A Kiss Before the Apocalypse

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  “I need you to tell me everything about the night he left – every single detail, no matter how unimportant it might seem.”

  She repositioned herself in the chair, bringing her legs up underneath her. “I'll try,” she said, running her fingers through her dark hair, mentally preparing herself. “Do you think I could have something to drink?”

  “You want some coffee?” Francis asked.

  Remy gave the man a stern look. “She cannot drink your coffee,” he stated firmly. “Just bring her some water.”

  “No need to get snippy,” Francis said, walking into the quaint kitchen area. “Sometimes it just doesn't pay to be sociable.”

  Shaking his head, Remy returned his attention to the girl. “He's getting you some water.”

  “Thanks,” she said, struggling to find a smile. “That night was sort of like a lot of nights around that time. I'd come home from work and Jon would be locked in his study.”

  “Here ya go, sweetheart,” Francis said, handing her a full glass of water.

  She took it from him and had a large sip right away.

  “And he was in the study that night when you got in?”

  Casey wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Yes, I could hear him in there, talking to himself.”

  “Any idea what he was saying?”

  “It was all muffled, but he sounded upset. I could hear him moving around, pacing . . . the desk drawers slamming,” she said, her gaze distant as she relived the past.

  She sipped some more water. “I was about to start making supper when I heard the door unlock and he came out. I was kind of shocked to see him. . . . It had been days.”

  Francis tightened the belt on his bathrobe. “So you were okay with your boyfriend locking himself in a room for days on end?”

  “Francis,” Remy scolded.

  “I'm just asking,” he retorted defensively.

  “It's all right,” Casey said. “I sort of have a pattern when it comes to relationships. The weird ones with issues are always drawn to me.”

  “Hit the jackpot with the last one,” Francis grumbled beneath his breath.

  “I think it might be wise for you to go sit over there,” Remy said, turning his gaze to the vacated recliner.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Francis said. “It's okay to save your ass from the Black Choir, but try and help you out with a case and it's a capital fucking offense.”

  Remy sighed, returning his full attention to Casey. “So, he finally left his study....”

  “Yeah, he looked awful. I wanted to go to him . . . you know, to comfort him . . . but something prevented me.”

  “Were you afraid of him?” Remy asked in his calmest of voices.

  At first she looked shocked, hurt, but then he saw the realization dawn upon her face. “Yes, yes I was. At that moment, I was afraid of him.” Casey started to cry. “Isn't that awful? Going through whatever it was he was going through, and I was too afraid to comfort him.”

  Remy tried to keep her in the moment. “Did he say anything?”

  Casey sniffed, bringing her hand up to wipe her running nose. “He just said he was going out, and he went.”

  “Did he take anything with him?” Remy asked. “Something to show that he maybe wasn't planning on coming back?”

  Slowly, she shook her head. “He stared at me for a minute after telling me that he was going, and then he left.” Casey paused, her gaze cloudy, and then Remy watched her expression change.

  “What is it? Did you think of something?”

  “His briefcase,” she said, eyes focused back on him.

  “What about his briefcase?”

  “He had it with him, but the only time he carried that was when he was going to work . . . to school.”

  Remy was on his feet. “I think I'd like to check out Jon's office at Mass Tech.”

  The woman got off the beanbag chair. “I can take you,” she said.

  “No,” Remy said firmly.

  She looked as though she'd been struck. “Why?”

  “You're just going to have to trust me,” the angel explained. “It would be best if you stayed with Francis.”

  Francis waved from the recliner. “Don't worry, I don't bite.”

  “He's kind of... y'know, weird,” she said speaking softly so that only Remy could hear.

  “Yeah, you're right about that, but there isn't anybody that I'd trust your safety with more. Please do what I ask.”

  “I'm gonna cry if you keep this up,” Francis yelled from his seat.

  “We're all going to be crying if I don't find what I'm looking for,” Remy said, fishing his car keys from his pocket.

  “You might want to think about changing your location,” Remy told his friend as he walked to the door. “The Black Choir knows we're here, remember.”

  “Good point.” Francis opened the door for him. It was still raining hard outside. “Safe house?”

  “Probably the best bet.” Remy turned the collar of his jacket up as he prepared for his run to the car.

  “I'll give you a call when we're settled,” Francis told him.

