The Unification Chronicles: Between Heaven and Hell

by Jeff Kirvin

  To punctuate his statement, Rockport lunged at Daniel. Daniel barely had enough time to grab Rockport's outstretched arm and bring his elbow down hard on it, snapping both bones in the forearm.

  Instead of grabbing his arm in agony, Rockport flashed Daniel that same haunting grin and flung the arm sharply out to the side. Daniel and Susan could both hear a sharp pop as the bones were jarred back into place. Stepping forward, Rockport slugged Daniel across the jaw with the arm that had been broken only moments before.

  Daniel got quickly to his feet. “Susan! Run!"

  Needing no further encouragement, Susan bolted out the door and right into Jeff, both of them hitting the pavement in a tangle of arms and legs. She'd barely started to get up when the window exploded in a shower of broken glass as Rockport hurtled through it.

  "What the Sam Hill is going on here?” Jeff exclaimed.

  Susan was about to explain when Daniel appeared in the doorway and cut her off. “Susan, get out of here! I can't hold him off forever!"

  "Right you are.” Rockport had gotten to his feet and charged Daniel too quickly for Daniel to react. In less than a second, Rockport had Daniel pinned against the side of the building.

  Susan made a move to intervene, but Jeff grabbed her arm, his grip surprisingly strong. “I have a better idea, but we have to hurry."

  With a look back at Daniel, Susan followed Jeff into the parking lot.

  Daniel couldn't move. Rockport's steel grip was growing steadily tighter.

  "You have no idea,” Rockport hissed, “what you've gotten yourself and your friend into, do you?"

  Rockport's fingers clamped securely around his throat, Daniel couldn't answer. He instead worked on wriggling one arm free.

  "You just couldn't leave well enough alone. You had to butt in. You had to root through my apartment. You're a nosy little speck, and this time it's going to cost you."

  As Rockport tightened his grip around Daniel's throat, Daniel popped an arm free and dug his fingers deep into Rockport's eyes, causing them to well up dark crimson blood. Rockport stumbled back, clutching his face, only to straighten up and catch Daniel's fist as Daniel threw a punch. Daniel was shocked to see that not only were Rockport's eyes undamaged, but they weren't even bloodshot. It was as if the injury never happened.

  "You're only delaying the inevitable,” calmly and smoothly bringing his free hand on Daniel's outstretched arm, snapping it like a twig. “Sooner or later, you all die."

  As Rockport drew back for the killing blow, they were both bathed in a powerful white light and looked up at a throaty growl coming from the parking lot. Before either could react, Jeff's Winnebago came barreling out of the darkness, plowing into Rockport and stopping alongside Daniel. Susan threw the side door open and pulled Daniel inside.

  "Go!” she screamed as Jeff floored it, leaving patches of pungent rubber as he headed for the open road.

  As they turned out of the parking lot, Rockport leapt at the vehicle, digging his fingers into the metal of the right front fender.

  "What the—” Jeff yelled as he swerved violently to the right, shearing off his unwelcome passenger by slamming him into a lamppost.

  Safe for the moment, the trio sped away into the night.

  Moments after Jeff's taillights disappeared, the corpse recently known as Floyd Rockport began to pull itself together. The dent in the crushed skull popped out with a sickening squish and the dislocated arm fell back into place. Slowly, Rockport rose to his feet and stared off into the distance.

  As he stood there, a greasy, potbellied man in his fifties stumbled out of the management office, clutching a bottle of whiskey.

  "What the hell's going on here?” he shouted, staggering over to where Rockport stood.

  Rockport looked briefly over his shoulder, then stepped towards the motel manager.

  "Who's gonna pay for this?” The man gestured at the broken glass in the parking lot, then shook his whiskey bottle at Rockport.

  With a smooth and practiced motion, Rockport grabbed the manager's head in both hands and twisted it sharply, snapping the spinal column. The man dropped like a sack of potatoes and twitched feebly.

  Rockport walked silently down the street, disappearing into the gloom.

  Hellos and Goodbyes

  Jeff's Winnebago sped down Route 66 away from the brightening eastern sky.

