by Dane Cobain
“And I thought you gave good advice.”
“My friend,” said Montgomery, patting him on the back. “You won’t need a job where we’re going. There are two possible destinations… we die and so does humanity, or we live and you spend your days on national news and talk shows.”
Jones shuddered and lit another cigarette. “You’re sure there’s not a third?”
***
Later that night, when Jones relented and fell asleep on the only bed in the rectory, Montgomery finished his Hail Marys and walked over to the window. The dull dormitory was like a jail cell, and the winter chill swept through the dusty rectory like a famine.
Outside, the graveyard was deserted, and the moon shone through the pollution like a lighthouse. Then it dipped behind a cloud and was gone. Montgomery was not alone.
In the distance, a flash of light beamed from the dark sky and earthed itself on the roof of an office block. A wisp of smoke rose towards the heavens and evaporated; then, a half-dozen Angels materialised. Montgomery stared at them over the top of his long nose. They stared right back at him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: THE END IS NIGH
Tuesday December 22nd, 2009
EARLY THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Jones rose from a light slumber to a misty grey morning that seemed to shroud everything in mystery. Reluctantly, he dragged himself into the bathroom to wash and shave, knowing that no-one was going to see him. He sensed another wasted day at the computer.
The razorblade was sharper than expected, and as he dragged it across his skin, he nicked an old cut and blood began to drop into the basin. Each drop sounded like the tolling of a bell, and Jones watched it impassively as it rolled slowly down the drain. When he’d finished, he dabbed the wound with toilet paper until the blood began to coagulate.
***
The church was deserted, and Father Montgomery was still asleep on the floor of the rectory. Jones glanced at his peaceful face and left him to get some rest, walking down the aisle and out through the heavy oaken doors.
He looked left and then right; the sun’s early light washed over him like a cold shower. Jones felt dirty – he hadn’t bathed properly for several days. A lick of wind blew dust and dirt across the graveyard and stained the legs of his trousers. He heard the faraway bark of a stray dog and shivered.
Jones lit the last of his cigarettes and stepped away from the door of the church, strolling through the yard in the half-light. He could hear something, a distant whisper like the spray of an aerosol. He followed his ears along the beaten path, examining the abutments for the source of the strange noise. He saw the boy a moment later.
“Hey!” he shouted, raising a finger and pointing at the miscreant.
A teenage boy in skater shoes was clutching a can of spray-paint. His peaked cap faced backwards and his jeans sagged, exposing an inch of boxer shorts beneath his t-shirt. He ignored Jones completely and continued to graffiti the wall of the church.
“Hey,” Jones repeated, grabbing the youth on the shoulder. “I’m talking to you.”
This time, the boy turned around. “What?”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
The teenager shrugged and dropped the can into the flowerbed. Then, with a surprising lick of speed, he ran towards the old metal railings and vaulted over them before Jones had closed half of the distance between them.
“Get back here!”
The teenager just laughed and jogged away down the street. Jones put his foot on the railing and started to haul himself over, but the distance between them was already too great. Instead, he returned to the scene of the crime and inspected the damage. Well, he thought. The kid has a point…
It was there for the world to see, sprayed in metre-high letters on the wall of the holy church: ‘THE END IS NIGH’.
Jones cursed to himself and picked up the aerosol from the flowerbed. He put it in his coat pocket and went to fetch the priest.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR: EXODUS
Tuesday December 22nd, 2009
HIGH ABOVE the cloud-line, the moon and stars shone brighter than ever before, undiluted by the dirt and the grime in the atmosphere. There was no sign of life – above was only space and desolation, mankind’s final frontier. Way down below, occasional aircraft were invisible to the naked eye, tiny drops of life in the universe.
In the thin and unbreathable air, a storm was gathering. From every corner of the earth, from the nadir of the deep seas to the zenith of the highest mountains, the collective conscience of the Angels began to gather its forces and focus them on their terrible goal.
The stars blinked and went out, and the moon burned fiery white. At first, there was nothing but silence. Then, the terrible silhouettes of the Angels began to appear, an endless stream of naked light jetting forth from their celestial base of operations.
One by one, the Angels joined the formation like geese flying south for the winter. They grew steadily in number and took time to travel, allowing the army to expand into the night. A hundred thousand pricks of light pierced the darkness; the stars were back in the sky.
Several thousand kilometres away, the bright lights of the city signalled to the Angels in semaphore. They didn’t speak; they didn’t have to. The terrible beings knew there was only one destination; they had a job to do, and no priest was going to get in their way.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE: COMEUPPANCE
Wednesday December 23rd, 2009
JIMMY NEWCOMBE prowled the streets with aerosols in his back pockets and a bag of chips breathing life into his frozen hands. His shift had been a busy one – when society starts breaking down, graffiti and vandalism spread like a malicious plague. Jimmy had a reputation to think of.
That’s why he barely saw his parents, and why he’d spent two weeks’ wages on paints and templates. New signatures, new logos, and new sentiments were springing up on walls and doors all over town, and Jimmy wasn’t going to stand for it – these streets were his streets. He refused to be ousted by some punk with an attitude.