  Remy darted out into the downpour. “Hey, Chandler,” Francis called to him.

  Remy stopped at the car, opening the door as he waited to hear what Francis had to say.

  “I know it's tough, but don't do anything stupid.”

  He wished he could've made that kind of promise, but those times had long passed.

  Stupid may have been all that he had left.

  The rain was coming down in a diagonal sheet now, but it was late enough – or was it early? – that traffic was still relatively light.

  He wasn't far from the city campus of Massachusetts Technology and drove a little bit faster than he should, but time was of the essence, as his last dream of the Horsemen had shown him.

  Remy found his phone and dialed Lazarus' number. The immortal answered on the third ring.

  “You all right?” the man asked.

  “It's all relative,” Remy answered.

  “What's up?” Lazarus wanted to know.

  “I'm going to need you to back up Francis,” he said.

  “Something in motion?”

  “Yeah, you could say that,” Remy replied. “Somebody's out to start the Apocalypse, and they're looking for the scrolls,” he said, speaking louder than normal to be heard over the steady deluge of water that was battering his car.

  “Well, we're still here, so they haven't had any luck, I'd guess,” Lazarus said.

  “Yeah, but not for want of trying. Israfil's girlfriend and I were attacked by the Black Choir at her apartment. They were the same ones who roughed me up at the office. I don't think they're smart enough to be doing this on their own, so I'm guessing they're taking orders from somebody else.”

  “The Black Choir?” Lazarus sounded surprised. “You'd have to be wielding some serious power to keep them on a leash.”

  “That's what I'm afraid of,” Remy said, as he drove over the Harvard Bridge into Cambridge. “I think somebody is very serious about ending the world, and I doubt there's anything they wouldn't do to accomplish their goals.”

  “What can I do?” the immortal asked.

  “Go to the safe house, give Francis a hand with protecting the girl. I'm going to check out where Israfil's human aspect was working before he up and disappeared.”

  “Got it,” Lazarus said, but before Remy could end the call, the man began speaking again. “It . . . it's close to happening, isn't it, Remy?” Lazarus said, a hint of something that could very well have been fear tainting his voice.

  “Closest we've ever been, I think,” Remy said. “And we're not out of the woods yet, by far.”

  “Thanks for sugarcoating things for me,” Lazarus said, the two of them briefly laughing before wrapping up their conversation.

  No matter how many times he tried to squelch it, Remy couldn't get the idea from his mind: It was the closest the world had ever come to ending. The Horsemen were alre
ady here, waiting for the seals on the scrolls to be broken. And even though they had yet to be given the official go-ahead, their influence upon the world could still be felt.

  The intensity of the weather was only a minor exam- ple. He'd had the radio on earlier as he drove, but was forced to turn it off as stories of startling world events were reported. India and Pakistan were on the brink of a nuclear exchange, and North Korea had amassed troops and weaponry on the line of demarcation with South Korea. And then there was the spread of famine in Africa, reaching epidemic proportions with hundreds of thousands on the verge of death, and the outbreak of a mutated strain of flu in Los Angeles.

  The Horsemen were most definitely here, and the only member of the dark riders not exuding his influence was Death. Remy hoped that he had enough time to keep it that way.

  Remy finally reached Mass Tech and parked his car in front of the Dryfuss Library Building. He had taken Madeline here for some business seminars years ago, and knew that there was a system of tunnels beneath the college that connected just about all the buildings on campus. He figured he'd have the least amount of trouble getting in through the library, even at this late hour.

  He was right, getting inside the library through a side door, and easily avoiding contact with a security guard by willing himself unseen. Finding a mounted wall map of the tunnel system and the buildings that it connected, Remy found the one that he was looking for and headed in that direction.

  The Mahut Building was where the Department of Brain and Cognitive Sciences was located, and the offices of its teachers and professors were conveniently on the lower level.

  He reached the building quickly and headed down a well-lit hallway, certain from what he recalled of the map that the faculty offices were just up ahead and around the corner.

  There was a sudden crash, followed by what sounded like barking coming from behind a closed door on Re-my's right. His eyes darted around, searching for shadows, but he didn't see a thing. Cautiously, he walked up to the door and, cupping his hands over his eyes, peered through the window.