  Inside, Daniel reclined on one side of the booth that served as the “dining room” and rested his arm on the table. Susan sat across from him. Now that they were on the open road, Jeff thought it might be a dandy time to talk. “You folks mind telling me just what the hell was going on back there?"

  "I'd tell you if I knew, Mister Frankel,” Daniel hissed between clenched teeth.

  "Jeff!"

  "Fine. Jeff.

  "Susan, we don't have much time. You're going to have to set and splint this arm before I go into shock and pass out."

  "I am? You're the paramedic! I don't know—"

  "I'll talk you through it, but we've go to move fast. I don't know how much longer I can stay conscious. First, find something to splint with and something I can bite down on."

  As Susan got up and foraged through the “kitchen,” she heard Jeff muttering to himself up in the cab. Jeff's mobile residence seemed to fit his personality. Scattered and eclectic, it was a decorator's nightmare. He had cheap roadside knick-knacks from nearly everywhere in North America, including lots of places she'd never heard of before, and probably never would again. In the jumbled morass of a kitchen drawer were several wooden spoons and she found a roll of duct tape behind a ceramic bear cookie jar with the name “Yellowstone” emblazoned across the front. She brought the tape and spoons over to Daniel, noticing that his eyes were starting to lose focus.

  "Okay,” she said loudly, getting his attention. “Now what?"

  Daniel looked over what she found. “Give me one of the spoons."

  She handed it over and he placed it sideways between his teeth.

  "Okay,” he said around the spoon, “you're gonna need to grab my wrist and pull it straight towards you until it won't go any further, then let it pop straight back into place. Then you're going to splint it with the spoons and tape, keeping it immobile. Put a blanket over me if I pass out, but make sure I can't move the arm. Ready?” He bit down hard on the spoon.

  Susan nodded and with a deep breath grabbed Daniel's wrist. Jeff ran over a pothole, jarring her grip and eliciting a scream from Daniel.

  "Sorry!” Jeff and Susan yelled in unison.

  Susan took Daniel's wrist again and pulled sharply straight out until the arm was extended as far as possible, then immediately let it snap back into place. Daniel let loose an earsplitting scream and snapped the spoon handle in his teeth before passing out. Susan rested the arm carefully on the table and applied the splint as gingerly as she could. When she was finished, she stepped away from Daniel's unconscious form.

  "Jeff! Do you have a blanket for Daniel?"

  "Check the linen closet,” he shouted back. “It's just to the right of the bathroom."

  Among the assorted junk Susan found in there was an old olive drab wool blanket that smelled faintly of mothballs and had the words “U.S. ARMY” stenciled on in faded white paint. She took it down and draped it over Daniel, being careful not to disturb the arm resting on the table. That done, she walked forward to the cab to sit with Jeff.

  "Now that he's all squared away,” Jeff began, keeping his eyes on the road, “could you please tell me what the devil's going on?"

  "I don't completely understand myself, but I'll tell you what I know. It all started about two weeks ago..."

  Susan went on to tell Jeff about the wreck, all the terrible things that had happened to Daniel since, how she and Daniel had met and the events leading up to their timely escape from Rockport at the motel. When she was finished, Jeff drove in silence for a long moment.

  "Are you trying to tell me that guy trying to kill you back there was some kind of i
mmortal monster?"

  "Believe me,” Susan said, “I know how ridiculous it sounds, and I didn't really believe that part of it either until tonight. What that guy did back there just isn't possible for a normal person."

  "Maybe he was one of those swami types,” Jeff suggested. “You know, one of those martial arts people that can just ignore pain?"

  "You don't understand. His arm healed, instantly, right then and there. It was like he didn't even feel it.” Susan shivered at the memory.

  They both sat in quiet contemplation for a bit while Jeff drove, the dawn slowly creeping up behind them.

  "Show him in."

  Three men sat in an elegantly appointed parlor in downtown Washington. The room smelled faintly of oak paneling and old money. Lining the walls were bookcases, hundreds of leather bound tomes gathering dust on the shelves. All the illumination came from old fashioned reading lamps placed on small tables next to the plush, leather upholstered chairs the men reclined in, casting their faces into shadow. All three seemed to have well-maintained bodies underneath their costly hand tailored suits.

