Jump: The Fallen: Testament 1 (16 page)

“Ah,” Life said, “who am I to interpret the will of the Word in your book? I simply read it and follow its law faithfully. Literally, if need be.”

“That is not—”

Life spoke from memory this time, “ ‘And rain shall hound him through the anarchy of The End.’ . . . That seems pretty straightforward, don’t you think?”

“Rain is not literal!” Dal shouted.

Life looked back toward The Fallen—Jump—flailing in the street. Then she gazed toward the bright light of her own champion, flying away from the city. “Strange . . . looks rather literal to me.”

“Of all of the angels in. . .” Dal looked toward Jump. “You cannot do this. You bastardize the Word.”

Life smiled and felt herself up and down. “And yet I feel no burning flesh, and no lightning presents itself to extinguish me. Could it be? Could it be that the Word
is
open to interpretation after all? Even
if
it be literal?” And then she pointed at Jump. “As for him . . . he is your bastard.”

— XXIX —

I STAND UP, more confident this time. I can feel the blood dripping down my chest and I look down at it. And there are five perfect holes in a circle in my side and five more in my left chest.
What . . . was that?

My blood’s black . . . and thicker than it should be.
Dark heart
. . . The thought comes naturally.
Maybe that wasn’t. . .?

Protection has a rule—if you can’t snatch it, stab it. Can’t stab it, shoot it. I don’t have much time to worry about the color of my blood before bullets are pelting me again. A couple even penetrate a little before my armored feathers flip out to cover me, spitting the bullets out of my flesh. When I do, it feels like I’m . . . healing, because I don’t feel the pain anymore.

I crouch down again and my wings surround me. So, here we go.
Nothin’s easy
, I think. Of course not.
Jump
. I’ll give them some justice.

When the shooting dies down, I stand up and spin and loose a thousand feathers from my wings, at anything and everything, in a circle of flaming steel that looks like bright orange tracer rounds, because now I am pissed-off.

And cars explode and bodies cut in half and heads sever. And the gunfire turns to screaming and yelling and . . . I think I even hear barking in the melee. And there is shouting and begging for me to stop. They shoulda thought of that before they started shooting.

I hear calls for help over Protection radios and they’ve got the Protection soldiers in here.
That’s illegal!
I don’t get far with the thought.

“Bravo eight-six, this is Kilo, over,” the voice shouts. “I need a drone up here. We got heavy contact—repeat, heavy contact from. . .”

Explain that one to them, bitch
, I think, and then I smile. I guess an enraged angel warrants breaking the guidelines about drones in the city.

And then the reply squawks back, “Negative, Kilo. Primary tasking—priority Wenatchee, over.”

Plenty of gun-burying citizens over there. They’ll be busy for a while.

I don’t know why I try to sort the citizens from the soldiers and Protection agents, because I really couldn’t care less. If it gets in the way, I destroy it. And the blood is burning like sweet red onions on a grill.

By the time I finish, the drizzle is falling down on a street full of shattered glass, smoking cars, and blood-drenched body parts. Men, women. . . Protection-puppy fur is everywhere.
That was the barking
, I think. And then I remember, I never cared much for the dogs, before or after, no matter how useful they were to scare the shit out of citizens.

When I stand in the middle of it this time, I’m not messing around basking in fresh revenge. I leave the armored feathers out, spread my wings just enough that I can jump up and defend myself if I have to, and I scan the sky for bright lights. Whatever that was on the roof, if it comes back now, I’m tearing the shit out of it.

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—fucking 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.