  It was a large laboratory, the entire back of the room lined with cages, and inside the cages, monkeys. Rhesus monkeys, he believed they were called. They were often used in medical experimentation. Most of the animals were asleep, but he saw that one of them was awake, standing up as it clutched the thin metal bars of its cage. It was looking directly at him as he peered through the window glass.

  Remy's heart had been racing, but now that he knew the source of the odd sounds, he found himself calming a bit. He moved on down the hall, turning the corner into a short corridor with offices on either side, and began looking for Professor Stall's name.

  He found the office at the end of the hallway, beside a custodian's closet. It was locked. If time hadn't been in such short supply, he would have picked the lock, but this needed to be done quickly.

  Remy placed the flat of his hand against the door, just above the knob, and started to push. There was a loud crack, and the door swung into the office, pieces of the jamb dropping down onto the carpeted floor. He quickly entered, closing the door the best he could behind him.

  He had to make this fast. He didn't know how early the staff was required to show up, but since there were animals to feed, he figured it had to be relatively early. Pulling the chain on the desk lamp, Remy began his search. First he went through the drawers in the old-fashioned wooden desk, removing all the contents – files, books, lecture notes – but came up with nothing.

  He stood, surveying the office, his eyes darting about, searching every corner. In a small space between an old file cabinet and the wall, Remy found a leather briefcase like the one Casey said Jon had taken with him that night.

  He snatched it from the floor and laid it down upon the desk, rummaging through every pocket and compartment, but the briefcase was empty.

  “Damn it,” he swore beneath his breath. For a moment, he thought he'd been close.

  A rumble like the sound of an oncoming train filled the cramped quarters, momentarily returning him to alert, but then he realized, as he felt the warm current of air on his legs from the heating duct in the wall behind the desk, that it was only the sound of the heat coming on.

  There was something odd in the smell of the heat.

  He doubted that anyone else would have noticed, but there was no mistaking the smell of dried papyrus, no matter how slight. He dropped down to the floor to peer into the heating duct, the forced warm air, drying the moisture of his eyes.

  The spark of excitement he felt upon finding the briefcase was back again, and he quickly searched the desk for something that would enable him to investigate further. In a top drawer he found a letter opener. Kneeling down, he used the flat tip of the blade to unscrew the metal grate in the wall.

  Pulling the black grate away, he tentatively put his hand inside the warm duct and began to feel around. At first all he found were large clumps of dust and grit, and he was about to give up when the side of his hand brushed up against something rough.

  Remy got down on his belly, looking into the darkness, and extended his reach even farther into the duct; there was definitely something there. Carefully, he felt around with fingertips, and then one by one, he withdrew the ancient scrolls, five in total. A scroll for each Horseman, giving them permission to unleash their full fury; the fifth a final edict from the Almighty stating that it was time for it all to be brought to a close.

  Without the fifth opened, hope still remained alive.

  Th-th-that's all folks! Remy heard the voice of a cartoon pig stutter as he gazed upon the ancient documents laid out before him on the floor. He felt some of the enormous weight of responsibility resting upon his shoulders lighten, but not all.

  He carried the scrolls to the desk and began to place them inside the empty briefcase. The fifth he put in the pocket in the lining of his coat. Buckling the straps of the leather satchel, his eyes scanned the office one last time, desperate for some little thing that could send him down the right path to finding Israfil before whomever was pulling the Black Choirs' strings found him first.

  The heat blowing from the grate caused the papers tacked to a bulletin board above it to flutter in the warm currents of air, revealing a hint of something familiar beneath them. With nothing to lose, Remy approached the bulletin board, lifting one of the fluttering pieces of paper higher to see what was tacked there. It was an old photograph of a small beach house at dusk, the sun setting beautifully in the background.

  It was a nice picture, and Remy wondered if Jon or Israfil had taken it.

  He suddenly recalled the watercolor painting and the framed photograph hanging on the wall of Casey and Jon's living room. They too were of a beach house. Stepping closer to the board, Remy began to lift up more of the papers, finding even more photographs beneath. Sensing that he might be on to something, he removed the first layer of documents to reveal a sort of collage dedicated to the quaint piece of beach property. Across the top of the board was tacked a heading that read, a little piece of heaven.

  It felt as if a trap door had been sprung and the floor was dropping out from beneath him.

  “I know where you are,” Remy said, feeling his pulse quicken and his heart begin to race. He removed one of the yellowed Polaroids and stared at it.