  The door opened and the being that had so recently terrorized Daniel and Susan walked in. Although there were ample chairs in the room, he stood stiffly, facing the men that had summoned him.

  "Good morning, Batarel,” the first man said. “You've had a busy night."

  "Yes, sir,” Batarel said. “I almost had them. I believe they were headed west, and—"

  The second man held up his hand and Batarel fell silent.

  "You've become something of a disappointment,” the third man said.

  "Sirs, I know this looks bad, but—"

  The second man cut him off. “It looks terrible. You've had to establish a new identity nearly a dozen times in the last century."

  "This time you were noticed,” the first man pointed out.

  "You let the angels ransack your dwelling,” the second man added.

  "And you let the human that discovered you survive,” the third man said. “Not to mention that he's enlisted the help of that reporter."

  "That wasn't my fault—"

  "You're this close,” the second man said, holding his hand up with the thumb and forefinger about an inch apart, “to becoming a major liability. We are not strong enough to combat the angels openly. We cannot afford to have our existence exposed."

  Batarel started to say something, but thought better of it and stood stoically.

  "That said,” said the first man, “you're being reassigned."

  "Sirs, I must protest!"

  "This is not open to negotiation,” the second man said.

  "But what about Cho?"

  "Cho is no longer your concern,” the third man said. “He will be dealt with."

  "You'll receive the details of your new assignment and identity shortly,” the first man said. “Good morning."

  His audience at an end, Batarel left the room.

  "Jeff? I think he's waking up."

  Daniel opened his eyes to the bright sunlight streaming in the windows of the Winnebago. As he stirred and straightened in the booth a bolt of pain shot through his arm, causing him to nearly bite through his tongue.

  "We've got to get him to a doctor,” Susan said.

  "That's one of the things I aim to discuss,” Jeff said as he pulled the Winnebago off the road and cut the engine. “There's some Tylenol in the bathroom. I think Daniel might need some right about now."

  As Susan went to get the medicine, Jeff slid into the booth across from Daniel. “Susan told me what's happened to you two,” he said as Susan returned with the Tylenol and a glass of water, “and I want in."

  "What?” Daniel almost spit water all over Jeff.

  "I think I can help you. I have a place you can stay,” Jeff said, gesturing around the cabin, “and it's a place they can't find."

  "Jeff, you can't be serious."

  "Can't I? You need me, Daniel."

  Daniel sighed in exasperation. His arm hurt like hell, and the last thing he needed was an argument with this garrulous old man. “As much as I appreciate the offer, I really can't ask anyone else to risk their neck on my behalf."

  "Who says you're asking?"

  "I've already dragged Susan into this—"

  "No you didn't,” Susan said. “I volunteered."

  "And I'm doing the same,” Jeff said. “Look at it this way. I'm retired. I ain't got no family. I put all my money into this Winnebago and I travel the country looking for something to do with the rest of my life. I really think this might be it, and like I said, you need me."

  Like Hell I do, Daniel thought. Just then, Susan rested her hand on Daniel's good arm.

  "He has a point. I keep telling you that you aren't in this alone. We need Jeff's help."

  "I can't be responsible for your safety!"

  "So who's asking you to be?” Jeff snapped. “Look, I know what I saw last night, what Susan told me. I know this is dangerous. I also know that in the nine years I've been driving this damn thing around, this is the first time I really feel alive, and important. I need this as much as you need me.

  "And dammit, I'm gonna help you whether you like it or not!"

  Daniel could see that any attempt to talk the aging Samaritan out of it was futile. He'd wanted to keep this whole mess to himself, to spare others from the danger he knew Rockport represented. That wasn't going to happen, apparently.

  "Where are we?” Daniel asked.

  Jeff broke out a map book and pointed to a spot just outside Reston.

  "Okay,” Daniel said. “Let's find a clinic and get a real cast put on this arm. After that we can try to figure out who Rockport's working for."

