A Kiss Before the Apocalypse

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  Casey gazed into the darkness through the rain-spattered passenger's window. “That's probably what he meant about starting fresh after his illness.”

  Remy wanted to agree. The illness had indeed allowed Israfil to start fresh, providing him with an established identity – a life – that he could slip into like a comfortable suit of clothes. And then it hit him. Casey had never known Jon Stall at all; it was Israfil that she had fallen in love with.

  She looked away from the window and at him. “Just tell me that you didn't do anything wrong . . . you or Jon.”

  Remy remembered the war in Heaven, wings spread as he dropped down from the skies, his sword cutting a bloody swath through the forces of the Adversary.

  Killing his brothers.

  She waited for an answer that he wasn't sure how to pose, when he was saved by the ringing of his cell phone.

  “Excuse me.” He reached for his phone, and she turned back to the window. “Hello?” he said.

  “It's me,” said the unmistakable voice of Lazarus. He always sounded exhausted, like he had just woken up from a nap. Living as long as he had was obviously very tiring.

  “Hey,” Remy answered, avoiding a particularly nasty-looking pothole behind the Industrial Park. “Do you have something for me?”

  “Nothing,” Lazarus said sleepily. “But it isn't that I'm not trying. I hit a few hangouts . . . some demon social clubs. I asked about your beating and nobody was fessing up. They all thought it was pretty funny, though.”

  “A riot,” Remy answered. “Nothing about the other thing?”

  “Israfil? Nope, but they all sense something's up. The last place I was in was pretty wild. Lots of heavy drinking and fights. The natives were most definitely restless. Had to spread some serious cash around in order to get anybody to even look at me.”

  “I'll reimburse you.” Remy glanced over at the girl. She was drawing a smiley face in the window fog. “I might actually be on to something about that.”

  The phone was quiet, and for a moment Remy thought he might have lost the connection. “You still there?”

  “Yeah,” Lazarus answered. “Sorry about that. Do you think you know where he is?”

  “Maybe. I'm on my way to a place on Dorchester Street.”

  “The Angel of Death was living in Southie?” the immortal asked incredulously. “Maybe,” Remy told him.

  Again there was silence, and Remy had to wonder if Lazarus was watching television or something.

  “Well, good luck,” the immortal finally said. “Give me a call if you need anything.”

  “Yeah, you do the same.”

  “Was that about Jon?” Casey asked, as Remy returned the phone to its holder on his belt.

  “Sort of,” he replied. “It's a little complicated right now. I'll fill you in a bit more after I have a look around his study, all right?”

  He looked over at her to see she was staring directly at him. There was trust in her dark eyes as she nodded in agreement.

  “Good. Now, why don't you guide me the rest of the way. We have to be getting close now.”

  Casey did as he asked, directing him toward an olive green two-family building on Dorchester Street. He managed to find a parking space relatively close, on the other side of the street, among the bumper-to-bumper SUVs. Somebody had broken a bottle in the spot, making it unattractive, and Remy got out and kicked the glass around a bit with his shoe before parking.

  Collars pulled up against the rain, the two hurried across the street. She pulled her keys from a tiny purse and opened the front door. The entryway was warm and dry. The house, like many older buildings, smelled like food, like the hundreds of meals cooked there over the years. It was a good smell. A comforting smell.

  Casey put a finger to her lips, telling him to be quiet as they climbed the carpeted steps to the second floor.

  “The landlady's a pretty light sleeper,” she whispered, searching her key chain again. “I'll be hearing about it for days if I wake her up.”

  She found her apartment key and let them both in, switching on a ceiling light as they entered.

  “This is it,” Casey said, taking off her wet coat and throwing it on an old wooden chair that sat by the door. Remy left his coat on, casually checking things out.

  The door opened into their living room; mismatched furniture around an old television set, tasteful watercol-ors of what looked to be a beach house on Cape Cod decorating the walls. Beneath that was a framed and yellowed photograph, of what looked to be the same location captured by the watercolor artist, only in the photo there was family – mother, father, and son, dressed in the clothing of the time period, the early seventies, Remy believed – standing out in front of the cottage. He guessed that the child was Jon.

