But nothing comes, nothing but screaming and crying for mommas. And I can hear the alarms in the distance. A few calls over helmet-mounted wave-units, squawking about flying angels and destruction. That brought them running.
I smile at the thought of the masters on the other end, trying to figure out if their guard dogs have all gone rabid or just nuts.
Time to get out of downtown. But before I go, I lean my head way back and let out a couple of wild screeches and screams—a war cry, maybe. No idea why I do it, I don’t know a whole helluva lot about this new life … or what it wants from me. The cries sound a little different this time. And I can feel the death and I can taste the sweetness of it.
Remorse? Questioning it doesn’t even seem like a natural thought. It feels like something left over. Right now, I’m just … satisfied.
Won’t last—something else from before—nothing good ever does.
Then I hear it—in the distance—the sound of screeching and … wind. I brace myself for what the wind is going to bring. I figure whatever it is, probably like that last ass-whooping I took, so I jump and flap hard to meet it.
As I fly up, I can feel it—I’m not a fledgling anymore—the wings are getting easier to control—more instinctive. That’s good, because whatever grabbed me and threw me off the roof, knew exactly what it was doing.
I turn my attention back to the approaching screeches.
“Shit…” I mutter out loud when I see them. There’s at least a couple hundred, probably more. Black wings, white wings, even some gray ones—all different colors, sparkling in what little light there is left in the day. They are flying right at me. If they’re anything like the last one, this will get ugly fast.
As they make their way through the city toward me, I get ready to spin in midair. And they dive through the canyons—between the scrapers—and then they pop back up over the buildings, twisting and turning like … doves. Son of a bitch. I’m kinda… I don’t really know what to do.
Doves? It’s the only bird I’ve ever seen fly like that. And I … I remember. Twisting and diving, flitting and cutting, changing direction at will, defying the laws of physics and flight. And the screeching is growing louder, but it sounds like chatter to me or … talking?
As they close the gap, the cries get more urgent and I lower my head and prepare to spin—better safe than sorry—a “shoot first” thing I got left over from … somewhere. Makes sense to me now, though.
When I glance down a little, I see it. The street is starting to move … wriggle. Looks like … maggots on a festering deer carcass in the forest. No clue where that image came from, but that’s what it looks like. And the writhing starts and then a low moan wafts up from below me and I can smell the sweet souls.
Every single body on the street is a dead cocoon now, and the butterflies are starting to emerge. But these aren’t monarchs, they are angry, nasty, smelly insects, clawing and gnawing their way out of the confused husks of their lives, waking up to the reality of the fairytale they’ve been fed.
And apparently … there’s no sound or movement from the dogs? Guess that part of the story is true.
And I look back to the approaching birds, but before I can spin… Something in me doesn’t even want to anymore, because now the “doves” are all around me, circling and screeching and mock-diving at the street. It’s a beautiful display of aerial acrobatics and I watch it for a few seconds, marveling at how well they use their wings.
Jealousy—probably one of my bigger sins in life, if I remember correctly. Now, I could give a shit. But there’s something in the screeching. They are asking for something … permission? To do what? When I figure it out, it makes sense. They are here to gather.
I have no idea how to speak “screech,” though, much less… What are these things? I mean, they look like me and it’s obvious that they’re angels… At least, in this dream I think they are, but their steel is shining, shinier than mine, for sure. And their feet and hands… Talons, no mistaking that.
Whatever it was on the roof, those talons made the holes in my chest. And I make a little note to rip them off of whoever stuck them into me.
The moaning down on the street is getting worse. Death looks confusing and painful. That much I remember clearly. Sucks for them still. Who knows where my newfound winged friends want to take them. Only one of two places I can think of. Don’t remember which one is worse. That is … strange.
I have no idea how to say yes in “dove-angel screech,” so I just try to yell it at them. What comes out sounds just like them. And a couple of chirps and a long cry later, and hundreds of dove-angels dive down the canyons between the scrapers. And they twist and turn and scream at each other, and then each of them grabs a squirming soul off the street, and as soon as they have it in their clutches, that bird heads straight up through the gray fog and disappears into the mist—one by one the souls are gone.
