by Adam Ingle
When Leviticus slammed down on the floor in a splash of blue goop, he finally opened his eyes. In a straight line from his feet and all the way to the end of the long room was a path of debris and ashy dust, as if a giant bowling ball of energy had hit Vacuum Santa and then kept going. This imaginary bowling ball of doom had not only turned everything it touched into dust, but also left a wake of slightly less destructive destruction, in which vats and the various apparatus that supported them were shattered and twisted into pretzely, knotted shapes. Flopping around on the floor were dozens of stunned Santas, as well as many that remained motionless and likely dead. At the thought of an army of mutant Santas rampaging through the halls—So that’s what the sign meant, he thought—Leviticus bolted from the Hall of Santas, wishing that Santanator had not busted the door off the hinge. He ran down the R&D hallway, where the sound of the alarms rang in his ears, again reminding him that a full security force would be there any moment.
Once again he stood in front of the stark white door, which had been his whole reason for coming. Leviticus pushed on the door and nothing happened. It didn’t even give in a little like most doors. He tried pushing harder but was met with the same result. Pushing turned into pounding and pounding turned into him running full tilt at the door with his shoulder like the Santanator, only to find himself stopped suddenly and painfully.
“Please open?” asked Leviticus, but the door neither opened nor replied.
“Open, damn you!”
Again, the door did nothing.
“Fine, you want to do this the hard way? But you’re going to regret this,” Leviticus warned the door, though he hoped that he wasn't about to make a tragic mistake.
Leviticus aimed the futuristic rifle at the door and paused, giving the completely inanimate door one last chance to comply, and then pulled the trigger. Again there was total silence, one so loud that it drowned out the klaxon of the alarms. This time, however, Leviticus did not close his eyes, which allowed him to see a large green ball of swirly, glowy energy grow at the tip of the rifle and then hurtle toward the door at an amazing speed…only to hit the door and then fall straight to the floor with no effect. The swirly-twirly ball sat on the floor, motionless except for its internal swirling and twirling.
"Oh come on!" Leviticus screamed.
In a mild tantrum, he went to kick at the ball of energy.
It wasn't until he was committed fully to the kick that he thought kicking a ball of energy that had taken out a room full of Santas in bottles was probably a really bad idea. Luckily for him the ball dissipated, and his foot connected, poorly and at a painful angle, with the door. At the force of the rather feeble kick, the door creaked and then slowly toppled over into the room. Leviticus looked around, a small part of him hoping that someone was around to witness his amazing feat of strength.
In reality, the ball of energy had hit with incredible force, but unbeknownst to Leviticus the projectile was designed specifically for Santa suppression and to not cause any damage to the infrastructure of the R&D department. Regardless, there's no way to negate the laws of physics, even in Heaven, and the substantial force of the impact was enough—though just barely—to weaken what was an unimaginably strong and secure door.
Leviticus marched into the lab with an air of righteousness, as if he were Caesar marching triumphantly into Rome after victory at the Battle of Munda. He strolled over to a pedestal where three glass scroll cases rested on velvet pads beneath a glass display. Within each scroll case was a rolled-up prototype of the Secure-Signed Prophecies that he and Mestoph were after.
The Santa rampage had been a rather fortuitous event, considering the acquisition of the rifle. Leviticus had no idea the rifle was the only way he could've gotten into the lab without a code. Nor did he know that if the alarms hadn’t already been blaring when he smashed the display case and swiped a single scroll, they definitely would be now. He slid the glass case underneath his riot vest and turned around to see a security guard walk into the room.
"All clear?' the guard asked a panicked and bewildered Leviticus.
"Uhh...yeah," he said hesitantly as Leviticus realized he was not, in fact, busted. “…All clear. Only minor damage.”
"Alright, continue your sweep of the corridor." ordered the guard, clearly his superior—for the moment at least.
