But you see, none of that mattered to the old man, who was now sitting quietly in the far southern booth of Harv’s 24-Hour Diner, Best Eats on Highway 127.
He was alternating from staring out the window at the dry and cracked red Georgia clay that made up Harv’s parking lot, and a dry splotch of brownish goo on the sun-bleached Formica tabletop before him.
He was still reeling from his eye-opening, albeit brief, visit to New York City. He pulled the feather from his jacket and took in its beauty. He held it gently by the tip and with his other hand, ran the back of his fingers along the feather’s silky smooth surface. He continued caressing the feather even as his gaze moved back to the window next to him. The old man just stared, lost in thought until he was shaken back to reality by the reflection of the waitress as she approached his table.
“You ready to order, hon?” she asked with a slight southern drawl. It was a low, sexy voice. Almost like a loud whisper. The old man stared at her reflection in the grimy window for a moment, then turned to her. Her short fire-red bob hair bounced once then settled as she came to a stop. He marveled at her beauty and thought to himself, So lovely, even after all this time.
He slowly turned toward her—read her nametag, Rose. He smiled at the name, knowing what her real name was and how it had only changed a little.
Rose was about to speak when she noticed the feather in the old man’s hand. She was struck by its beauty. “That’s beautiful,” she whispered.
The old man nodded, “It is, isn’t it?” Then he held it out toward her. “Would you like to hold it?”
Rose held her sight on the feather, but slowly shook her head, “No, I couldn’t…”
“I insist,” the old man said and held the feather out for Rose to take.
She reached out hesitantly, she didn’t feel like she should touch it but her hand seemed drawn to the feather and she couldn’t keep herself from taking it. As she delicately wrapped her fingers around the offered end of the feather, Rose’s breath caught for a second. She looked into the eyes of the old man. Something touched her deep inside and she felt flushed with confusion. She tried to shake it off. She started to speak and stammered a bit, clearing her throat and continuing.
“What is… I…” she struggled for words, fear beginning to blend with the confusion.
The old man smiled and reached up and wrapped his hand around Rose’s and pressed the feather deep into her grasp. Rose dropped her order pad. Tony, the cook, saw what was happening and warily moved to her rescue as he had done in the past, only this time he made it two steps before he froze, as did everything in the diner—everything except for Rose and the old man in the far southern corner booth.
Rose stood stone still, fear running through her blood. But only for a second, because the fear was soon flushed away with a feeling of euphoria. Something buried deep, deep inside her had been uncovered, rediscovered and was resurfacing.
“It’s time…Rose…” the old man said soothingly, a very slight but patient smile on his face, “…time for you to awaken.” And with that, the old man filled Rose with the images of eons past. He showed her all that was beauty and all that was pain—he showed her the war between Heaven and Hell. The memories flooded into Rose and she shed a tear for each of her brothers and sisters fallen in battle for…what? Nothing really. And she cried for each millennia of missed memories stolen from her by this man sitting before her now. And suddenly her anger for this man grew. She tried to shake his grip, but he held fast. And continued to fill her mind. This time it was a recent battle—one that involved God directly, one which didn’t go His way. And she watched as God, lazy and weak, had been cast out of Heaven. She felt as though she should feel sorry for this old man, but couldn’t. She finally shook his hold, or he let go, she wasn’t sure. She stepped back, breathing heavily. Her face a mask of pain and sorrow painted with cheap running make-up. Rose took a couple of deep breaths, paused, eyes wide, and hauled off and punched God right in the side of the head.
««—»»
It’s not all despair and pain. In fact there isn’t a lot of pain. Not anymore. Hell is no longer for suffering, it’s for building. Hell is a city—a city that runs like any other city. It requires workers—souls—souls that would work for eternity to help build the biggest, grandest city in all creation. All in tribute to a vision and the one who came up with the vision…
Lord Lucifer was looking over the plans for a new section of Hell. It would be mostly housing. The workers’ numbers were increasing. Souls were being had easily. Lucifer knew why, and could care less. He had heard the reports of the ousting of God from Heaven and he shrugged. He knew the battle for souls with the angels had subsided. Gabriel hated humans and wanted nothing to do with them and therefore there would be no more fighting for their souls. Of course there were some holdouts—some who were out on the lines still fighting the good cause, oblivious to the change of power, the change of plans. And this is why Lucifer kept troops out on the front lines, not so much to fight for souls, they were pretty much ending up here anyway. No, he kept troops out there to keep an eye on Heaven’s soldiers who didn’t give up. Lucifer needed to keep an eye on them. Let them keep fighting. It was a pointless task on the angels’ part. So when the time comes that all the angels are called home, Lucifer would then bring his troops back and train for a different task. But he also knew he could never let his guard down. His brothers and sisters above were treacherous beings—as evident by the ousting of their own maker.