Jimmy jammed a final handful of chips into his mouth and threw the wrapper carelessly to the ground.
“You’re going down,” he muttered, spitting potato.
He reached into his back pocket, pulled out a blood-red aerosol, and began to spray his name onto the bins behind the curry house.
The deed done, he capped the aerosol and returned it to his pocket, then turned around to scan his surroundings for witnesses to the crime. He realised he wasn’t alone – something stirred in the darkness at the end of the alleyway.
“Who’s there?” he asked, receiving no response.
Suddenly, and with a brutal screech, a fox rocketed past him and into the busy street beyond, narrowly avoiding a head-on collision with a black SUV.
Jimmy watched it run and chuckled softly. “Damn it, why am I so jumpy?”
“Because you sensed that we were coming.”
Jimmy clutched at his head as the beautiful choir hit him like an X-ray. He knew that voice – he’d heard it in his dreams, seen the creatures that it came from. Slowly, and bravely, he turned around.
“I know what you are,” he said.
At first there were only two of them, but as the seconds passed, another half-dozen rose through the floor, always with the same impassive stare. When Jimmy turned around to scope his exit, it was blocked by a dozen more. Through the gaps in the phalanx, he saw cars pass along the road and away into the night. He felt alone.
“Then you know the purpose of our visit,” they decreed. “Your help was most appreciated. The old priest will be saddened when he sees what you did to the walls of his precious church.”
“I didn’t do it for you,” mumbled Jimmy.
“We know,” they said. “But still, you have served your purpose and will be punished accordingly. You have lived a life of wasted opportunities and masochism. You have terrorised the neighbourhood at night and caused your parents the grief that they deserve. On the other hand, you
have been helpful. We will give you an opportunity to speak.”
“Can I speak with paint?”
The Angels seemed almost amused, though their expressions and their posture stayed ever-constant.
“I might not get another chance,” Jimmy pleaded.
“Do as you please.”
For the first time in his life, Jimmy signed a wall with his name, rather than his tag. The two pieces of graffiti shimmered in the light of the Angels. He paused for a second, stepped back to admire his handiwork, and then hurriedly sprayed a final word – ‘Angels’.
Satisfied, he turned around to meet his antagonists. “I’m ready,” he said.
The Angels were placated. “And so are we.”
With their inscrutable faces and questionable sense of morality, they stepped forward and burned the artist, aerosols and all, and left his smoking corpse in the centre of the alley as a warning to the rest of humanity.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX: THE LAST SUPPER
Thursday December 24th, 2009
THEY ATE in silence, the clink of cutlery echoing ominously through the chamber like chains around the ankles of a prisoner. The meal was tasteless but nourishing, a beef stew cooked on a portable stove.
Montgomery ate noiselessly with closed eyes, spooning the meaty broth between his papery gums. Jones slurped noisily and read the newspaper, dribbling stew onto every other page. It was full of the same bad news – lists of disappearances, the latest theories on the nature of the Angels, and, here and there, the occasional feel-good piece about the festive season. The former businessman sighed and put down his spoon.
“I can’t take much more of this,” he said.
Montgomery grunted and finished his meal by draining the liquid from the bowl.
“We have to do something. We’re just sitting around and wasting time.”
“I have a plan,” replied Montgomery. “If we wait long enough, they’ll come to us.”
“And then what?”
“All in good time,” Montgomery said. He sat serenely at the table, his eyes still shut tight against the influence of external stimuli. “Have patience.”
“Uh-huh.” Jones finished his meal and slid backwards on his chair.
As he stood up, the priest opened his eyes and took in Jones’ flushed face and the pained look of exasperation that convoluted it.
“Sit down,” Montgomery said. “Here, beside me.”
Jones obeyed.
Montgomery continued, “There’s something I need to tell you. I might not get another chance.”
Jones said nothing – he just stared back at those wise old eyes.
“Do you remember what I told you about your mother?” Montgomery asked. “Your real mother? How she and I were close friends before her accident?”
“Of course,” Jones replied. “How could I forget?”
“Quite. She made me promise to keep an eye on you, to make sure that you grew up to be a fine young man. I’ve done my best.”
“You have.” Jones looked almost bored.
Montgomery took his hands and stared at him. “But there’s something I want you to know,” he said. “It’s time.”
Jones smiled at the sudden role-reversal – he felt strengthened, empowered that just this once, he could be of help to the old man. “Confide in me, Father Montgomery.”
“I…” he began. He stared morosely at his food, thought about what he was about to do, and lost confidence. Jones didn’t need to hear the truth, not now. There’d be a time and a place for that, and it wasn’t here and now.
“It’s nothing,” Montgomery said. “Just embrace me.”
The two men rose and hugged. The priest shed a silent tear while Jones stood strong. For Montgomery, all of the evil in the world had disappeared – he was at peace, at last.
“Your mother would be so proud.”
