The Sword of Saint Michael

by D C P Fox

  Her green prosperity candle was absent—a perpetual candle, always lit, never reducing in size, which she kept to help her achieve wealth and status in her life. Apropos of her life now, she had little of each. Who did, in a zombie apocalypse?

  And her life was over, anyway. She had no need of prosperity.

  She knelt before the altar and called upon the spirits to aid and guide her in her journey through the astral plane, or whatever it was she should do now that she was dead. Hissing sounds emanated from all directions. A circle of shimmering, undulating air developed in front of her. Astonished, she turned around clockwise. Turbulent warping circles at each of the four cardinal directions appeared and started growing.

  The disks, now as big as her torso, distorted her vision of what lay beyond, as if they changed reality itself. As the disks grew larger, now large enough for Jocelyn to step through, they spun clockwise, swirling the distortions.

  And the circles kept expanding, towering above her, now twice her size.

  Men walked through each one, and Jocelyn gasped. She knew these men well—but she had never seen them make such an entrance before. The four cardinal archangels all towered around her. She pivoted several times, disoriented and frightened as they surrounded her.

  Eventually, her eyes landed on the Archangel Gabriel. He stood at least seven feet tall, wearing a suit of water, with shimmering waves as if he were the ocean itself, when a familiar, booming voice echoed throughout the temple.

  “Pardon the theatrics,” archangel Saint Michael said. She turned to her left to face him in the South, his searing heat almost burning her flesh. “It takes a lot of energy to arrive in a temple of the dead.”

  She just stared at him for a while, in his red robes—this time a darker shade than hers—trimmed in green. He planted his huge sword—almost as big as himself—into the smooth stone floor. The sound rang out like the thunder of a nearby lightning strike.

  She jumped back into what felt like two strong, solid tree trunks. Arms gripped her tight, and, given the presence of the other archangels, and the location opposite Michael, she realized she was being held by Archangel Uriel, dressed in a green robe with brown highlights. He smelled like wet dirt, dead deciduous leaves, and the pine of evergreen. His coolness counterbalanced Michael’s heat.

  “Careful child,” he murmured.

  Uriel comforted her, anchored her to gather her wits.

  “So I’m dead,” she whispered. “I was right. I’m dead.”

  “You were,” said Raphael, in the east. He wore yellow robes with purple trim and carried a dagger as if he was ready to strike at any moment. As he spoke, the wind of his hot breath emanated with a force as strong as any gale.

  She lingered in Uriel’s embrace, giving her the strength she needed to deal with this situation.

  “What does that mean?” she asked of Raphael.

  “It means,” Michael said, “you possess the power of coming back from the dead. Congratulations.”

  This startled her, but in a way, it was no surprise. “Do I have a choice? Can I remain dead?”

  “No, I am sorry. You cannot.” This last came from Gabriel, and as he spoke, she smelled salt air.

  “Except,” Uriel whispered in her ear, “you can always kill yourself after.”

  “I heard that!” boomed Michael. “Pay no attention to him,” he said to Jocelyn. “Metatron made it very clear she would spend eternity in Hell if she did that.”

  Uriel sighed. “Okay, she’s your charge,” he said, pushing her back into the center of the four.

  “I can come back from the dead?” Jocelyn asked Michael. “Always? I’m immortal?”

  “Of course, you are not immortal,” he replied. “You are a draugar . . . so to speak.”

  “You suffered a small bullet to the head,” Raphael said. “That will kill any draugar . . . But they come back, and so do you . . . though not as quickly.”

  Jocelyn paused in thought and conjured up the Thoth Tarot card that was right for her to receive. She received The Hanged Man, which corresponds to redemption through sacrifice, and placed it in on the altar near Raphael, near the air dagger. She hoped to get redemption for killing those innocent people by sacrificing herself to find a cure for humanity.

  “Why is that?” she asked Raphael, finally.

  “Which one? Why you come back, or why not as quickly?”

