A Kiss Before the Apocalypse

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  “Get ready,” he said, over the sound of flapping wings.

  “Ready for what?” Casey cried, the panic in her tone intensifying. “Ready for fucking what?”

  Remy slammed on the brakes as he spun the wheel, sending the car fishtailing toward the back entrance of a brick building on the left-hand side of the alley.

  “Get out now!” he yelled as he fumbled with his own seat belt.

  She nearly flew out the door, then raced around the car to join him in front of a large metal door painted an ugly shade of maroon. Remy pounded on the door.

  “Francis, open up. It's me!”

  The light of the streetlamp began to dim and the sounds of flapping wings seemed to be coming from all around them. Remy glanced over his shoulder to see his car swallowed up in the advancing wave of darkness.

  He pressed Casey against the metal door in front of him and continued to pound. Where is he? he wondered, his own sense of panic beginning to build.

  “Where are the scrolls?” came a nasty voice from behind them.

  Remy recognized it as the one he had stabbed back at Casey's apartment. He spun around to face the encroaching shadow, putting himself between the darkness and the girl.

  “Francis!” he screamed, one last time as a skeletal hand reached from the roiling ebony mass.

  Voices within the cloud of blackness began to chatter excitedly, then suddenly he was falling backward, landing in a heap atop Casey as the metal door was pulled open.

  A tall, balding figure with horn-rimmed glasses, wearing only a T-shirt, boxer shorts, and a frayed terry cloth bathrobe stepped over them, aiming a pump-action shotgun into the darkness outside.

  The weapon roared, and the creatures in the darkness screamed in pain as each shot found its target. Plumes of orange fire erupted from the barrel, and like the purifying rays of the sun, it burnt away the darkness and all those concealed within its folds.

  Remy lifted his head to see that the last shot had been fired, and that now only the legitimate night remained. He helped Casey up from the ground.

  The man in the bathrobe turned, smoldering shotgun by his side, a look of distaste on his face.

  “Remy Chandler,” he snarled, reaching into the pocket of his bathrobe and removing the nub of a cigar.

  “Hey, Francis.”

  The man lifted a finger to the blackened end of the cigar and ignited it with an orange spark of flame. He took a puff, letting the smoke swirl above his head.

  “What crap have you managed to drag me through this time?”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  It wasn't like Remy to doze off, but the dry warmth of Francis' basement abode worked its magic. Sitting in the beat-up leather recliner, Remy felt his eyes grow impossibly heavy.

  And then they were closed.

  He found himself at the desert train station again.

  It was dark and a freezing-cold sleet sliced down from the bruise-colored sky. The sound of rain hitting the fragile wooden canopy that draped over the station was nearly deafening.

  But Remy didn't know what deafening was until the locomotive suddenly appeared before him, like some great leviathan surging up from the depths, its whistle wailing like the death cries of a world not yet ready to pass from life.

  The great train nestled into the station, its unnerving appearance causing him to stumble back against the station wall. It released a long, hissing exhalation of foul-smelling steam, the surface of its black metal body glistening wetly in the gloom.

  Carefully, he walked to the edge of the platform and, turning his head to the left, gazed down the length of cars that made up the train's serpentine body. A sound

  like the throb of a pulse emanated from the train, and Remy was compelled to walk along the platform, searching for signs of riders. He stood upon his toes, peering in through the dusty windows at the rows of seats, and saw that the cars were empty.

  The throbbing pulse of the train quickened, and he began to wonder if the monstrous conveyance was about to move on when he heard the racket of movement coming from a freight car attached to the last of the passenger coaches.

  Remy went closer, the thumping of activity intensifying. He approached the car, reaching for the latch, desperate to satisfy his curiosity. But before his hand could close upon it, the sliding wooden door began to shake. He could hear the clatter of hooves and the neighing of horses from inside.

  He stepped back, just as the door exploded outward, the force of the blast sending him sprawling into a wooden bench. The air was filled with the stench of acrid smoke, and something else. A wild scent . . . an animal smell mingled with the reek of electricity.

  Remy wiped dust and dirt from his eyes as he raised his head, and in the clearing haze he saw that he was no longer alone upon the platform. And he saw that the train had indeed been carrying passengers, though he wished with all his heart that it hadn't been the case.

  The four figures sat astride their mounts, watching him through the whirling smoke and dust. He knew who they were, even though he'd never met them before.