  In a recliner in the corner, a large tiger cat rose to its feet, arching its back in a quivering stretch. The animal eyed Remy curiously with large, yellowish eyes.

  “Hello,” Remy said to it.

  “Who?” the cat asked.

  “Who am I? I'm Remy. I'm a friend of your master.”

  “No master,” the cat proclaimed indignantly, then began to lick its paw, ignoring him.

  “Sorry,” Remy apologized. Cats always had the worst attitudes.

  “Feed?” it suddenly asked between licks. “Not me,” the angel answered it. Then, as if on cue, Casey returned with a dish in her hand.

  “Are you talking to Tyger?” she asked, a hint of a smile playing around the corners of her mouth.

  “She'll feed you,” Remy told the animal, hooking a thumb toward her.

  The cat meowed loudly, jumping down from the re-cliner, walking around Casey's feet, rubbing against her legs.

  “Come on,” she said to the cat. “I've got your supper here.” She turned back to the kitchen, Tyger following, complaining all the while that he shouldn't have had to wait so long to eat.

  Just beyond the living room was a short hall, and down the hall, a door. “Is this Jon's study?” Remy asked, raising his voice so that Casey could hear him in the kitchen.

  She came back to the living room, wiping her hands on an old dish towel. “Yeah, but I think it might be locked.”

  Remy grabbed the doorknob and tried to give it a turn. It was.

  “I'd really like to take a look inside,” he said to her.

  “I don't have a key,” she said. “Maybe you could open it with a screwdriver?” She started back down the hall. “There's one in the kitchen that we use to . . .”

  “I could open it with a minimum amount of damage,” he called after her.

  Casey stopped, slowly turning back to him. “Just try not to make a lot of noise, all right?” she warned.

  Remy put his shoulder against the door, and using only a portion of the strength that he possessed, pushed upon it, breaking the lock and a bit of the jamb. “I'll pay for that,” he said, as she joined him in the doorway.

  Remy allowed her to enter first. She reached up to pull a chain hanging from a fixture in the ceiling, illuminating the tiny room.

  “There isn't much to see,” she said, looking around the cramped space.

  And she was right. The room was small, with an old metal desk the dominant piece of furniture, squatting in the room's center. There were no pictures on the walls, no shade upon the naked bulb hanging from the ceiling. The room was coldly sparse.

  “Do you mind?” he asked her, pointing at the desk.

  “Go ahead.”

  Even the top of the desk was bare, except for a single ballpoint pen resting upon the flat surface, as if waiting to be used.

  Used for what? Remy wondered. He pulled out the desk chair and sat down. There were two drawers on either side. He opened one and found it completely empty. Not holding out much hope, he checked the larger drawer below it.

  “Hello there,” he said with surprise, reaching down and lifting out a stack of notebooks. “Do you know what these are?” Remy asked Casey as he placed the books on top of the desk.

&nb
sp; She shook her head, moving to stand beside him. She reached down and opened one. The notebook was filled with writing, page after page of writing, but not in a language she could understand.

  “What is this?” she asked, flipping the pages, as if hoping to find something that she could decipher, but Remy knew it would be impossible, for there were very few who could still read angelic script.

  “Is this . . . Latin?” she asked, frowning in confusion.

  “It's older than that,” Remy said. “You can read this?” she asked him. He nodded. “What's it say?”

  Remy took the last notebook from the bottom of the stack.

  And he began to read.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Remy found himself sucked down into the ancient script – Israfil's thoughts and feelings in his own words. And the angel's worst fears about what was happening became realized.

  It's even more than I suspected. Sensations and stimulations that threaten to overwhelm me every waking moment.

  How do they deal with it? How do they function? The sights, sounds, and smells; the bombardment is both terrifying and exciting all at the same time.

  If this is how it is for them even a fraction of the time, my admiration for them and for what the Almighty has created grows with leaps and bounds.

  The human species is even more remarkable than I originally believed.

  The body that I assumed for my experiment is now free of illness, and I can feel my new physical form growing stronger every day as I become acclimated to this new state of being.

  Jon Stall was a good man, afflicted with an incurable illness; he sought to live out the remainder of his existence attempting to understand the meaning of life . . . and of death.

