Kill All Angels

by Robert Brockway

  Carey looked like hell. Even for him. One side of his face was caked with blood. His thin, salt-and-pepper hair was splayed and spiked with filth. His leather jacket—always barely held together with strategically placed band patches and safety pins—was in a more advanced state of deterioration. He was about to lose a sleeve. He’d already lost a shoe. His facial expression was somewhere between “just got dumped” and “about to be hit by a bus.” In one hand he held an old-timey pistol, like something out of a Western. His thumb was on the hammer.

  “This again, huh?” I asked.

  He’d pulled that gun on me once before, after I’d taken the angel in Mexico. He told me he was just confused. I didn’t buy it then, but I didn’t want to think about what it meant at the time. It was pretty clear now, though.…

  “This is the last time, I promise,” he said.

  I peered into him, and found that Carey was shimmering. Not like fairy dust, but like a thin layer of water over new ice. I thought about what Zang told me—about how my enhanced sight wasn’t because my eyes were better. I focused on Carey and tried the same trick: seeing without physical constraints. Just looking at things for what they are, instead of how I perceived them.

  Layers began to slough off of Carey, like somebody pulling individual pages from an animated flipbook. There were billions of them, and the deeper I went, the less they looked like Carey. Or at least, how I thought of Carey. The layers were more like impulses, decisions, memories—maybe some combination of all three. He was squatting there in front of me in a sunken suburb lost to the Pacific, but he was also ten years old, throwing rocks at a parked cop car on a street in Brooklyn. He was seventeen and laughing with friends, swimming in a lake somewhere at dusk. He was twenty-two and watching a man being brutally beaten through the chain-link fence surrounding an amusement park. He was thirty-eight and dry-heaving in an alleyway in Koreatown. He was reaching out to touch a pale young girl with dyed black hair, then pulling back at the last second. He was watching the look of betrayal in her eyes. He was leveling this very same pistol at another girl in a wind-blown shack. He was pulling the trigger.

  I watched his entire lifetime and beyond—thoughts he refused to think, truths he refused to acknowledge—but then I blinked and we’d barely moved. Only a second had passed.

  But I knew so much now.

  It wasn’t coincidence that he pulled me out of Marco’s Mercedes just as the pervert slipped his life-draining tongue into me. Carey had been watching. None of what I went through was new to him—killing the angels, the strange new abilities, the rituals—he was just stringing me along, eking out only enough information to keep me going, but not enough so that I no longer needed him.

  I had to need him, because he needed to be here with me, at the end.

  Just like he was there for the other girls. One he failed to save, and one he doomed. Both, he killed. With that gun.

  A quick burst of images: Carey and Zang standing over the prone body of a dark-skinned girl.

  “I always bring the gun.”

  “Then you always knew.”

  He still had the pistol. Whatever he told himself, he knew this day was coming the whole time.

  But he was hoping it wouldn’t.

  I remembered Carey’s face when he first told me about all this—the Unnoticeables, the Empty Ones, the angels—and I told him he was crazy and needed to leave. He looked so happy and relieved. Then I called him back, and his heart broke.

  He was trying to give me an out. Trying to give both of us an out.

  Because he knew this was where we’d end up: Me on the ground, rapidly losing my humanity. Him standing over me, pointing a gun at my face, about to throw away the last of his.

  He loved those girls, and he loved me. And he killed them. And he was going to kill me, too.

  And you have to let him.

  A spiral of branching paths flowed outward from Carey. It would take eons to follow them, but eons were irrelevant here, so I did. Somewhere far, far down the line of potential futures, there was another screaming white light and another young girl, dying.

  The angels would come back, if I let them.

  Not now. Not in my lifetime. Maybe not even here, in our specific dimension. But somewhere out there, they hid in the realm of possibility, patiently rebuilding.

  The things I could do were amazing. I could enhance my own senses, I could heal from mortal wounds, I could tap strength beyond human ability, and I could even pause time, in a sense, and change the flow of events. But as extraordinary as those things seemed to me, they were still paltry. They were limited by my own little human brain, mired in its idea of what should be possible. I could see better in the dark, but not like it was daylight. Why? Because buried somewhere deep in my mind was the idea that I could not. Night vision, healing, strength—all things that I could, on some level, accept as possible. Seeing everything? Not taking wounds in the first place? Being strong enough to move literally anything?

  I just couldn’t believe it.

  The very notion was absurd. I was Katey from Barstow, California. I hated school because kids made fun of my extra finger. I was a daddy’s girl and a tomboy and lost little sheep following her friend’s dreams because I didn’t have any of my own. I’m not some grand cosmic force. I’m a sad, tiny little human being.

  And that has to stop.

  Not a second had passed since I’d first glimpsed Carey’s code. My brain was processing information far faster than it should be able to, and the second I thought that—

  Carey stood up and crossed the few steps to where I lay. He lifted the gun like it was a barbell. It seemed like the weight of it might tip him over.

  “I know it ain’t worth much,” he said. “But I am sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I know.”

  I waited.

  Nothing happened.

  His hand started to shake.

  He’s not going to do it.

  He has to do it.