And then I’m alone, hovering high above the carnage of lifeless, soulless corpses on the street below. I’m confused, to say the least. But a little proud of myself, too. Feels like a good day.
— XXX —
WHEN THE FAITHFUL and faithless “Soul Safety” Angels returned to the Hallowed Hall of the Word, they flew down through the roof as it rotated open, and then they deposited their soul cargo at the edge of the arena. Then golden guardian angels—one gripping each arm—grabbed the moaning souls and dragged them through the portal entrance to the dungeons below.
Dal and Life were still locked in a battle of words.
Life frowned at Dal. “That is how you plan to have him cleanse the…?” she said. “At that pace, I shall not fear for my children or the garden.”
Dal hung his head. He muttered, “They fornicate with greater results than this. How to keep pace with rabbits?”
Life smiled. “How indeed.”
“Yes,” he said. “You did make them in your image, didn’t you? Perhaps you have a suggestion.”
“Oh, no,” she said. “This is your procession. They are the words of your book? Far be it from me to … interfere.”
And the Book of Blood appeared in Dal’s hands and he read aloud, “And The Fallen shall cause the womb of Heaven to split open and rain shall spill forth from her guts.”
“Careful…”
Dal smiled and said, “That would be metaphorical rain, thank you very much.”
“Maybe,” said Life. “Yet that is your interpretation and who are you to…?”
— XXXI —
IT TURNS TO night faster than I think it should and the city lights are bouncing back beneath a thick blanket of heavy wet fog, pressing and dripping down on the tops of the scrapers like an overfilled sponge. I’m perched next to a five-foot metal cross on top of a huge stone church, just a few blocks from the carnage I just created—Saint … J-something Cathedral, I think. Why would I know that?
Angel perched on top of a church—cliche, I know, but it feels natural to me. I look at the cross and talk to it as if it could hear me, “Don’t you worry, I’ll send you some more to pray over in the morning.” It sounds like I cluck and then I chuckle at myself a little. Guess it takes death to realize it’s the little things.
An Avenger drone flies by, roaring past, barely above the tops of the scrapers, loaded to the gills with Hellfuries. Apparently Protection found something worthy of re-tasking it from Eastern Washington. I grin and turn my head, watching it as it banks and disappears between some buildings. Joystick-jockey has some skills, I think.
The sounds of sirens and sporadic gunfire echo through the glow—Protection patrol are busy cleaning up, trying to find someone for the interrogators to torture in order to figure out what happened. Woe be to the poor citizens they black-bag for that. They aren’t gonna know shit. But it won’t matter, they’ll torture them to death anyway to make themselves feel better—more in control.
And I get the first look at myself in the semi-darkness of the night. My steel feathers shine and shimmer, and my
wings still have a little dripping blood on them. Nothing is drying in this damp—the drizzle just won’t stop. No surprise there—gotta love Seattle.
I shake my wings and crimson mist mixed with rain sprinkles down onto the side of the building. I’m not too concerned—from what I remember, blood washes off the church like water off a duck’s back.
When I look across Lake Union, I can see the long, curved support pillars on the bottom of the Space Scraper—the big, round flying saucer part is hidden above the fog. For some reason, I think that building used to be a restaurant, but that just sounds ridiculous. Protection has been in control of that scraper for as far back as I can remember. They coordinate drone strikes and citizen compliance patrols from up there.
I have no idea how I know that, but it might as well be God’s office in Heaven as far as the average citizen is concerned, because no mere mortal is seeing the inside of it.
I think about perching on top of it. Probably not the best spot to avoid them. That thought doesn’t even feel natural and I contemplate flying over there just to gut some more government goons before I roost for the night. I’ll get to them in the morning.
And then I have a different thought. Maybe it’s an impulse, because I feel an overwhelming urge to follow the dove-angels up, right to the Pearly Gates. Why? No idea, but it’s been a while since I talked to either of them—him or her. Seems like … time is just messed up, but I got a little itch in my feathers … and it wants to be scratched.
