusion. “How the hell is he going to do that?”

  “Look at him,” Mallus told the wheelchair-bound angelic being. “The unification of humanity and the angelic… of humanity and the Son of the Morning.”

  Tarshish stared. “Huh,” he said.

  “Would someone care to tell me what’s going on?” Aaron demanded.

  Mallus ignored him, speaking only to Tarshish. “We killed the Metatron’s human aspect, releasing the power of God into the ether,” he said.

  “Oh, it went somewhere,” the Malakim said knowingly. “Right into the service of the Architects.”

  “We could get that power back,” Mallus continued. “We could place it within a host that could handle all its power.”

  Tarshish was staring at Aaron again. “Him?”

  Mallus nodded. “With a new Metatron—”

  “Enough!” Aaron roared, his wings of solid black splaying out behind him. “What are you two talking about?”

  Mallus looked to Aaron. “If there was something that you could do to stop all of this evil,” the fallen angel said, gesturing with a swirl of his hand to the world outside, “would you do it?”

  “What are your feelings about becoming one with God?” Tarshish asked Aaron.

  Aaron was shocked, frozen by the proposition.

  And then the Malakim began to laugh.

  MOUNT EVEREST

  A VERY LONG TIME AGO

  The frigid winds tore at Tarshish as if to say, You do not belong in this place, but Tarshish of the Malakim went wherever he cared to.

  Or, as in this case, where he was told.

  Hearing of the Architects’ existence in the whispers of the angels who’d fallen during the Great War with Heaven, Tarshish had sought out the mysterious group of divine creatures. It was only when he had given up his search for the elusive godly beings that the Architects had sought him out.

  They’d taken him to a place they had claimed as their own—a place between here and there—and Tarshish had stood in awe of them, the first to come from the sweat of He Who Is the Creator of All.

  At first, in arrogance, Tarshish had viewed the Architects as equals to his own angelic might, but he’d soon come to realize that they were so much more.

  So, so much more.

  The Architects had a vision for the world God had created, and for the life He had entrusted with His greatest gift. But for the planet and everything that lived upon it to live up to its potential—and the Architects’ potential—there would need to be those with like minds.

  Agents that would serve them. Agents dedicated to the cause of shaping the world to its fullest possibility.

  They had asked Tarshish if he would be one of their Agents, if he would partake of their cause, and he had been alone for so very long before this.

  Tarshish had agreed, and the Architects had praised him for his decision, but they’d said that they needed to be certain that he truly belonged with them.

  That their vision and his were one and the same.

  They’d told him there would be a test, and before he could question what would be asked of him, his mind had been filled with his mission’s objective, and he’d been in awe of what was expected.

  The Architects had told him how important this undertaking was, for without its completion their true design could never be realized. They’d told him that they had faith in his abilities, and without further discussion, he had been dismissed.

  And now he found himself here, in the mountains of the world that, if he performed his duty, would be forever changed by this act, allowing the Architects’ vision to march forward.

  Tarshish turned his gaze upward, toward his destination. There was a storm upon the mountain, winds so fierce that they might flay the flesh from a lesser being’s body, but Tarshish was as far from a lesser being as one could possibly be. He continued his climb into the raging white.

  He could sense himself growing closer to his quarry and paused a moment to reconsider what he was doing. Is it really my place to ignore God’s wishes and take action against His vision? Do I dare do such a thing?

  From the corner of his eye Tarshish caught sight of something moving in the snow. Immediately his curiosity was aroused, for nothing that currently lived in the world could survive these conditions.

  “Show yourself,” the Malakim commanded in a voice that caused the very air to vibrate, and an avalanche to rain down upon him.

  The ice and snow came in a furious rush, but it did not touch his form, for he had made his body as hot as a star, and the frozen water hissed and steamed as it trie
d to pummel him with its volume and weight. But it was unable to touch Tarshish.

  As it was unable to touch the other creature on the mountain with him.

  Tarshish looked upon the being and knew him as a fallen angel of Heaven.

  There was a certain air about fallen angels that was unmistakable.

  “What brings you to this cold, misbegotten place, angel?” Tarshish asked as the snow at last settled and the mournful winds quieted.