  War, clad in a black leather duster, a red scarf wrapped around the lower part of his face, his eyes hidden in the shadows cast by a wide-brimmed Stetson, sat upon a steed the color of drying blood. To his left, sitting erect

  in a pearl saddle upon a mount blacker than coal, was Famine. She was adorned in flowing robes of white, her face emotionless and cold, like that of a china doll. But her eyes, they were dark and deep and hungry for the life of the world. To the right of War stood a horse more dead than alive, raw, open sores covering its emaciated body. Its eyes were the color of pus, and a thick drool leaked from its lipless mouth. Pestilence slouched in the saddle, his nearly naked form cadaverous and pale, a swarm of blackflies forming a perverted halo around his skull-like head. And on the end was the most fearsome of the riders, this one's steed appearing healthy and strong, and its muscular flesh as white as winter mountains. The rider Death wore a suit of armor that looked as though it had been crafted from the bones of some great beast. Piercing eyes that blazed a fiery red peered out from inside the darkness of the horsman's horned helmet.

  Remy slowly got to his feet, his gaze never leaving the riders clustered before him.

  The white steed lifted its head, sniffing the rain-filled air, and brayed, its cries causing a rumble of thunder and a flash of lightning so bright that it seemed to illuminate the world.

  Remy shielded his eyes from the searing light, and when he dropped his hands, the monstrous train was gone, as if it had never been there at all. A broad expanse of empty desert spread out from the platform, and when he looked to his left he saw that the riders were now all pointed in that direction, gazing out over the flat, barren plain that seemed to go on forever.

  Thunder rumbled again, and the rain continued to fall. One by one, the Horsemen guided their mounts from the platform, down onto the desert floor. They rode side

  by side, a relaxed gait soon turning into a gallop, as the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse headed across the desert.

  The end of the world was their purpose.

  The rattle of the ancient furnace kicking over woke Remy with a start, hands clawing on to the armrests of the leather recliner in a death grip.

  “Oh, shit,” he said, gulping air as the final vision of the Horsemen riding away across the desert slowly left his thoughts, like the last scene in a movie as it came to a close.

  “Anyone ever tell you how cute you look when you're sleeping?” Francis asked, standing before him with two steaming mugs of coffee.

  “How long was I out?” Remy asked, reaching for the offered cup.

  “Not long,” Francis stated, taking a sip from his drink. “Couple'a minutes, more or less.”

  “Where's Casey?” the angel asked, looking around.

  “Over there in the beanbag chair,” the man in the terry cloth robe said, hooking his thumb toward the corner of the room. Remy moved to the edge of his seat to look. The young woman seemed tiny, c
urled up in the center of the large, fluorescent green beanbag.

  “She all right?” he asked, bringing the cup to his mouth, first inhaling the invigorating fumes and then taking an eager sip of the hot liquid. It had been too long since his last cup, and he felt as though he might be going through withdrawal.

  The coffee was strong, some of the strongest in existence. But what would you expect from beans nurtured in the surprisingly fertile soils of Hell's southern re- gions. And Francis was always sure to brew a pot when Remy came around.

  Francis wasn't at all what he appeared to be, a theme that had become pretty popular of late. At one time he had been one of the most honored angels in the Choir Virtues – a Guardian angel of the highest order – but he had been one of the many seduced by the words of Lucifer, joining the side of the Morningstar during the war in Heaven. Finally seeing the error of his misguided allegiance, the Guardian angel threw himself before the Almighty, demanding the harshest punishment for his sins.

  Francis – then called Fraciel – expected death, but received much worse.

  Taking advantage of the warrior's skills as Guardian, the Almighty assigned him the duty of watching over those angels banished to Hell after the war. It was his job to make certain that they stayed exactly where they had been sent. Occasionally a fallen angel – now a demon after its time in the infernal depths – would escape to earth. It was up to Francis to send them back.

  The apartment building that he lived in and managed was built at a nexus where the barriers between the earthly planes and Hell were very thin. Those who lived in the apartments above were all former sinners, who, after countless millennia, had earned a chance to leave the infernal realm on a kind of parole, required to do a certain amount of good before being allowed to pass on to the next plane.

  “She seems fine,” Francis answered. He grabbed a wooden chair from beneath a tiny kitchen set and dragged it into the room, sitting down in front of Remy. “Now, would you mind telling me how the fuck you got involved with the Black Choir?”

  Remy looked at him, perplexed. “Who?”

  “The Black Choir . . . the Shunned. Angels denied a place in both Heaven and Hell for trying to play both sides during the Great War.”