  I found my realm of stillness, and I settled in there. I let the now-familiar ghostly silhouettes of possibility flow outward from Carey. I sifted through them.

  He dropped the gun and started crying.

  He turned and threw the gun into the ocean.

  He put the gun in his mouth, and pulled the trigger.

  Thousands upon thousands of potential actions that he could take, and in none of them did he do what I actually needed him to.

  He tucked the gun into his waistband and helped me up.

  He took off his jacket, peeled away a single patch—a crazy-looking mime in a bowler hat—and set it in my hand, then walked away.

  He sneezed, firing the gun into his own shoeless foot, then hopped around screaming in pain.

  A seagull died in mid-flight directly above us. Its carcass landed perfectly between where he stood with the gun and I sat, waiting. We both looked up in confusion, then back down, and started laughing.

  God damn it, where is it?

  There were a dozen permutations of the dead seagull—how unlikely could it possibly be that he would actually pull the trigger?

  He sat down with me and we both started singing something together.

  He took off his pants and threw them in the bay, then did a bizarre gyrating dance.

  He flipped the gun around and offered it to me. I took it and shot him right in the chest.

  Jesus, Kaitlyn. Really?

  It has to be here somewhere. There are literally an infinite number of possibilities, the only variable is how likely an outcome is to occur, not whether or not it does occur. It has to be here. It must be here.

  He dropped—

  He threw—

  He jumped—

  He walked—

  There! There …

  A single spectral apparition of an aging punk rocker, holding an ancient pistol to an exhausted blond girl’s head. He paused. He closed his eyes. He pulled the trigger. He looked as surprised as anybody when the gun actually fire
d.

  I focused on the scene. I built the details in my mind. Willed the opacity to fade in. I grabbed one single frame of that possible reality, and I brought it over into ours. I layered it into the stream of events, ignoring the billion possible paths where it did not occur. I made the possible real.

  I hesitated.

  No going back now.

  I blinked, and smelled gunpowder.

  THIRTY-THREE

  }}}Kaitlyn. Unknown. Unknown.}}}}}}}}}

  There are a lot of benefits to being outside of time. There is one very big downside: When everything has happened, is happening, and will always be happening, running away doesn’t do you a lot of good.

  The corruption I’d introduced into the siphonophore—a toxic iridescent streak snaking through the luminous white tentacles—raced up its limbs, tracing the infinite branching pathways until the whole thing was consumed. It spasmed in what I sincerely hoped was pain, and then it shattered into sparks. Dying fireflies drifting through the multiverse.

  I watched as they went out.

  Almost all of them.

  A handful of angels managed to split off before the corruption could take them. They were sad, confused, and isolated little creatures for now—but I had seen it, back in the real world when I watched our potential futures unfold. They’re like starfish: A single piece can rebuild the whole. I would have to find each and every one of them and stamp them out if this thing was ever going to be over.

  And I will. I do. I did.

  That’s the nice thing: There’s no hurry. I have all the time in the world here, in the still space.

  With the siphonophore gone, the universe felt oddly empty. The parasite had spent eons twisting the universe into an ideal host for it, and now I felt like I was walking through a grand mansion with no residents. But I knew that, somewhere on the periphery of existence, in the blank space bordering reality, that huge presence I’d felt in my dreams—

  The space whale.

  Don’t call it the space whale.

  That can’t stick.

  But then … what do I call it?

  God?

  …

  I prefer space whale.

  The space whale was turning to regard its former home. I had that same sensation, of floating in waters that were indistinguishable from the land, while something gargantuan approached from beneath me. I could feel the waters swelling with its bulk, though it was still an unfathomable distance away.

  I understood now that the waters were … everything. That the (sigh) space whale belonged in them, but had not occupied them for a very long time. It would take a while before it could fully reinstate itself—finish pouring its massive form into the billion holes vacated by the siphonophore. But time is not a constant—it’s not even a factor in the still space—so for all intents and purposes, the space whale was home.

  I wasn’t exactly comforted by the thought. I did not get a sensation of paternal care or concern from the beast. I got the sensation of distance and irrelevance. Whatever I had done was enough for it to take notice, but what I actually am was too small to acknowledge. Even if it was aware of me, I was simply too minute for it to interact with. Maybe you feel kindly about your gut flora—they take care of you, keep you healthy, protect your immune system—but you can’t exactly reach down and shake one’s hand.

  If only I could know what it really was, and what this all meant.

  Well, why not?

  I was no longer tethered to my own humanity—

  Oh god, my body. I’m dead. Jesus. Oh no, what did I do?

  Stop that. Those are vestigial instincts. The important parts of you are still here.

  My brains were important and now they’re staining carpet. I’ll be down there forever. He won’t carry my body back up—he couldn’t, even if he wanted to—stuck in the dark for eternity—oh god—rotting in a sunken city—sea life picking at my—

  Stop!

  Look around. You don’t need brain matter to exist. You are energy; you cannot be created or destroyed. You don’t need eyes to see or nerves to feel. Look!

