A Deafening Silence In Heaven

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  It sucked, but sometimes it was better not knowing.

  “What the fuck are you waiting for?” Mulvehill shouted, noticing his hesitation.

  Squire really liked this reality, liked Remy Chandler and all the craziness that seemed to circle him. And this Mulvehill guy: Even though they’d just met, there was something about the guy he hadn’t felt since . . .

  Pangs of sadness pulsed through him as he again remembered those he had called friends—family, really.

  Did he really want to go through that again?

  A Bone Master was suddenly in front of him, a more conventional weapon, one that fired bullets instead of poisoned teeth, aimed at his face. He knew he could stop it, but . . .

  Squire suddenly felt himself violently shoved aside, a body driving the demon to the living room floor. It took him a second to realize what had happened, and he watched as Mulvehill laid into the Bone Master, burying the blade of a medieval battle-axe in the demon’s face before it could even get a shot off.

  “What, did you doze off?” Mulvehill asked, his breathing coming in short gasps.

  Squire looked at the guy and saw in him the kind of friendship that usually took years to cultivate, a bond that many would never even come close to having. Imagine how strong it could be if he stuck around and they managed to survive all this.

  It would be fucking epic.

  “I was thinking about trying to get into the kitchen,” Squire told his friend. “I think I saw a box of Cheez-Its in one of the cabinets. I’m fucking starving.”

  “Jesus,” Mulvehill exclaimed as the two headed up the stairs. “Cheez-Its? Now? I’ll buy you a fucking case of Cheez-Its if we make it out of this alive.”

  Squire smiled at the thought of the future with his friend.

  “I’ll take you up on that,” he said as they made their way to the bedroom at the top of the stairs.

  • • •

  The darkness had become her existence.

  In the embrace of the black, she had lived what felt like many lifetimes; the pulse, ebb, and flow of the inky shadows had become everything to her.

  That and the memory of her love for Remy.

  Linda folded herself around the flame of recollection, the flickering light of love her constant companion in the ocean of darkness.

  She was content in this place of liquid shadow, as long as she had her love—her Remy.

  It was when the fire seemed to be dwindling—dying—that she lost that sense of contentment and became increasingly concerned. The fire could not go out; she would do everything—anything—to keep it . . . Remy . . . alive and with her.

  Her emotions caused the waters of black to become more turbulent. No longer was she pulled along in a gentle flow. Now multiple currents tried to drag her in opposing directions.

  Linda drew the fire to her, protecting it. She recalled things that she hadn’t thought of in . . . years? How long had she been here, part of the vast ocean of shadow? How long had she been away from her true home?

  Home.

  Images flashed before her mind’s eye, new sparks of fire causing the flame of her love for Remy to grow stronger. She remembered more clearly why she was there, and the friends that she had left behind.

  It was all about Remy. She was trying to save him . . . to bring him back to her and to those who loved him so.

  And the fire grew, warming her inside and out, even as the currents of shadow tried to pull her apart, to scatter her pieces about this dark and terrible place.

  But the protected flame kept her whole.

  Her memories of Remy, and why she was there in this place, kept her whole.

  Try as they might, the currents of shadow could not tear her apart, and she found herself actually fighting against the pull, swimming in the oily black as she clutched the fire to her breast.

  And from somewhere in the distance, Linda heard a muffled sound like the roar of thunder, or . . .

  The crashing of waves upon a beach.

  She moved toward the sounds. And as she swam, flowing through the oily black, she found the world to which she had grown so accustomed becoming lighter, brighter. Linda moved toward the light, clutching the fire of her love closer to her with one hand while reaching up with the other.

  She would escape this ocean if she could.

  Linda drifted upward, a world of lighter tones above in stark juxtaposition to the universe that rushed below her.

  It was like she had been struck in the face by the sun, an explosion of light as she broke the surface of the sea, gasping for breath. She had broken through to another world, but even in this one she saw the threat of darkness.

  In the sky above, the sun shone, but barely; thick black clouds rolled about its glowing immensity, attempting to enshroud it, to suffocate its warmth and light. Linda started for the shore, pulling herself along with one arm and powerful kicks of her feet, while still holding on to the flame of her love.

  She could hear the waves crashing upon the shore and kicked her legs all the harder, desperate to be anywhere but in the water. Finally, she was close enough that she could allow herself to be carried in upon a wave, her tired body tossed upon the sandy shore as if rejected by the sea of darkness.

  Linda lay there, collecting herself, until she could once again feel the pull of the ocean on her legs. She sat up and looked at the fire in her hand. It still burned, but softer in its intensity. Legs trembling, she forced herself to her feet, not sure if they would even be strong enough to support her after all that time adrift in the sea of shadow. But the question was quickly forgotten when she saw that she wasn’t alone.

  An old man and a woman watched her as she haltingly made her way from the surf toward them.

  “Hello, Linda,” the old man said, his voice immediately filling her with a sense of serenity.

  The woman beside him smiled, and Linda immediately recognized her from the photographs in Remy’s brownstone. She could feel the fire suddenly burn brighter—warmer—in her hand.

  The kindly old man reached for her, to guide her closer. “We’re so glad you’re finally here.”