For now, things must go on. He had a city to run, to build. His city, his vision, his world. Not God’s, not the human’s, not the angel’s…his. This is what concerned him most.
««—»»
Gabriel sat quietly upon the throne of Creation. He rubbed his eyes and sighed. He had done it. He had achieved what he had wanted to for so long. So much planning and time and effort. And for nothing. It wasn’t hard. No flashes of light, no pain and destruction. Nothing. God had just smiled slightly and left. One moment He was there and the next gone. Gabriel had no idea where He had gone. After all, He was the Creator. He could have gone anywhere. It was something that nagged at him constantly. God had grown weak, but Gabriel had still expected a fight of some sort. But God’s quiet surrender was more disturbing than the expected battle for power. In a way, and to most of the other angels, it appeared as if what Gabriel had been saying all along were true. God had grown weak. Too weak to fight. Too weak to care. So he had simply left.
Gabriel liked to believe this, but something told him it wasn’t true. So he must be prepared. He had established a tight security on the borders of Heaven. He had sent messengers to the angels battling for souls. For them to come home and help defend Heaven from any future attack—any attempt at reclamation of the throne by God. Lucifer could have the souls, he was getting them anyway. Let him build his tribute to himself. Arrogant bastard. At least that would keep him busy and he wouldn’t feel the need to meddle in the affairs of Heaven.
Gabriel stood and moved to the balcony of the throne room and looked out upon Heaven. Beautiful in every sense—especially now that all the souls had been gathered and banished to the plains of Purgatory. He thought of the cesspool that the humans had turned their world into. “God’s blessed children,” Gabriel said with contempt. Let them wallow in their own filth and then go to Hell to continue doing the same thing they had done all their miserable lives. Let Lucifer build his world with the human vermin. Heaven would be pure and not bear the taint of humanity.
Gabriel stood on the balcony of the highest point in Heaven. Its beauty almost made him cry. But he shook it off and thought about the future. And he thought about…
A rustling behind him brought Gabriel out of his thoughts. Zaliel had come into the room with a dire look upon his face. Gabriel knew what it meant and he knew this would come. Zaliel nodded to Gabriel, “He’s coming.”
“I know,” Gabriel said, turning back to the window. I knew he would, he thought.
THE END
—
Dave Barnett lives on the outskirts of Orlando, Florida with Dexter his crazy shepherd/basset mix. During the day he works as a graphic designer for his Fat Cat Design company designing books for lots of small press publishers. At night he becomes DJ L.D. and runs Necropolis, a long-running industrial / EBM / synthpop / electro night at The Independent Bar in downtown Orlando and at Venue 13 on the weekend.
Somewhere in there he has managed to run Necro Publications since 1993, publishing some of the best names in modern horror: Edward Lee, Charlee Jacob, Gerard Houarner, Mehitobel Wilson, Jeffrey Thomas, Patrick Lestewka and dozens of others in various anthologies.
Dave has been published in a couple of the Shivers anthologies from Cemetery Dance Publications. He also has a story in the two-author chapbook The Baby along with Edward Lee. His collection, Dead Souls, came out form from Shocklines Press in 2004 and at least a couple of people seemed to like it.
The Fallen: Book 1 is the first in what will hopefully be a long series books containing tales about angels and demons that will finally come together (fingers crossed) in one climatic battle for Heaven.
You can visit his official site at:
http://www.evilwriter.com
Table of Contents
Introduction
Of Angels Fallen
Daddy Demon’s Day Out
Sleeper Agents Awaken
Tales of the Fallen Book I: Awakenings Page 11