  “I could be asking you the same thing,” the fallen stated.

  Tarshish chuckled, enjoying the conversation with the once heavenly being. He had spent far too long amongst the hairless monkeys that now dominated this place, and he missed these divine interactions.

  “You know what I am, fallen one?” Tarshish asked. “I am Malakim.”

  The angel bowed his head in reverence to Tarshish’s position.

  “I go wherever I feel,” Tarshish said. “Wherever I might find the most wonderful experiences and sensations this world can provide. That is where I will be, for that is my charge.”

  “And the murder of one most holy,” the fallen angel spoke. “What an experience. The sensations it will provide… glorious.” He smiled knowingly.

  “You know why I am here,” Tarshish spoke, already planning how he would destroy the insolent fallen. “Now you will share with me the same.”

  The fallen moved toward him in the snow. “Isn’t it obvious, Malakim?” he asked. “We have a job to do.”

  “The Architects sent you?”

  “As they did you,” the fallen angel said.

  “They doubted that I would be able to perform my task?” Tarshish asked, incredulous.

  The fallen angel smiled. “Let’s just say they wanted to be sure it was done properly.”

  The Malakim scowled, disheartened by his new masters’ seeming doubt of his capabilities.

  The fallen angel clapped him on the shoulder. “No need to frown, brother,” he said.

  Tarshish did not care to be touched, and ignited the divine flesh of the fallen angel. The fallen quickly removed his hand and plunged it into the snow to quell the hungry fire.

  Tarshish stared down at the lowly being, trying to decide whether or not to extinguish his life.

  “We’ve been given a mission, Malakim,” the angel spoke, his dark eyes looking up at Tarshish. “Let’s show our new masters that we can work as one.”

  A thought crossed Tarshish’s mind, one he hadn’t considered until that moment. Perhaps this was one of the Architects’ tests. Maybe they wanted to see if he could work with others of like mind to restore the world to what it should be.

  The fallen angel knelt in the snow, ministering to his wound, but Tarshish started back on the path to his destination. The Malakim could feel the wounded angel’s eyes upon his back.

  “What should I call you, angel?” the Malakim asked without turning.

  “Mallus,” the angel replied.

  “Mallus, I am Tarshish,” the Malakim announced. “Tarshish the forgotten.” He then turned to look at the fallen one, who had withdrawn his charred appendage from the ice and snow. It was a black, withered thing now, but it would eventually heal.

  “Prepare yourself for what we are about to do, Mallus,” Tarshish continued. “For we will either be exalted for our actions—”

  He turned back toward the mountain.

  “—or we will be damned.”

  * * *

  On the shore Baby Roger sat in the sand, a chilling wind rustling the downy soft hair atop his rather large head.

  They’d wanted him to wear a hat, but he would not hear of it.

  Jeremy and the old woman had given him a pail and a shovel, and he had gone to work gouging out shovelfuls of damp sand, and dumping them into his bucket.

  There is something mesmerizing about the action, the baby thought. Putting something inside of something else.

  Something hauntingly familiar.

  When the pail was full, Roger immediately tipped it over, emptying its contents and beginning the process all over again.

  Fill. Put something inside something else.

  There was some deeper meaning, just out of Roger’s grasp.

  He wanted to cry out in frustration, to scream his rage at the crashing waves and seagull shrieking in the sky above, but it wouldn’t help him find the answers he sought.

  As he dug, Roger checked to make sure that he hadn’t been left. Jeremy and the woman were standing close by, talking amongst themselves. He was sure they were talking about him. What should we do about little Roger? He wished he had the answer to give them.

  Drawn to his task, he again shoveled sand into the pail, filling it to overflowing.

  What does this mean? the babe asked himself as he stared at his bucket. With a shriek he grabbed the pail in his chubby hands and emptied its contents. Unable to control himself, he was about to start filling the pail again, when he glanced up at the white-capped ocean. He studied the birds as they rode the currents, the winds beneath their wings making it seem as if they were defying gravity as they hung there in space.

  The wings.