  “The Black Choir,” Remy said, a chill of unease racing up his spine as he recalled the sight of the former angels, twisted by their damnation. “Is that what they're calling themselves these days?”

  “Yep,” Francis said with a nod. “The Almighty didn't want them and neither did Lucifer. They're stuck in the middle, belonging to no one and perpetually pissed. I'm surprised you still look as good as you do.”

  Remy held out his injured hand, examining the blistered flesh. Despite the extent of the injury, he had already started to heal. “Would you believe I came up against them twice today?”

  “Yeah, and I went to seven o'clock Mass this morning,” Francis said, making a disbelieving face as he had another swig of coffee.

  “How was the homily?” the angel asked.

  “It was good, all about big fucking liars.”

  “I'm not lying.”

  “So tell me, then,” Francis said. “How did you manage to piss off the Black Choir?”

  Remy had some more coffee, the Hell-grown brew coursing through his veins, making his heart race like he'd just run the Boston Marathon. “Good coffee,” he said, placing the nearly empty mug down on the floor beside the recliner.

  Francis held out his mug, toasting him. “Got the beans fresh my last trip to Hell. Think it might be a little stronger than usual.”

  Remy glanced at Casey, then back to his friend. “Is-rafil is missing,” he stated flatly.

  “Missing?” Francis asked. “What, exactly, do you mean by missing?”

  “You haven't felt it?” Remy asked. “That hint in the air that things aren't quite the way they're supposed to be?”

  Francis thought a moment. “Didn't realize it was anything like this.” He adjusted his black-rimmed glasses. “And you're looking for him?”

  Remy nodded. “Hired by Nathanuel. He came to my office and everything.”

  “No shit,” Francis said with wonder.

  He continued to nod. “Started poking around a bit, getting wheels in motion, when the Black Choir shows up for the first time today – well, yesterday now, I guess – and tries to discourage me from continuing with the case.”

  Francis leaned back in the wooden chair, crossing his legs, letting one of his corduroy slippers dangle from his foot. “So what, you're guessing that somebody doesn't want Israfil to be found?”

  “Right. Somebody wants to bring about the Apocalypse.”

  Francis whistled through his teeth, bringing his coffee cup up toward his mouth. “Man, you sure get involved in some interesting shit.”

  “Don't I, though?” Remy agreed.

  “So where does Sleeping Beauty come into the picture?” Francis asked, motioning with his bald head to the corner of the room where Casey slept.

  “It appears that Israfil became fascinated with the human species, wanted to experience it for himself, and melded with a guy who was dying of a brain tumor.”

  “You're kiddin',” Francis said, his voice a shocked whisper.

  “Nope. He even went out and got himself a girlfriend.” Remy looked over to the dozing Casey.

  “Now I've heard friggin' everything. That's fucking nuts.”

  Remy went on. “But it didn't take long before there was trouble in paradise. Looks as though the two natures didn't mix so well – caused a little bit of a problem for our friend the Angel of Death when it came time to do his work.”

  Francis was quiet, soaking it all in as he gazed off into space.

  “You've gotta find him,” he finally said, focusing on his friend.

  “No kidding,” Remy said. “That's what I've been trying to do in between fallen-angel attacks.”

  Remy stood, his entire body thrumming. Francis' brew had certainly done the trick, giving him much more than a second wind. Even his hand was feeling better.

  “What can I do?” Francis asked, standing as well.

  “I'm going to need you to watch her,” he said, both of them looking at Casey. “Somehow they found out her connection to Israfil. The Black Choir didn't know that I would be at her place. They came looking for the scrolls.”

  Remy approached the woman, who had started to stir. She came awake suddenly, eyes wide with fear as the memories of what she'd just gone through flooded her thoughts.

  “Oh, my God,” she said, eyes darting around the boiler room space.

  “Shhhh, it's all right.” Remy reached out, running his hand along her arm. “We're with a friend now.” He moved so she could see Francis standing there. The man gave her a salute.

  “Look, I know you probably have a lot of questions,” Remy continued.

  “What were those things?” she suddenly asked, struggling to sit up in the shapeless chair. The questions started to spill from her, the sense of anxiety growing. “What do they have to do with Jon . . . with you? I don't fucking understand any of this.”

  “Calm down,” Remy said. “Take some deep breaths. I don't expect you to understand what's going on, but I need you to trust me. Something very bad is going to happen if I don't find Jon soon.”

  Casey listened, her breathing coming in trembling gasps.