  “Both, I suppose.”

  “We are largely in the dark about how all this works. I have two sources of information: one, my mortal followers, those that choose to and can talk to me; and two, those entities on the astral plane who have their own mortal followers, that are willing to talk to me. Call it my network, if you will, and those in either category are few. And from my network, reports are that draugar need almost no time to recover from being dead, unless their brains are severed from their spinal cords. The Lord knows, and probably Metatron knows, but they will not tell us. What we know, because you let us in here during your recovery period, is that right now you are in a . . . state of . . . Well, your heart beats very slowly, pumping just enough oxygen to the brain to keep it functioning. But to everyone else, you appear dead.”

  “So I’m not dead?”

  “You were dead. Oh, you were very much dead,” Gabriel said. “But now you are not, and you were not dead for long.”

  “I don’t understand. I thought dead was dead. That you can’t come back from it, even by magic.”

  “Only once you have penetrated the veil. Until then, you are recoverable . . . and people come back from the dead all the time—drowning victims, for example. Some came back after being dead for several minutes. They do need help, though, and your infection has helped you in that regard.”

  She conjured up the Fortune Thoth Tarot Card and placed it next to her cauldron. The Wheel of Fortune represents Destiny, and it helped confirm that she was pre-destined for this struggle.

  “So . . .” She dreaded asking a question. “Why are you here?”

  “Because you summoned us!” Michael said, appearing angry. “I hope you did not waste our time.”

  “Well, you told me I was dead,” Jocelyn said to Saint Michael. “That helps, but I need to understand my next steps, what I should do now.”

  “Metatron wants you to save the world or you will go to Hell,” Michael said, his anger tempered. “Other than tell you that, I cannot make your decisions for you.”

  “I sense you don’t agree with Metatron’s tactics.”

  “Metatron speaks for the Lord. I serve him, and I cannot question him. To question him would be the same as questioning gravity.”

  “Do you know anything about Colorado Springs? Peterson Air Force Base? Atlanta? The CDC?” She spun around and back. “Any of you?”

  “I can tell you the CDC has not reconstituted, but I cannot say what the future will bring. As for Colorado Springs, I am in the dark, so please inform me what you find there. In fact, if you find any safe zone, you can help others find it by letting me know about it.”

  “So, I should keep trying to get there?”

  Michael took a very deep breath. As he let it out, the heat was almost unbearable. “Jocelyn, humanity’s fate is in your hands, not mine. You have the Free Will. I do not. I would not be here if I did.”

  Jocelyn conjured up a Lust Thoth Tarot card and placed it on her altar by her wand in front of Michael. Lust represents courage and magical power, two things she would need if she were to succeed in her quest.

  “You said you were busy. Then what have you been doing all this time?”

  “Giving people courage, mostly. The ones who ask for it. Raphael helps people with logical reasoning, Gabriel helps people keep their emotions from overwhelming them, and Uriel . . . What is it you are doing mostly right now?”

  “Keeping people sane.”

  “Ah, yes, valuable in this troubled time.”

  “Speaking of which,” Uriel said. “Jocelyn, the people who killed you may have stolen your medi
cation. Do you know where to get more?”

  “No, but if I get to Bullhead City or Colorado Springs there may be some.”

  “Well, then, that is your first order of business.”

  She looked at the gray-blue tiled stone floor. “I’m sorry I’m so weak.”

  “That is your illness,” Michael said. “You are not weak, but you must constantly fight your illness. If you are going to save the world, you need to keep your illness in check.”

  “I killed people because of that illness . . . innocent people . . .”

  “You need to forgive yourself. Guilt is but a tool of humanity to prevent sin. But as with any tool, it can be used dangerously. Guilt is dangerous for you now. It will cause you to hesitate when you must kill. And that hesitation could doom you to failure, and thus doom all of humanity.”

  She turned to face Gabriel and his glistening suit. “What advice would you give me?”