  “Remy needs you more now than ever before,” added the woman.

  Madeline.

  Remy’s wife.

  • • •

  Lazarus nearly burst into tears as he watched an age spot blossom on the back of his hand.

  Silently he thanked the Lord God for what He was doing but realized there was much he still had to do before accepting His ultimate reward.

  Sitting in the small café, NPR droning in the background, Lazarus sipped a cappuccino and waited. He had taken a chair at a table across from the front window, where he could observe the comings and goings on Mass. Ave. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was waiting for, but the Lord God had been very specific about where he should be.

  And he didn’t want to disappoint God, especially after all He’d done for him. Lazarus again recalled the stupidity of his actions, how he’d attempted to make a deal with a group of rogue angels who had wanted to bring about the Apocalypse and end the world of man. He hadn’t been thinking clearly then, driven to near madness with the desire to finally die. And that was what the rogues had promised him—betray God, humanity, and his friends, and he would at last be allowed to die. He was ashamed that he’d even considered such an offer, but at least—thank God—someone had stepped forward to stop the rogues and prevent the Horsemen from calling down the Apocalypse.

  Remy Chandler, Lazarus thought. His friend, or at least they had been friends before Lazarus had betrayed him.

  A sudden blast of static distracted him, and he glanced at the front counter to see the young man who had waited on him fiddling with the stereo system.

  “Sorry about that,” the young man said as public radio was replaced with music.

  Lazarus nodded and turned his attentions back to the street outside, where he caught movement on the steps of a brownstone directly across from the coffee shop. There was a man climbing the
steps to the front door. There didn’t seem to be anything particularly special about the man, but for some reason, Lazarus could not look away. He watched the man ring the buzzer on the side of the doorway, wait a few moments, and then push open the door to disappear inside the building.

  And then Lazarus noticed the song that was playing on the radio, and things started to make a strange sort of sense. Mick Jagger was singing, “Please allow me to introduce myself / I’m a man of wealth and taste. . . .”

  Lazarus chuckled, raising the last of his cappuccino to his mouth and finishing it off. Then he wiped the foam from his lips and stood.

  “Thanks, come again,” the young man said, as Lazarus headed for the door.

  “No, thank you.” Lazarus smiled, leaving the coffee shop, closing the door on the strains of the Rolling Stones’ “Sympathy for the Devil.”

  He crossed the street and stopped in front of the brownstone; like many old Boston buildings, it seemed to house a small business on the first floor and apartments above.

  A UPS truck pulled up behind him with a chill-inducing screech of brakes, and Lazarus immediately climbed the steps to the front door of the building. The delivery driver, carrying a small package, joined him a few moments later, and Lazarus stepped aside politely, allowing him access to the buzzers.

  “Yes?” answered a voice.

  “UPS delivery,” the man said.

  “Come on up,” said the cheerful voice, and the door buzzed loudly, the driver pushing open the door into the lobby.

  Lazarus followed, all the while giving off a level of confidence that said he belonged. He lingered on the first floor while the driver headed up the stairs. From what he could see, the level belonged entirely to a small men’s clothing and tailor shop, and he perused a window display of some new shirt-and–silk tie combinations. Sauntering over to the door, he peered inside. It was quiet, and he wasn’t even sure if the establishment was open yet, when an older gentleman with a tape measure around his neck suddenly appeared from the back and approached. Lazarus quickly turned and began to walk away.

  “The person you’re looking for is inside,” he heard the man call from behind him.

  Lazarus slowly turned.

  “He’s inside,” the man said, holding the door open and gesturing to the back of the store. “Right this way.” He left the door open and headed for the back of the store again, as if he expected Lazarus would follow.

  Cautiously, Lazarus entered the store, carefully closing the door behind him. The man had already disappeared into the back, but Lazarus could hear voices in conversation and found himself drawn to them.

  In the back of the small store, a series of three mirrors had been set up in front of a raised pedestal. On the pedestal stood the man Lazarus had seen enter the brownstone, his image reflected three times, from three positions, as the tailor prepared to take his measurements.

  “Are you looking for me?” the man asked.

  Lazarus wasn’t sure what he had been expecting from the man, but he was certain that it was something more . . . menacing. “I am,” he replied.

  The man lifted his arms while keeping his eyes upon Lazarus’ reflection in the mirror directly in front of him. “So, what is it I can do for you, Lazarus?”

  Lazarus was a bit taken aback. “You know who I am?”

  “I do. I also know who you’ve been working for of late.”

  Lazarus did not respond to that.

  After the Apocalypse had been averted, he’d found himself washed out to sea, suffering death and resurrection multiple times before finally being pulled from the grip of the Atlantic Ocean by a fishing boat off of Newfoundland. Feeling truly lost, he’d attempted to drown himself in alcohol, but one night while asleep in a freezing alley in Nova Scotia, he was awakened by an old man who was so much more than that.

  An old man who promised forgiveness and final death if Lazarus was to serve Him faithfully.

  How do you say no to God?

  “I’m guessing you have a message for me?” the man prompted.

  “I do, but . . .” Lazarus’ eyes darted to the tailor, who had wrapped his tape measure around the man’s throat to measure his neck size.