The guard turned and walked further down the corridor with. Leviticus followed soon after. He saw the Superior Officer take off at a full run as a giant purple lizard with a Santa hat and ill-fitting red pants scurried down an intersecting corridor. A screaming guard hung on to the lizard’s neck. Leviticus took advantage of the distraction and went the opposite direction, back toward the way he had entered R&D. Once he was certain the way was clear, he, too, took off into a full run, letting off another shot of the futuristic rifle as he neared the sealed-off area of the guard post. The green ball swirly-twirlied its way down the corridor and smashed through the glass on his end of the guard post. The concussion that followed shattered the glass wall, and door to the guard booth, and obliterated all the equipment in the room. When the energy ball hit the opposite wall, it thudded to the floor and stopped.
Leviticus peeled off the pieces of stolen guard apparel, making sure to stick the scroll case deep into the pockets of his robe, and threw them into the green energy ball that still sat swirling on the floor. He’d become rather fond of the rifle and felt a pang of remorse at having to part with it. No evidence, he thought and tossed it into the energy ball as he ran off.
Behind him, a small supernova bloomed out from the center of the glowing energy orb, the result of all the unstable ammo within the rifle reacting and chain-reacting, and ripped a small, mostly innocuous hole in time.
Leviticus ran down the hallways of headquarters with an enormous smile on his face, jumping up to hit exit signs and clapping, hooting, and high-fiving people as he passed. He was living high on adrenaline and excitement, like a kid who had just won his high school championship. He felt free and alive like he hadn’t in at least two thousand years, and the thought that he might be able to feel this way forever prolonged the euphoria all the way out the front doors of Heaven Inc., hopefully for the last time.
God sat at his desk in an office that looked like it could have been a smoking room in a Victorian mansion, backlit by a large window that looked onto the rainbow farms of Heaven. Peter sat opposite God in one of two extremely comfortable chairs that Herman Miller had made for God when he first arrived. The chair was an odd mix of 1950’s euro-mod and 17th century French that worked well with each other and the formal opulence of the rest of the office. Peter was in charge of Research and Development for Heaven Inc. and looked like he should play a Roman senator in a Masterpiece Theater rendition of Titus Andronicus. He had the extremely short, bowl-cut black hair, the prominent bent nose, and the British accent that were all mandatory to get into a PBS production of anything Roman.
God looked like your grandfather. Good or bad, God looked like everyone’s grandfather.
Peter had just finished filling God in on the situation. He looked out the window and saw hundreds of little people—actual little people, as in midgets, dwarfs, leprechauns and so on—climbing up and down ladders to inspect the light readings and structural integrity of each rainbow. God had only nodded in understanding when Peter had finished. Several seconds had passed, and he hadn’t started yelling. God wasn’t mad at Peter; it could have happened to anyone. God leaned back in his dark brown leather chair, which was dotted by large, brass buttons. The seat creaked in a soft and melodic way that pleased God. He steepled his fingers in front of his mouth and looked up at a tapestry on the walnut paneled wall that depicted The Fall of the Angel Lucifer. The artist, an old woman who had lived during the 11th or 12th century—God couldn’t remember anymore—had portrayed Satan as a leathery looking half-bat, half-man creature that He had always thought was a little unfair to Lucifer. Not unfair enough to change it, but He still fe
lt that people misunderstood His relationship with Satan. After all, He had His uses. This thought gave God an idea, and He leaned over the intercom on his Brazilian tulipwood Louis XIV desk.
“Mary?” God asked.
“Yes, God?” came a scratchy voice on the other end of the intercom.
“Mary, can you get Peter on the phone?”
“R&D Peter or St. Peter?”
“You just let R&D Peter into my office five minutes ago,” said God.
“Yes?”
“And you haven’t seen him walk out,” explained God.
“So…?”
“St. Peter," God said, sounding somewhat exasperated but trying to hide it.
God looked up from the intercom at R&D Peter, who only shrugged.
“She’s your son’s girlfriend. Or one of them.”
“My son, in all his glory, is like a one-man rock band on tour. The groupies, the parties, only he hasn’t performed in two thousand years,” said God. He sighed. “You part a sea and suddenly you’re a miracle worker."