  I did, and it was beautiful. Truly, heartbreakingly beautiful, in a way that I had never understood before. I loved the outdoors. I climbed rocks. I swam in rivers. I hiked. But to be honest, when poets started rambling on about verdant forests and mountains majesty, I rolled my eyes. Nature was pretty. Peaceful. Nice.

  But I never understood majesty until I saw the universe, raw and true.

  Everything that had been or will ever be is right here, waiting for me. I can watch stars being born. I can watch life crawl from the primordial oceans. I can ride comets through galaxies and I can even—

  Jackie and I, just little kids, playing cat’s cradle at the bus stop. She’s trying to teach me how to do it, but she forgot, herself. She ties her hands up so effectively that I can’t undo them. I fish the rounded safety scissors from my Power Rangers backpack, but they’re so useless all I do is kink the yarn. We board the bus with our heads down, the bus driver laughing.

  It happened. It is happening.

  Every second of our lives is all right here with me, not a memory, but a reality, in full Technicolor glory. And it’s not just Jackie. It’s everybody.

  My dad is helping me build a tiny engine made out of Lego. I told him I wanted to learn about engines, not because I was interested in them, but because I loved him, and he loved them. He points out the basic parts, and I commit them to memory. Chanting their names—valves, pistons, cams—like a little prayer. Stacy comes in and—

  Stacy! I barely remembered my little sister, back when I was human. My mind was too young to lock down her details. She was a nostalgic urge, a pang of hurt, and a few Polaroid flashes that faded when I tried to focus on them.

  But now here she is, vibrant and alive, laughing as she …

  Kicks my engine apart.

  You little brat!

  Dad laughs. She’s too young to be yelled at. But I cry and pout, run back to our shared room, slam the door a few times so everybody gets the point, and burrow into my blankets.

  I always did run to bed when things got bad.

  I don’t need to stay with me. I’m not tied to my own life anymore. Instead, I watch Dad and Stacy play, painstakingly rebuilding my tiny engine together. Well, my dad builds. Stacy mostly tries to taste the Legos, but my dad is on top of it.

  These are memories I never had, but they’re mine now.

  And it’s not just memories. I have the present, too—

  Carey standing in the dark, the smell of decaying seaweed, staring down at my bloody, ruined face—

  Nah, let’s skip the present.

  I have the future.

  Jackie is older, but she still looks great. She looks more and more like Audrey Hepburn as she ages. She would hate me for saying that. She’d rather look like Helen Mirren—all sex, all the time, even into her 70s. But Jackie was never that: Cute but approachable, graceful in a fragile way. Until she opens her mouth.

  Which she does right now, disarming a small crowd of partygoers on a beach in Catalina. It’s just getting dark. She’s wearing a black one-piece swimsuit that you can tell at a glance is expensive.

  In an instant I have her whole life:

  A B-list celebrity gets a crush on her while attending one of her troop’s improv shows. He’s only there out of social obligation. They chat after the show. They get along famously, because everybody gets along with Jackie. Nothing ever happens between them, but they remain friends. She makes his friends her friends; makes his connections her connections.

  A failed sitcom pilot. A few roles as the goofy friend in mid-list rom-coms, and then a breakout in a lame but shockingly popular bro comedy. She’s the It Girl for only a moment, but she parlays that into creative control. She starts writing her own projects. Gets a sitcom that sticks. A spattering of beloved cult movies. She’s not A-list anymore, but she could be again if she wanted to. A few calls to the right people, who all love her—everybody
does—and she’s back in the limelight. If she wants it. She’s not sure she does.

  On a beach in Catalina, Jackie ends her anecdote and the assembled crowd laughs. She tells them she’s going to get a drink—her hard drinking is infamous, but like everything with her, it’s mostly embellished. She walks along the shoreline, alone, out toward the old lighthouse. She stares quietly for nearly an hour.

  I wonder what’s going on in her head. As soon as I do, I know—

  —just left her down there what could you do you could have called the police and you know it tell them what happened it’s not your fault whose fault is it—

  Oh, no. Jackie.

  She strips out of her swimsuit, pale skin practically glowing in the rising moonlight. She steps into the water.

  No.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  }}}Jackie. 2032. Catalina Island, California.}}}}}}}}}

  I’ve got a rule: one drink per hour when out in public. Of course, it can’t look like that. I’ve got a reputation to maintain as the eternal party girl.

  There’s a big difference between the eternal party girl and the real drunk. The eternal party girl never does anything too embarrassing when she’s hammered, because she’s old-school classy; she doesn’t get hangovers because they’re ugly; she doesn’t throw up after she’s had one too many—she just farts out some pixie dust and bam! Sober as an NPR special.

  It was fun and earnest at first, then I got too old for it. But now it’s part of “my story.” I had to switch to gin and tonics years ago. Now I alternate between those and regular tonic water—they’re both clear and bubbly, plus the quinine’s so overpowering, nobody could even smell the difference, if they went around smelling drinks for some reason.

  There’s a metaphor for Hollywood in here somewhere.

  I shouldn’t get too bitter at Hollywood. I can’t pretend it hasn’t been good to me. I’ve got money, fame—even respect from the art crowd when they, y’know, actually remember that I exist. It’s all I ever wanted, right?