  “My job is the easiest because you had that vigil. It taught you how to function without emotional attachment.”

  Skunk appeared on Jocelyn’s right shoulder, startling her. “Did someone call for me?” he asked.

  Gabriel rolled his eyes.

  “No, Skunk,” Jocelyn said. “But please stay here with me.”

  She turned to Uriel. “And you? Anything more other than take my meds?”

  “When you make decisions, ground them in reality. Do not worry about pleasing anyone, including those of us in the spirit world—even Metatron, even the Lord. You have been given the gift of Free Will.”

  “But if I don’t save the world, God will damn me to Hell for all eternity. That doesn’t seem like Free Will.”

  “But remember Metatron said your intentions do not matter, only results. You are not required to try to save the world—”

  “Uriel!” Michael howled.

  Uriel placed his hand up, communicating for Michael to shut up. “Do not tell me how to do my job, Michael . . . As I was saying Jocelyn, what do you think will happen if you do not try to save the world?”

  “I will go to Hell when I die.” She bit her lip and conjured up The Universe Thoth Tarot Card and placed it near her pentacle in front of Uriel. Another name for the Universe card is the World card. It must represent her quest to save the world.

  “But what if you cannot save the world? Or, more important, what if the world is saved without your help? What then?”

  “Well, if intentions don’t matter,” Jocelyn responded to Uriel, “then I will go to Hell if no one saves the world, but I will not if anyone does.”

  “Okay, when, precisely, do we know the world has not been saved?”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “I can help here,” Raphael said.

  “Oh, not you, too!” Michael was fuming. Raphael ignored him.

  “Jocelyn, under what conditions do you believe all hope would be lost, that there was no hope in saving the world.”

  She conjured up The Priestess Thoth Tarot Card and placed it on the altar next to her chalice in front of Gabriel, and she realized that she herself was a Priestess of a type, influencing the world.

  She thought for a few seconds about what Raphael had said. Of course. “When all of humanity have become draugar. Then no one would remain to fix anything.”

  “And when will that happen?”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I will rephrase,” Raphael said. “Is it possible for that to happen at all?”

  She thought about this for a while. “It can’t happen while I’m alive.”

  “Precisely,” Uriel said. “You do not have to attempt to save the world. You only have to survive.”

  “But I’m not immortal. Eventually I will die, right?”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” Uriel said. “But that is a long way off.”

  “Wait, what if there are space aliens?”

  “Now you are thinking,” Raphael said.

  “If all of humanity are draugar, and I’m dead, there’s still hope, right? If there are space aliens? Maybe they could find a way to cure all the draugar?”

  “And what,” Raphael asked, “do you think would happen to you if that were the case?”

  “I couldn’t go to Hell.”

  Jocelyn needed a stiff drink. She conjured up a dry martini into her chalice. She drank half, and it started to take effect, though only on the astral plane.

  “No,” said Uriel. “You could not. The worst that could happen is purgatory, and it would seem you are in a kind of purgatory right now. You can stay here, or . . .”

  Clearly, he wanted Jocelyn to finish the sentence. “Or try to get out by saving the world.”

  “Now you understand. You do not have to let anyone influence your decision. In fact, you should not.”

  “But I can’t just stand by while all of humanity turns into draugar!”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I just can’t!”

  “You mean you do not want to. You can, but you do not want to.”

  “Huh . . . I believe I understand . . . It is unthinkable for me not to try to save the world. What else would I do?”

  “And that, Michael, is how you ‘win friends and influence people.’”

  Michael scowled. “I will admit there is no one better at it than you. Especially when you team up with Raphael.”

  Something suddenly dawned on Jocelyn. “So there actually are space aliens?”

  “Yes,” answered Raphael. “With spaceships, time travel, the whole ‘package deal.’”

  “So could they actually help?”

  “Probably,” Michael said. “I wish you luck in your efforts to convince any of them to do that.”

  “So, what am I now, unconscious?”