“Wasn’t that Moses?” asked Peter
“Huh?”
“The Red Sea. That wasn’t your son, that was Moses.” explained Peter
“Oh…then what did Jesus do?” asked God, genuinely bewildered.
“Died for their Sins?”
“Oh, yeah. Well, that is kinda something," said God
“Wasn’t that the point, Sir? You sent your only son to die for mankind.”
God shook His head. “No, I sent my only son because he was getting in the way. Showboating and upstaging me at board meetings.”
“Well, I hate to be the one to break it, but that kind of backfired.” said Peter, laughing uncomfortably. There was a long, awkward silence. Peter wasn’t sure if he had insulted God since conversation with Him was full of such odd pauses. When you’ve been around for all eternity, prompt responses aren’t really a priority.
“God? St. Peter is here to see you” blurted Mary’s voice from the intercom.
“Send him in,” commanded God.
The buzz of the intercom died. Then a lock clicked, two panels of the wall slid apart, and in walked a gorilla of a man. He was well over six feet tall and at least 220 lbs. of bristling muscle. He was wearing a well-tailored suit of fine black wool with subtle silver pinstripes. His salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back in a way that made him look like a finely dressed Russian mobster gorilla. St. Peter was Chief of Security for Heaven Inc, and no one got in without his say so.
God stood up and gripped St. Peter’s massive hand. The pressure of the saint’s grip made Him wince slightly.
"God, Peter,” said St. Peter as he nodded to each and took a seat, barely fitting in the chair. “What can I do for you, gentleman?”
God nodded to R&D Peter, who said, “Well, we think there’s a breach in security.”
St. Peter’s brow arched and his muscles tensed visibly beneath his suit. He took a deep breath and then spoke, “No one gets in unless they’re on the list.” he said seriously.
God and R&D Peter glanced at each other. God spoke up, “Yeah. And you do a great job. Problem isn’t the incoming but the outgoing."
St. Peter looked back and forth between God and R&D Peter. “But the list, it’s only for who comes in. No one ever mentioned anything about keeping them in. This is Heaven, not prison—or Hell Industries.”
“True. But it’s not so much who got out, but…what,” said God.
“The Titans!” exclaimed St. Peter, standing up and almost out the door already.
“Sit down. The Titans are under the ocean where we left them” said God. St. Peter reluctantly sat back down, relaxing only slightly.
God pushed a button on his desk, and one of the walls slid open to reveal a large monitor. The grainy security footage showed a robed Angel with a gas mask walk into a guard booth and kill a man with a fire extinguisher. The footage blinked from one vantage point to another as the figure walked down the hallway. The footage skipped a large chunk of time, and suddenly alarms were going off and the Angel was now dressed in parts of a security guard outfit and holding what St. Peter assumed was a GLObE, or Geodesic Laserized Object Emitter. The figure shot the gun and then kicked the door down, which looked impressive on film. The next camera showed the inside of a lab, where the figure smashed and then stole a large glass vial.
R&D Peter turned toward St. Peter. “As you can see, a Prophecy has gone missing.” He said. St. Peter’s arm swung so fast that R&D Peter nearly rolled backwards out of his seat, afraid he was about to get punched.
“Protocol: St. Peter 12 Red,” St. Peter said into a hidden microphone on the cuff of his sleeve. Alarms went off a second later. The dimly lit office suddenly went incredibly bright, and the large window overlooking the rainbow farm went black as barriers slid down over the glass.
“Sweet Fuck!” God screamed, “Cancel the lockdown; it’s already gone.”
St. Peter sighed. “Cancel St. Peter 12 Red. Authorization: God Is Good” he said to his sleeve.
The alarms immediately went silent, the lighting dimmed back to normal, and the barriers raised, showing once more the brilliant rainbows growing in the light mist that surrounded the Farm.
“We think we know who took it. What we can’t figure is why and how he did it. Also, we don’t know where he is now,” said R&D Peter.
“Give me a name.” said St. Peter.
“Leviticus,” said God.