I flap hard and head to where I saw them disappear into the dark gray fog. When I finally break through the last layer, there’s nothing but a glow from below. I hover and stare toward where I think the Heavens should be. Nothing but stars, I think.
I fly farther up—get a better view—and I keep flapping until it seems like I might leave the atmosphere. Do I even need oxygen? It’s another random question for the newness. But all there is up here are a billion tiny stars, trying to flicker the truth down from the dark black nothing above the Earth. Can any one of them shine a light on reality? Maybe it takes them all.
One of the stars looks a little brighter than the others and I watch it for a few seconds. North Star, maybe? It might have the answer—one little pinprick of truth, struggling for all it’s worth to outshine its neighbors and shed some light on the whole damn story.
And I still got this little itch. I close my eyes and try to think of the answer. You’d think I would know better.
When the light blasts my eyes, I barely have time to wrap myself in feathers before the little shit slams into me again. And the screeching is louder this time and it’s not just one hit and walk away, or fly away or whatever, because this is an all-out attack. And I try to spin, but a talon has one of my wings and it’s crushing into my metal feathers and a few of them rip out and fall away, and I hear them clank each other on the way down. Now it’s serious, because we are both plummeting down after them. It’s hard to fly and fight at the same time. Go figure that shit.
So I start screeching back at… Whoever or whatever has me is so bright I can’t see anything. It’s like the sun in Syria—oppressive and inescapable. And how do I know that?
I squint hard and try to fight it off by flapping my wings at it, and then my fingers and toes sprout talons.
You’re asking me how? If I knew that, I would have done it sooner. And I start fighting back with both of them—all four. I think I catch a wing or a leg or something, because I clamp a talon down on it and whatever it is starts jerking, and then I’ve got wings and talons and hard feathers, hammering at me everywhere. And we’re locked together—stalemate of screeching and clawing.
I’ve seen this shit on National Nature on the PIN or some other archive cinewave, I shouldn’t have been watching—eagles locked together, falling like rocks. Only they aren’t fighting, this sure isn’t that. Not unless someone changed it to getting your ass kicked. Come to think of it, I’ve had a few that felt like that.
And one of us is going to have to let go, because I’m sure the city isn’t too far down—we’re gonna slam the street or a scraper soon enough. I turn my face away from the blasting, bright bastard just long enough to open my eyes and look down.
And there it is, the glowing fog above the city, and in another second we’re through the tops of the scrapers and I look back and my eyes burn and I have to shut them tight again—and my vision has got a glowing orange reminder not to look at whatever this sun-bright bastard is.
I screech at him and hope the translation comes out right, “You better let go, because I’m not gonna!”
I get brighter light, more burning, and a tighter grip back for my trouble. So we’re hammering the pavement. Okay by me, I’ve hit the shit three times in the last day. Never from this height, but how much worse could it be?
Then I find out.
— XXXII —
WHEN I OPEN my eyes … I am fucked up. There is just no other way to describe the pain. I’m on my back and one of my wings feels like… I try to move it—the spikes of pain are a serious bitch. Broken.
And it feels like I got claw marks down my face and chest and legs, and there’s a hot poker feeling coming from my guts. But I stare up and it’s … beautiful, I think. A weird thought, I know, but bright colorful rainbows of glass and light are everywhere. It’s all blurry, but the colors are spectacular.
I look around, trying to focus, and someone is standing above me with their arms out. When I finally squint enough to see… You have just got to be kidding me. Jesus? Now that is just—“Goddammit,” I mutter.
I cough when I say it and some of my blood comes out and runs down my cheek. And I drag my hand across my face to wipe it and when I look, it’s … it’s black. Okay, so this isn’t the Protection torture dream—I’m still me. The Jump me, anyway, because I would’ve never survived this as… “Who am I?” I can barely whisper.
“Shh,” I think I hear, but it could be one of them in my head. I got no idea.