  “You’re worried about Donahan here.” The man smiled, and for a moment Lazarus wasn’t sure that he’d ever seen anyone quite so—beautiful.

  “Well,” Lazarus stammered.

  “You needn’t worry,” the man reassured him. “Donahan was one of my soldiers during the war. He’s been doing penance here on Earth for the last fifty years or so; isn’t that right, Don?”

  The fallen angel smiled thinly, continuing to take the man’s measurements.

  “And in his time here, he’s become quite the tailor. I wouldn’t think of going to anyone else for a suit.” And then he must have noticed the look on Lazarus’ face. “What is it?” he asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “That look. When I mentioned never going to anyone else for a suit, you made a face.”

  “Did I?”

  “You did. Why?”

  “Perhaps . . .”

  “Perhaps?”

  “Perhaps because I wouldn’t imagine that somebody like you . . .”

  “Somebody like me,” the man said, and smiled radiantly.

  “I couldn’t imagine someone like you needing a suit.”

  “Why wouldn’t I need a suit?”

  Lazarus shrugged. “Do they even wear suits in . . . ?”

  “Do they wear suits in Hell?”

  “Well, yes.”

  The man chuckled as the tailor moved down to his legs. “Of course we wear suits in Hell, especially when our armor is at the cleaners.”

  Lazarus found himself actually chuckling, feeling far more at ease with this being than he would ever have imagined.

  “Besides, I have to look sharp for Unification,” he added. “So what is it that you’ve come to tell me?” the man asked, changing the subject.

  “He sent me to tell you that things are in flux,” Lazarus began.

  “In flux?”

  “Yes, there are some things that might . . .”

  “Will Unification still occur?” the man interrupted, a dark seriousness coming over his handsome features.

  “Yes, but there could be things that might affect the ceremony.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “So you can’t be more specific?”

  Lazarus shook his head. “If I could, I would, but you know what I do. . . .” He stopped, regretting the words as soon as they left his mouth.

  “Go on,” the man prompted.

  “I don’t think it has to do with anything, but . . .”

  “Go on,” the man ordered.

  “Remy Chandler,” Lazarus said quickly. “The Seraphim that left the Golden City after . . .”

  “I know who he is.” The way the words were spoken implied much.

  “He’s currently in a bit of trouble—demonic assassins attempting to collect on a contract.”

  “What does that have to do with Unification . . . with me?”

  “I’m not sure that it does,” Lazarus said. “But I know that Remy had something to do with your return to power, and . . .”

  “I find your concern for the Seraphim of interest,” the man suddenly said, his tone far darker than it had been. “Didn’t you betray the angel—the world, actually—when you actively participated in the summoning of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse a few years back?”

  Lazarus felt like he’d been kicked in the stomach, his most chilling indiscretion laid out before him by the master of indiscretions.

  “He was a good friend before my lack of judgment got the better of me,” Lazarus said. “I was hoping . . .”

  “Hoping what?” the man asked sharply. “That I might step in and somehow alleviate your guilty conscience?”

  “No, that wasn’t why I mentioned it at all,” Lazarus attempted to explain. “It’s just that—�
��

  “Is that it, Lazarus?” The man cut him off. “Is that all that you have for me from Him?”

  Lazarus slowly nodded. “Yeah, that’s it.”

  “Thank you,” the man said dismissively. “I’ll be sure to keep in mind what you’ve said once the ceremony begins.”

  Lazarus stood there a moment longer, wanting to say something more but realizing that it probably wasn’t the best of ideas. So without another word, he turned and walked out of the building.

  Making his way down the stairs, he felt surprisingly lighter. He had delivered the Lord’s message to the Morningstar, and hopefully planted a seed as well.

  For Remy and his friends needed as much help as they could get.

  • • •

  “Blue or black?” Donahan asked.

  Lucifer had been lost in thought, recalling a time when he’d believed himself to be somebody else and not the Son of the Morning.

  “Excuse me?” he questioned, realizing that he’d been spoken to.

  “Blue or black?” the angel tailor repeated.

  Lucifer’s reflection stared back, confused.

  “Your suit,” Donahan explained. “Do you want blue or black?”

  “Oh, certainly,” Lucifer answered. “Let’s go with the black.”

  “Very good.” Donahan finished the measurements. “You were rather hard on the messenger, weren’t you, Lucifer?”

  “Do you think?” he asked, stepping down off the pedestal.

  “Things seemed to get a little tense when he mentioned the Seraphim.”

  “Remy Chandler,” Lucifer said. If it hadn’t been for him . . .

  “His name seemed to strike a nerve. Why is that?”

  The tailor had moved over to a small desk and was jotting down the various measurements from memory.

  It had been Remy Chandler who had inadvertently returned the Morningstar to the Hell prison of Tartarus, where Lucifer’s memory of who he was—what he was—was eventually restored.

  “I have no idea,” Lucifer lied. “I’m barely familiar with the angel.”

  Donahan looked up from his scribbles. “Seriously? I got a sense that the two of you . . .”

  “The messenger was mistaken.” Then Lucifer cut to the chase. “When will the suit be ready?”