by Bruce Blake
“We can’t do this now, can we?” Trevor asked.
We? Poe didn’t bother telling him he wouldn’t be going, not yet.
“No. Too many people.”
“What do we do?”
Poe knew many paths to Heaven, but the ways to Hell changed constantly—they wouldn’t be easily discovered. Many years had passed since she last trod them and the ones she’d known would be long gone. She scratched her elbow, pondering the possibilities, and an idea occurred to her.
“We’ll do as Michael asked.”
“Harvest a soul? But what about my Dad?”
Poe started down the sidewalk, excusing herself as she passed the cameraman and news lady. Trevor followed a step or two behind.
“Don’t worry about your father.”
†‡†
It didn’t take long for the swallows to find them and, as always, Gabriel appeared soon after. As she approached, Poe fought the urge to hide behind Trevor. It wasn’t fear which made her want to take cover every time she saw Gabriel, but awe, like she was in the presence of a movie star. Awe and jealousy—she wished mortals reacted to her the way they did to the archangel.
“Hello, Poe,” Gabriel sing-songed.
Poe raised a hand and fluttered her fingers in response.
“And who do we have here?” The archangel nodded toward Trevor.
Poe looked at the teen and saw his mouth agape and eyes wide, the same sort of reaction most males experienced upon meeting Gabriel.
“Trevor. He’s Icarus’ son.”
“Of course. I see the resemblance.”
Poe shifted her weight from one foot to the other, uncomfortable with Gabriel’s gaze on her. She wiped sweaty palms on her thighs.
“Icarus isn’t here,” she said.
“I know.”
“Michael sent me to do the job.”
“I know.”
Poe tried to look the archangel in the eyes but her gaze kept skittering away regardless of what she wanted. Enthralled by the angel, Trevor neither moved nor spoke. Poe wondered if she should check and make sure he remembered to draw breath.
“Do...do you have a scroll for me?”
Gabriel produced a roll of parchment from behind her back, smiled, and held it out to Poe. Unconsciously, the guardian angel took a step back and half a step to the side, partially hiding behind Trevor.
“You know what to do?”
Poe didn’t sense condescension in her voice, but after the things Michael had said, she didn’t know if Gabriel spoke out of concern or something else. She suppressed the urge to snatch the scroll away, instead allowing the angel to place it on her outstretched palm.
“Yes. I’ve seen it a few times.”
A swallow flitted between them, a streak of blue-green barreling through the air. Trevor finally showed some reaction by following its path with his eyes.
“You don’t have much time.”
“Okay.”
Gabriel nodded once and lifted her arms skyward like she intended to embrace the entire firmament. A cloud of swallows Poe hadn’t noticed rose from branches of trees and roofs of buildings, swirling into a tornado of blue and white. They darted about performing aerobatics, following Gabriel as she walked away and disappeared between two buildings. As soon as she was gone, Trevor became aware of the world again, like he’d woken from a deep sleep.
“Who was she?”
Poe stepped out from behind him and looked at the roll of parchment. She’d seen Icarus with scrolls before but never held one herself; energy radiated from it making her palm itch. It built as she stared at it imagining her flesh reddening beneath, bumps and welts forming, blisters bursting.
“Poe?”
“Take it,” she said breathlessly. “Please take it.”
Trevor took the parchment and she rubbed her palm vigorously on her leg before regarding it. No marks left behind, no open sores; the itch disappeared as soon as the paper no longer contacted her flesh.
“Are you okay?”
“I think so.”
She rubbed her hand on the thigh of her pants again, just in case.
“What did you ask me?”
“I asked you who she was.”
They walked, though they hadn’t unrolled the scroll yet and didn’t know where they should go. Poe didn’t want to stay there and chance seeing Gabriel again.
“The archangel Gabriel.”
“Really? Wow. Two archangels in one day.”
“You may not remember it, but you’ve met Raphael, too.” She glanced back over her shoulder—there were no swallows to be seen.