And then things get fuzzy and the room spins and I open and close my eyes in slow motion, like a Protection agent raising his gun at an unarmed citizen. And then the nothingness comes—dark black.
I wake up this time to spikes of pain shooting through my stomach and I screech. Something’s tugging at my guts. It’s probably that little bastard, come to finish me off, because it’s pretty bright and I squint. Not like before, but light enough, so I shut my eyes. Then the light goes away and I can feel him pecking and picking at my entrails and I groan. Bastard’s eating my guts.
“I’m sorry,” it’s the voice of an old man.
I open my eyes a little more, because I can’t believe… And I see an old man squatting over me. “Dammit,” I mutter. All-powerful vengeance angel from Hell and a little old man angel kicks my ass and eats my guts for breakfast. So, I’m going out like Daniels. That is a bitch. Hell sucks ass. I gotta talk to someone about that.
“Quiet,” he says. “You are going to need to save your energy. This is difficult enough without—”
“Fuck you,” is all I can manage. I spit out some blood as I say it—slobber it more than shoot it in his direction. Maybe I can hit him with it. “Save it … for what?”
“If you are what I…” he says. He goes back to tugging at my belly, and then he mutters to himself, “I… This is just… An angel? … You will need your strength.”
For an angel, he seems pretty surprised that I’m one. And I try to tilt my head up and look at him, and an acid feeling burns though my stomach. And the little guy’s working on removing a big metal cross from my belly—same one from the roof. “Shit,” I say, “ain’t that a bitch.”
Probably shouldn’t be cussing so much, because I can tell by the collar on the little prick’s shirt that he’s a priest. In fact, for some reason, I think I know him.
The little gray-haired God-dog works on me for longer than I’d like, before he finally removes the cross from my stomach. I gotta say, there’s no fire like a five-foot metal cross s
hoved through your guts.
When he finally cuts it free, he wipes his little knife on his shirt, closes it, and clips it back in the pocket of his black pants. I always wondered why the men of the cloth dressed in black all the time. It seemed to me that they should be in white. And if there was a Satan-worshipping church, they should be the men in black. Just the way my mind works, I guess. It’s the little things—the illogical—I always wanted to understand. And that’s one of them, floating around in the delirious dream I’m obviously having.
But it’s no wonder my stomach is on fire, he was cutting on me with that knife! I roll my head to the side and watch him. He walks a few steps away and flops himself down on a church pew. Then he starts yammering.
He’s gibbering and jabbering away, and apparently, I crashed through the roof while he was cleaning up some paperwork in the rectory. He came running down here and found me, just as a bright light flew out a huge hole in the roof of the church.
Bet if he told that story to the congregation they’d call the white-jackets to come and snatch him up. Guess it makes more sense for the 5150 crew to wear white.
Calm down, little nutcracker, I think. Time for you to go to Heaven. I cluck and chuckle a little at the thought and my guts burn acid to reward me.
My sick humor aside, the father is pretty shaken up, and he reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a leather-covered metal flask. His wrinkled fingers tremble as he unscrews the top, then he flips it up and takes a long swig. When he pulls it away from his mouth, a tiny deep-brown drop runs down his gray scruff. He reaches into his back pants pocket and pulls out a white cloth. Then he wipes the drip away.
I shake my head. Old men and their handkerchiefs… “You okay?” I ask him. I don’t really care, but I’m not going anywhere—might as well shoot the shit. Scared shitless God-dog or not, he’s not stabbing me with his knife, and that is … interesting.
I’ll tell you one thing, I’ve never seen wider eyes on someone. But when he talks to me, he squints. And I don’t know if the flask is because he has no idea what he’s seeing, or if it’s because he knows exactly, but from his yammering, it sounds like he has a better understanding of what’s going on than I do. When he pauses, he takes another pull on his flask. He wipes his mouth with his shirt this time then he says, “You are an—”
TF- C - 00.00 - THE FALLEN Dark Fantasy Series: A Dark Dystopian Fantasy (Books 1 - 3) Page 13