  How many times did I listen to him as he spoke aloud of his condition, and how much he despised his affliction? He cursed the Creator for what was happening to him, but soon came to accept his inevitable fate, blaming no one and choosing to make what remained of his fleeting existence as rewarding as he possibly could.

  For a reason that I still do not fully understand, I was drawn to this example of humanity, grew more connected to him than to any of the other countless millions that I have assisted on to the next phase of existence. How I loved to watch him, to experience life as he did in his final days. But I knew that I could never hope to understand the full meaning of what I had come to admire so.

  The human experience; how attractive it had become. Jon Stall's life force was nearly expended, thanks to the disease that wracked his human frame. All he could do was wait for the inevitable . . . wait for me to release him.

  And he was ready, oh yes. He was waiting for my touch when I had the most ridiculous of ideas. Even as I write these words now, I cannot believe them. It was the most insane of thoughts, and yet seductively exciting.

  I would take his body, wear it like the finest of garments, and I would live as both human and angel, experiencing all that humanity had to bestow upon me, while still maintaining my function as God's Angel of Death.

  Oh, what an experiment that would be, I imagined, thrilled as I had never been before in my long years of being.

  And I was right. I was so right.

  Remy flipped through more of the journal, finding entry after entry about Israfil's experiences with being human. There was something frighteningly familiar about the words the angel had written; if Remy had kept journals during his time on earth, they would – he imagined – have read very much like these.

  But there was a difference. Israfil had appropriated a preexisting human body, merging with the dying college professor. Quite literally, Jon Stall's form, and everything that defined him, had been assumed by the Angel of Death.

  Remy had stifled his true nature, basically forcing his angelic essence to configure to a more human form. Yes, he was still an angel, but mostly all that defined him as such had been locked away deep inside.

  What Israfil had become was something altogether different, something unique, something both human and angelic attempting to live within a single form.

  It seemed like a recipe for disaster.

  And as Remy read through more of Israfil's journal entries, he began to see that his suspicions were right.

  I've assumed Jon's life . . . his job as a teacher of life functions . . . of biology. Tapping into his memories, I've found everything I need to continue his existence.

  Every day is more and more fascinating. I have even met a woman. Her name is Casey.

  Not long before the beginning of my study, I had taken her mother. What a small world. She is providing me with such insight.

  As far as humans go, I find her more outstanding than most.

  I think Jon would have liked her.

  I've become. . . involved. Romantically involved.

  I did not intend for it to happen, but it did.

  They are the strangest of things, these emotions and desires. I can barely contain them. Sometimes I wonder if I am actually in control.

  It's absolutely irrational, I know this, but I'm feeling a nearly overpowering need to apologize to her – -for performing my purpose – -for taking her mother.

  There appears to be a sort of conflict developing between my new humanity and my angelic function. This bears watching.

  I would hate to see it evolve into something unmanageable.

  Remy closed that journal and removed the last from the pile. Even the condition of the notebook gave a chilling insight into Israfil's deteriorating state. It was tattered and wrinkled, as if something had been spilled on it. A part of him did not want to open it, afraid of what he might find.

  Tyger padded into the study, hopping up onto the desk and sniffing at the various journals.

  “Where's your . . . ?” Remy almost said owner before changing his mind midsentence. “Where's Casey?”

  “Couch,” the cat said, rubbing the side of his face and neck against the corners of the stacked notebooks, marking them with his scent.

  Remy reached out to pet the animal and it reared back, avoiding his hand.

  “No touch,” Tyger warned.

  Remy pulled back his hand. If only Israfil . . . had remained so aloof, maybe they wouldn't be in the situation they currently found themselves in.

  Ignoring the animal, he turned his attention back to the last journal and slowly opened the cover. It was as he suspected. As he feared.

  It's becoming so hard.

  To shed this skin of humanity . . . to assume the form and purpose of what I was. Am.

  It's all so very sad. To end their lives. None of them wants to die; they cling so desperately to what little life remains. What right do I have?

  It's my job; that's what I keep telling myself, over and over, but it's getting so difficult.

  I know what they're feeling – how they think. They fear death . . . me, most of all. They fear my design. . . . They fear what I can do.

  There's so much pain, but still they hold on with both hands. Fighting to survive. Fighting to live. . . even for a second more. . . they fight.