“Thanks, Father. It means a lot to hear you say that.” The two men continued to hug in silence for a moment, and then Jones broke it off and patted him on the shoulder. “Come on, Father. We have a job to do.”
Montgomery nodded, and they broke their embrace and left the rectory, walking through the dusty aisles and out into the night to meet the Angels.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN: THE LAST STAND
Thursday December 24th, 2009
THE STREETS WERE AWASH with light, little beacons of hope in a desert of darkness, but that darkness was a sanctuary when faced with the awesome might of the Angels. No-one dared to leave their houses; they knew that the Angels were on the attack.
The streets were packed for kilometres around. An uncountable host of Angels had descended upon the city, united with a common goal, a common opponent. Jones and Montgomery stood arm-in-arm outside the church, facing the lines of light.
“Feel no fear,” whispered the priest. “They feed on it and grow stronger.”
“Who’s afraid?” Jones’ face betrayed him. “Let’s do this.”
Even Montgomery shook excitedly with the thrill of adrenaline.
Father and son walked to the boundary of the churchyard, noticing the little details – the yellow-green moss on the tombstones, the frozen tread of animal footprints in the holy soil, the condensation on the cars that lined the kerb outside the graveyard.
Outside the grounds, the Angels’ leader stepped forward from his brethren and walked to meet Jones and Montgomery on the perimeter. The leader’s beautiful, aquiline face was crippled with resentment, a deep-seated hatred for the good in the evil that surrounded him.
“Brothers,” he howled, in a thunderous voice that sounded like the snapping of guitar strings. “Follow me to war.”
“It’s time,” whispered Montgomery, steering Jones forward.
They met just outside the churchyard, and for the very first time, the two men realised the enormity of the task that they were facing. Of all of the thousands in front of them, not one of them was human.
Montgomery made the sign of the cross and held out a hand in greeting. The leader of the Angels laughed, a sound like the crackle of a blazing fire, and extended his own hand in return. They shook, and the stench and sound of burning flesh filled the air. Jones swallowed back vomit and tore his eyes away from Montgomery’s withered arm; the priest didn’t even react.
When Jones dared to look back at the two adversaries, the leader of the deadly host appeared astonished, if it were possible. Montgomery’s right hand was a black mess of charred bone and singed skin, and the priest acted as if nothing were wrong.
“Let’s begin,” Montgomery said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT: EYES IN THE SKY
Thursday December 24th, 2009
“ONE LAST LOOP,” promised the co-pilot, trying to sooth the frayed nerves of his colleague. “You’ll be back with the kids in no time.”
“I won’t. They’re staying with their mother.” Jonas, the pilot, sighed. “I won’t see them this Christmas.”
The helicopter circled slowly in the sky, scouring the streets for anything untoward. Patrol had been quiet tonight, unusually so. Crime rates were sky high thanks to the Angels. The superintendent had given in by now, and the officers were admitting that the perpetrators really were what they said they were – ghosts that could never be caught.
Jonas sighed again and prepared to turn back. “It’s clean. Let’s head home, it’s Christmas Eve.”
“Negative, sir.” His co-pilot pointed at a dull glow on the horizon. “We’re under orders, remember? We need to monitor the disturbance. Better check it out.”
Jonas sighed for the third time, like the last breath of a dying man. The infernal glow of the Angels lit up the city and almost blinded them on their nearside. Something was afoot, but he didn’t want to be the one to point it out.
The chopper veered left and coasted towards the fire. It shone like a beacon in the night, despite the light pollution. The sight that awaited them was shocking. On the approach, the fire separated into thousands of tiny pinpricks shining like lanterns in the str
eets. It struck the moisture on the windshield and shone into the visors of the pilots, blinding them momentarily until Jonas had the good sense to veer right, leaving the Angels on the left.
“Oh my god,” he breathed.
It was like something from another world; Hollywood effects on his doorstep. Only now could they take in the full enormity of what they were seeing – pavement after pavement, street after street, postcode after postcode of the gathered fury of the Angels, standing to attention and staring. The pilots could see dimly through polychromatic spheres that danced before their eyes. Jonas followed their gaze.
“Sweet Jesus,” he said.
His friend and colleague looked like Jonas felt – terrified, and full of foreboding.
“There’s a man down there.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE: PARLEY
Thursday December 24th, 2009
MONTGOMERY WAS SWEATING like an animal, but his eyes were as stolid as always. He stood proud beside his son, examining the remains of his hand in the Angel-light.
“I must meet their leader as an equal,” said Montgomery, answering Jones’ unspoken question. “It’s the only way.”
The Angels laughed as one, then their leader spoke. “You are quite right, old man. This is the only way it can be. Your child may leave us.”
“I’m not a child,” Jones growled.
“But you once were. Did your father never tell you about your true parentage? The man that you stand beside is the man whose sin impregnated your mother. You, my child, are born of sin. We will take great pleasure in destroying you.”
Jones was stunned – he looked into the priest’s eyes, and saw the truth, at last. His heart rose and sank at the same time, filled with renewed love for his father and renewed hatred for his adversary. Montgomery squeezed his hand and stepped forward.