  The baby was inexplicably transported to another corner of the world, as if lost in a memory. In this vision he was transformed into something akin to God. Standing atop a mountain peak, his grown-up body adorned in armor made from the rays of the sun, he extended his will upon the world of man. Somehow Roger knew that this had been reality.

  This was his true nature, what he had been created to do.

  His name was not Roger. He was Enoch. And he was an emissary of the highest order. God, human, and angel, Enoch was a trinity of the Allfather’s most cherished creations. He was to watch over the world and its inhabitants.

  He was the Metatron, the voice of God here on earth.

  Elation flowed through the child, as tears rolled down his chubby face. Memories of being touched by the Lord of Lords filled his mind.

  He’d been human, but he’d been transformed into so much more. He could not remember why he had been chosen, but Enoch had been taken to Heaven and paraded before all the heavenly hosts as the recipient of God’s greatest gift.

  And Enoch had been transformed before all the angels.

  Enoch was the Metatron.

  On the beach the seagulls wailed, wings flapping against the winds to remain aloft.

  The flapping of wings.

  The sound in his ears was suddenly deafening.

  In his memory, wings beat the air unmercifully as an angel of Heaven flew about his head. Standing atop the snow-covered mountain, he tried to bat it away, but the attack upon him was relentless.

  Attack? Who would dare attack the Metatron?

  At first he believed it was only one. He saw the angel, a sword of burning in his grasp, darting and weaving through the snow-filled air, attacking Enoch with such ferocity.

  He wanted to understand why this was happening… why the angel would wish to do him harm, but he could no longer allow it to go on.

  Summoning the power of God from within, the Metatron readied a strike against his angelic foe, but as the power flowed from within, it was taken by another.

  Stolen by a second being of Heaven.

  He tried to fight them, but they had taken him by surprise, not allowing him the opportunity to defend himself, to strike back.

  The pair had driven him to the floor of the mountain peak, swarming atop his large and powerful armored form. He did not know what they wanted, but something told him that soon it would be revealed.

  They did not hesitate in their act of savagery. Powerful magicks were at work then, immobilizing him, cutting off his connection to the Almighty. There was little time wasted as they went to work upon his divine armor, cutting it open to reveal the next layer of the trinity beneath.

  The pain was excruciating as they sought out their prize, searching for what lay at the core of his being.

  The two heavenly beings were eager to reach his humanity, cutting deeply
through the angelic aspect to find the soft human center. He saw them as they peered inside the shell of God, finding what they had been searching for.

  “Why?” he wanted to ask as the angel reached in to pull his humanity out into the cold. Enoch squirmed in the cold of the mountain, the angel holding him tightly by the scruff of the neck as the other—the magick user—conjured a dagger of blinding white light and stepped in close to use it.

  It was senseless to struggle, but he did. It was what humanity did in the face of adversity, no matter how hopeless it appeared.

  Enoch struggled, even as he died.

  The angelic being with his dagger of light sliced Enoch’s throat from ear to ear, the cut so deep that it nearly severed his head from his body.

  And they let his body drop to the frozen ground, gouts of blood pumping from his wound to stain the virgin snow.

  The baby’s vision had gone completely red with the passing of the memory, and he began to scream. He knew now what he had been, and what had happened.

  And why he had returned.

  He continued to scream, rolling around in the sand as the birds cried out, riding the winds above his head, the terror of what he had experienced—and what might be to come—pouring out of him in a fit of cries and tears.

  The old woman was suddenly there, retrieving him from the sand and taking him into her comforting arms.

  But there could be no comfort for Roger now.

  The woman tried to shush him, bouncing him up and down as Jeremy stood nearby, confused by his sudden outburst.

  “What’s wrong, Roger love?” the woman asked in her gentlest whisper.

  “My—my name isn’t Roger,” the baby said between gulps of air as he struggled to compose himself.

  The woman looked into his face as she tried to understand.

  “I know who I am now,” the baby said. “I know why I am here.”

  With new composure he declared, “My name is Enoch.”

  Then he shuddered. Because if he knew who he was, then so did they.

  * * *

  “Just so I understand,” Aaron said. “You two killed a godlike being, and now you want me to somehow help you make it right?”