  Grinning from ear to ear, Jeff fired up the Winnebago.

  Those doddering old fools! Batarel fumed as he stormed across the parking lot and got behind the wheel of the same brown Buick he'd used to run Daniel off the road.

  Of course, the three beings that'd just reassigned him weren't actually any older than he was, but he tended to think of them that way. While Batarel worked hard to stay on top of the times, his superiors were mired in the old ways. That's the problem, he thought as he pulled out into the D.C. traffic. The very power and influence they flaunted over him would be the key to their downfall. They didn't know how to change with the times.

  In the old days, the sort of problem that they had with Cho wasn't too serious. Before electronic communications, even if someone who knew the truth about them was believed, Batarel and his brothers could rely on word traveling very slowly. They had ample time to put together a cleanup operation.

  Contrary to what his superiors thought, these were not the old days. Cho and his cronies had access to the world media, the Internet, to any number of ways to get word out quickly and globally. They had to be stopped. It was clear to Batarel that if left up to his superiors, their organization would be exposed and the angels would be able to use the humans to destroy them. If he stayed quiet, if he accepted his reassignment, they were all doomed.

  Cho had to be stopped, and it was up to him.

  Pumped full of resolve, Batarel disappeared into the D.C. rush hour.

  A New Lead

  "What the hell is this?” Jeff stared incredulously at his fender as Susan and Daniel walked out of the clinic, Daniel sporting a new fiberglass cast.

  "What are you yelling about?” Daniel asked.

  "This! What the hell is this?” Jeff pointed at several long, thin gashes in his right front fender. Daniel crouched down to get a better look and came to the easy conclusion.

  "Rockport."

  "You mean he—"

  "Dug his hands into your fender. Yup, that's it."

  Jeff stood and sputtered, eyes riveted on the gouges in the metal.

  "Come on, guys,” Susan said, stepping into the Winnebago. “We've got work to do. Providing,” she said to Jeff, “you're still in on this."

  "You kidding?” Jeff said as he ushered Daniel inside before joining them. “Bast
ards messed up my home. There's hell to pay now."

  They all sat down at the table, Susan already booting up her laptop. Daniel was in much better spirits now that his arm was fully immobilized up to the elbow. He was most relieved that getting it reset and casted wasn't a big deal. They got it done, paid their bill and left. They didn't even need insurance.

  "Before our little disturbance last night,” Susan began, “I was telling Daniel that I tracked the number Steve was supposed to call to a Richard Birchmere, an assistant director of the Social Security Administration. What we don't know is why he'd care about Daniel. There's no obvious connection."

  "Could we tail him and find out who he talks to?” Daniel asked. “Maybe he's just a middle man."

  "Not easily,” Susan said. “He might notice a Winnebago following him around everywhere he goes."

  "Tap his phone?” Jeff suggested.

  "With what?” Susan asked. “It's not going to be easy digging up dirt on this guy. As long as I'm underground, I can't even rely on my usual contacts."

  "So what can we do?” Daniel asked. He started to worry that his search was over before it began.

  Susan thought for a moment, then grinned sheepishly. “Well, there is something, but I haven't done it since college, and it's a little weird..."

  "I can't believe I'm doing this,” Daniel said. He and Susan were crouched in the bushes outside Richard Birchmere's house, a beautiful split-level in Friendship Heights, an upscale suburb of Washington. Jeff was across the street in the Winnebago, acting as lookout.

  "I know it sounds weird,” Susan said, “but you can learn a lot about a person by looking through his garbage.” She gestured to Jeff, who gave them the thumbs up.

  "The coast is clear,” she said. “Let's go."

  Daniel followed Susan around to the back of the house. Birchmere's lawn was neatly trimmed and immaculate with a small wooden tool shed in the far corner. Near the back door was a small bin with one white kitchen trash bag, the kind with drawstrings, tied neatly. Daniel and Susan walked over to it.

  As Susan grabbed the bag, she heard a low, menacing growl. She froze and slowly turned her head to the right. Next to the tool shed stood the biggest Rottweiler she had ever seen, staring at her intensely. “Daniel?"