“Cool. And does this scroll tell us who’s going to die?”
Poe nodded. “Gabriel said we didn’t have much time. You better open it.”
They paused in the middle of the sidewalk as Trevor unrolled the parchment. It wouldn’t contain the name of anyone she knew—anyone she knew was long since dead—but she held her breath anyway.
†‡†
She’d seen worse deaths, but Poe worried the sight of blood might disturb Trevor. It turned out teenage boys hadn’t changed much since her time on earth.
The man—a forty-eight year old father of two named Clayton Dillinger who’d been married to his high school sweetheart for twenty-two years—extended himself too far while installing Christmas lights on the eaves of his bungalow. The fall itself would have hurt but probably not killed him except for the collection of garden gnomes his wife had arrayed in the flower garden the spring before. One smiling gnome with a particularly pointy hat broke a couple of Clayton’s ribs, driving one clear through his heart and out his chest.
“Oh, gross,” Trevor exclaimed with a note of enthusiastic joy in his words—the sound of a young man who’d watched too many horror movies.
Seconds after Mr. Dillinger’s life expired, a semi-opaque second Mr. Dillinger sat up, separating himself from the first. The specter stood and gazed down at the lifeless body, then looked up expectantly, waiting for what came next.
“There he is. Let’s go get him.” Trevor took a step to cross the street but Poe put her hand on his arm, stopping him. He looked back at her over his shoulder.
“Wait.”
She pulled him back into the shadows and watched a figure approach from down the street. Poe had first sensed they were being followed when they got on the bus to make their way to Mr. Dillinger’s house but had done nothing to dissuade their tail. If it was who she suspected, their pursuer would have the same purpose as they did. Unfortunately, this man wouldn’t lead Mr. Dillinger to Heaven; he would lead Poe to Hell, though.
The man closed in, raised a hand to Mr. Dillinger, and called out a greeting. Poe recognized him –his shaven head, black trench coat and neatly trimmed beard. As she realized he was the same Carrion who had nearly killed her a few months back, he looked her way and grinned a devilish grin, eyes flashing red fire.
And then he spoke with Mr. Dillinger.
“Who’s that?” Trevor asked.
“Carrion.”
Poe felt Trevor’s eyes move to the two men across the street and back again without removing her gaze from their conversation. It took all her self-control not to run across the road and push herself between the two men. She’d dedicated herself to protecting mortal souls for decades and found it difficult to give one up without a fight.
It’s for the greater good.
“Carrion? But don’t they take souls to Hell?”
Poe nodded.
“We can’t let him. Hey!”
Trevor took another step but this time when Poe touched his arm, she concentrated on her touch, sent her energy into him. He stiffened with it; she let him go, guilt tickling the lining of her stomach.
“We have to help him,” he wheezed, his breath gone.
“Trust me.”
He settled beside her, watching the proceedings outside the Dillinger house. Clayton and the Carrion stood beside the ladder looking at the gnome-skewered body, the blood soaking hi
s shirt and jacket, a string of icicle lights dangling from the eaves. They spoke quietly, then Mr. Dillinger shook the Carrion’s hand and they started down the block together. The Carrion shot another look over his shoulder at them, grinning like a schoolyard bully who’d won the game by cheating and knew they wouldn’t do anything about it. When he looked away, Poe grabbed Trevor’s arm and pulled him down the street.
“Wha...what are we doing?” he asked sounding dazed from her last touch. “He’s gone. The Carrion got him.”
She stopped and turned the teen to face her, holding him by both shoulders. Though only fifteen, he stood nearly a foot taller than her and she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes.
“I’m following him to Hell to find your father.”
Bruce Blake-All Who Wander Are Lost
Chapter Fourteen
I rubbed my calf—the latest body part missing a piece due to a foul-looking hell-beast’s bite—and was surprised at how good my arm felt. Hard to believe Piper healed it so quickly.