“Luh…vit…uhh…kus…” St. Peter said, grinding syllables through his clenched teeth.
“Now St. Peter, we know you and Leviticus have had run-ins in the past, so don’t use this as justification to get revenge. There’s probably a really good reason for what he might have done,” said God.
“Yeah, St. Peter. We think he did it. We’re not sure. That’s your job. Find out, without a doubt, and then find out why," said R&D Peter.
St. Peter took a deep breath before speaking. “If I can prove he did it…can I kill him?”
God and R&D Peter looked at each other and laughed.
“Well, of course. If he’s guilty, ice the fucker.” God said, holding his fingers like a gun, gangsta sideways.
R&D Peter sighed, grateful that St. Peter hadn't asked about the missing footage. Not being privy to everything that went on in R&D had always been a sore spot for St. Peter. Plus, he didn't want to have to explain all the Santas.
Chapter 3
Braggadocio
Stephanie followed her grandmother down the dark, wooded path. The old woman turned occasionally to make sure she was following, but as usual said absolutely nothing. It was dark and the moon was blotted out more often than not by clouds, but there was a soft ambient light emanating from her grandmother that kept Stephanie from breaking her neck on the various roots, rocks, and branches that reached out from the path to trip her up. The gentle breeze was crisp but not cold, and blew her long black hair softly behind her. The old woman looked back again, a slight smile on her face, and beckoned more emphatically.
Finally, and for the first time ever, they reached the end of the path, or at least this part of the path. It opened to a circular clearing with a small family graveyard at the center of it. It was surrounded by black gothic wrought iron fencing with heavy chains and intricate tassels connecting ornate posts capped with lifelike iron ravens. Directly in the middle of the cemetery was a headstone with Stephanie's name on it. The birth date matched what she had always known to be her birthday, but the death date was marred and eroded to the point that she couldn't discern anything more than the fact that the month had an R in it.
Her grandmother smiled as she pointed at the headstone, motioning her to come forward, but the smile slowly turned into concern and then terror as she gazed at something behind Stephanie. Grams opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out, and then she disappeared, scrambling and clawing at the headstone as she vanished, leaving Stephanie by herself in the cle
aring. The feeling creeping up the back of Stephanie's neck quickly corrected her: she was not alone after all.
Slowly, Stephanie turned around and glimpsed a large, dark figure against the backdrop of the woods. Its shape was hard to discern because she couldn't seem to focus on it for more than a split second. Whatever it was shifted and moved faster than her eyes could adjust. Stephanie felt cold and tingly, and a fear she had never felt before grew in her chest. She was shaking, but her body wouldn't do what she told it. The shifting form was sliding, maybe even floating, toward her, and she could make out the hint of feathers and wings. The creature, which she could now tell was as black as the deepest trenches of the sea, spread a series of three pairs of large, rapidly fluttering wings to reveal a pale, white face with an unusually elongated jaw and neck.
Stephanie still couldn't move, even as she felt its cold, damp breath on her neck. The creature’s mouth opened wide, so wide that it didn't seem to ever stop opening, and Stephanie knew that it meant to drain her like a vampire. Just before it struck, Stephanie heard what sounded like a cross between the noise of an arc of electricity and that of paper ripping, and she felt as if she were momentarily being pulled inside out through her own belly button.
A swirling and shimmering green gash in what Stephanie could only think of as Space and Time appeared, and Stephanie stumbled out of the rip. A different Stephanie. A Stephanie not herself. The other Stephanie was wearing what looked like an old World War II gas mask and holding a futuristic rifle. "Shit, more Nephilim," said Other Stephanie as she shot the black-winged fluttery vampire-bird-thing.
As Other Stephanie pulled the trigger and a big green light sprang forth from the barrel, Stephanie bolted upright in her bed. She was back in her bedroom. She was covered in sweat and was breathing heavily. She looked around, and a slow calm began to fill that cold fear that she had felt only moments before. After several seconds, she was satisfied that the nightmare was truly gone and her world had returned to normal