  “Unconscious,” Michael answered.

  “But eventually I will wake up?”

  “Eventually.”

  “Where am I?”

  “See for yourself. Conjure up a screen and look.”

  She looked at the lattice of mirrors. She utilized a section to show her physical body. It had never occurred to her before that she could do that.

  There she was, lying on the asphalt. She panned around her body so she could take in the whole scene. The roadblock was gone. Maybe a hundred bullet holes riddled the van, and there was no sign of anyone, except for Vin, who laid on the ground near the van with a large, thick pool of blood that had oozed out from beneath his body. She tried to look inside the van, but she had no such luck. It seemed she could only see her body and what was around it, as if a camera were fixed on the perimeter of a sphere about ten feet away from her.

  They had left her and Vin for dead.

  Since the others wouldn’t just abandon their bodies, she could only infer that her erstwhile companions were under duress—or dead themselves. But she would have to wake up to see if anyone else was deceased on the scene.

  “When will I wake up?” she asked, looking past Raphael, staring at her body.

  “Soon,” Michael answered. “In the meantime . . .” He waved his hand. “Take another drink.”

  She found her chalice was full and drank deeply. She had to decide whether to go after her compatriots or continue on to Colorado Springs.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Day Nine

  The Führer didn’t live up to the build-up. He was a middle-aged skinhead—Marty judged him to be about fifty—and with the five o’clock shadow on his head, he saw the Führer was suffering from male-pattern baldness. He bore a swastika on his forehead, like the others, with a horizontal bar on top. To the left as you faced him were four vertical lines with two horizontal lines through them all. He wore nondescript blue jeans and a University of Colorado Buffaloes sweatshirt.

  The skinheads escorted Marty and the others into what must have been an administrator’s office—probably the school Principal—with the Führer sitting on the only chair in the office behind his desk.

  No one took off their cuffs, and the skinheads forced them to st
and on the left wall, opposite the Führer’s desk in the right back corner. It was a small room, crowded for seven people. Both McNulty and Brien stopped in front of the desk at attention and gave a “Sieg Heil!” and the Führer stood up and gave the same salute back.

  “At ease,” the Führer said. “So, what have you brought me, Captain?” He spoke eloquently. It wouldn’t surprise Marty to hear he’d had a college education.

  “Four slaves, mein Führer.”

  “And how did you acquire these men, woman, and . . . child?” His tone of voice made it clear he was not happy with having a child. “And I want all the details. Take as much time as you need.”

  McNulty spent a good five minutes explaining all that went down with the ambush through bringing their captives here. The Führer waited in silence throughout the story. After McNulty finished, he nodded his head. “I see, I see . . . Corporal Brien, is this account accurate?”

  “Yes, mein Führer.”

  “Good.” Remaining behind his desk, the Führer took a handgun out of a holster on his belt, clicked off the safety, and pointed it right at Marty’s head.

  This is it. This is where I die. At least I don’t have to live in this world any longer.

  The Führer swept his gun over to McNulty and fired, the noise deafening Marty’s ears. Emily let out a muffled scream. McNulty cried out and collapsed down on his right knee, clutching his left kneecap. He looked up at the Führer with the wide eyes of surprise, alarm, and terror.

  “That is for not bringing the van back,” the Führer said calmly.

  Marty suppressed his fight-or-flight response. The administrator’s room seemed to shrink to half its size.

  McNulty grimaced and gasped in obvious pain. “Mein Führer . . . as I said . . . there was no one to drive it. And it may . . . be . . . damaged.”

  Another shot rang out, this time hitting McNulty in the gut—a difficult feat as McNulty was bent over in pain. Now he collapsed to the floor and then looked up to the Führer with tears in his eyes and down his cheeks. Marty couldn’t tell if they were tears caused by anguish, sadness, or pain. Maybe all three. Emily was whimpering, her face still buried in Janice’s chest. Janice was letting out a gentle “shh” while holding her tight.