Poe never healed me.
“What do we do this time?” she asked.
A hot wind blew down the empty street, swirling gray dust into miniature tornadoes. The gargoyles on the corners of the buildings stared straight ahead, ignoring us, as Piper’s words echoed from building to building.
“Not sure,” I replied, straightening. “Where did everyone go?”
She shrugged—of course—then took my hand and led me down the street. Her touch electrified me, as always, but this time it called more peaceful and soothing visions to mind. I wondered who determined how her touch affected me: her, me, or someone higher up? As we walked, it felt like we were lovers enjoying a stroll rather than a mother leading a child, as it might have before.
My mind strayed to the feel of her lips on mine.
“Pipe, about what happened.”
“Piper,” she said and stopped. “I think something’s going on over there.”
I looked down the boulevard in the direction she’d indicated. In the distance, a haze hung above the street; it might have been mist but seemed more likely ash kicked into the air by many feet.
“A crowd,” I said.
“Or a mob.”
“We’re not going to find anyone we’re looking for if no one’s around.”
She shrugged. “You want to go?”
“I don’t know. Do you want to go?”
With words like this being spoken, it couldn’t have been anything but a date. Put us somewhere else and we’d have sounded like a couple deciding between Italian and Chinese.
“Let’s go.”
Our fingers remained entwined as we made our way down the empty street. The buildings and the gargoyles perched at their corners ignored us, but I still felt like our echoing footsteps called unwanted attention our way. I peered in windows and doorways and saw no one.
Where did everyone go?
We heard the crowd before we saw them. Their voices combined to a tumultuous roar hanging over their heads like the cloud of ash kicked up by their shuffling feet, like a rock concert without the rock. Though, given the way most rock stars lived and died, Hell would probably put on quite a show.
As we drew closer, we saw people shoe-horned together, bodies writhing and twisting to get a view over those in front of them. The crowd at the end of the boulevard was huge, big enough we couldn’t see past them to find out what held their attention. I stood on my toes, stretched to my fullest, to no avail.
“Come on,” Piper said pulling me forward.
Thirty feet from the mob, a small group of people broke off and headed toward the closest building. Six men, bare-chested and heavily muscled, encircled two figures like a cadre of body guards protecting a politician. I strained to see who they protected and caught a glimpse of a boy—the boy I’d seen staring at the camera when we found Tony. On his right, a woman held his hand, dark hair flowing down her back. When we reached the edge of the crowd, she glanced back at me: high cheek bones, angular jaw, dark eyes.
My mother.
I dragged my feet trying to stop Piper’s forward motion, tugged hard to free my hand of her grasp. My lips parted, to call out to the woman who gave birth to me, to beg Piper to stop, but the crowd swallowed us; their clamor drowned any words I might have spoken.
The crowd closed around us, cutting off my view, and Piper forced a path between the gathering of damned souls. As we moved, it became apparent that personal hygiene is not a high priority in Hell. The stench of tens of thousands of bodies unwashed for—weeks? Years? Centuries?—stuck to the inside of my nostrils and throat threatening to choke me, urging my last meal up into my chest. I swallowed hard to put it back where it belonged.
“My God, these people reek.”
The ones closest to us ceased moaning and chanting and faced me, their expressions moving from vacant to annoyed. Who knew they’d be so easily offended?
Piper pulled me close. “This may be the wrong place to use the lord’s name in vain. Or any other way.”
“Right.” I smiled weakly and nodded at the faces around us. “Sorry about that. Force of habit.”
They returned to their mindless noise-making and we went back to finding our way through the crowd—no harm done. I shuffle-stepped closer to Piper.
“I saw my mother,” I shouted to be heard above the commotion. “Did you see her?”
“No.”
“She was with the kid I saw before.”
She didn’t respond.
“Who is he?”
A patented Piper shrug. “I don’t know. Do you want to stop and ask someone?”
I glanced at the zombie faces around us.
“No. Think I’ll pass.”
Ten minutes passed and we still hadn’t reached the front of the crowd. Stinking bodies rubbed against me, loose hands groped me unenthusiastically. Foul breath, distant stares, filthy flesh. I held my breath like a child driving through a tunnel, desperate to keep the air in his lungs until the other end to earn the right to make a wish. When my lungs wouldn’t cooperate anymore, I’d let it out and draw another with a whoosh, each time wishing for fresh air.
Many members of the crowd were naked, some of them engaged in sexual activities. This might sound exciting, but not in Hell. It was ugly sex, and if any of these people were attractive in life, Hell beat, burned and crushed it out of them.
As we finally neared the front of the crowd, the din became louder. I caught a glimpse of an empty platform, nothing else. Piper turned her head toward me and said something, at least I assume she did. I saw her lips move but the words she spoke disappeared in the noise.
“What?”
She moved away, unaware I’d spoken.
“Piper,” I yelled. No reaction.
Then her hand slipped out of mine.
The crowd swallowed her in an instant, like the whale taking Geppetto in the story of Pinocchio. One second she was there, the next...gone.
“Piper!”
I no longer tried to hold my breath as I gasped air in and out, eyes darting from face to face, searching for my angel.
“Piper!”
I fought my way through the crowd, pushing aside slack-limbed people who didn’t care they’d been pushed aside. Frantic, I bulled my way forward.
How did she disappear so quickly?
And then I was at the front of the crowd.
The ramshackle platform stood a couple of feet high and looked thrown together from scrap pieces of wood, duct tape and bent metal. A woman stood in the middle of it attempting to hide her nakedness behind a slim lectern but it was too narrow to keep her sagging breasts from view. She shuffled some papers on the stand, cleared her throat.
They say some people fear public speaking more than death—before me stood the living-dead proof.
A sheet of paper fluttered to the platform and she attempted a smile, but her nervousness and the tears on her cheeks ruined the effort. The woman bent at the waist to retrieve it and a tomato flew
out of the crowd to splatter against the dirt-streaked flesh of her right buttock. Surprised, the woman stumbled a step but didn’t fall. I chuckled a little at that, then immediately felt guilty as she straightened and faced the crowd again.
More projectiles struck her: another tomato, a head of lettuce, a shapeless blob which may have been mud or feces, and finally a rock which caught her in the left cheek, drawing blood to add to the flow of tears. She flinched each time a projectile struck her but held her ground, taking her punishment for being so audacious as to think she could stand before a group of people and give a speech.
Any urge I’d had to laugh was long gone. We all had our own Hells to go through. My heart ached for her, but I kept myself from jumping in front of her.
A second rock struck her chest, then a third caught her in the eye. I couldn’t watch anymore and diverted my gaze. To my surprise, I saw a familiar face standing at the front of the crowd, staring at me. The man looked more tired than I’d seen him in life, his suit more rumpled. At first, I didn’t believe my eyes; it must be some sort of Hell illusion.
Detective Williams.
The last time I saw him, I left him with a white-clad angel to take him to Heaven. Given those circumstances, this must be his twin—the real Detective Williams would be lounging on a billowy white cloud enjoying the hereafter.
He raised his hand in greeting.
I waved back hesitantly and mouthed the words ‘what happened?’ He responded by changing his wave to a different sort of gesture. I watched for a second, confused, unaware he meant it as a gesture of warning until the black cloth bag covered my face and a cord cinched around my neck.
Bruce Blake-All Who Wander Are Lost
Chapter Fifteen
They watched from the shadows as the Carrion took Clayton Dillinger down the back alley, away from the bustling avenue. The closer they got to the goal, the worse Poe felt. Her stomach churned like a supernova swirled within her. Her nerve endings tingled, she rubbed sweat from her palms; she hid it from Trevor, didn’t want to scare him. Truthfully, she didn’t want him to be here at all, but she might need his help getting to Hell.