A Kiss Before the Apocalypse

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Four years ago: before he had a name.

  The black Labrador puppy plopped his tiny, nine-week-old butt down upon the newspaper in the open wooden box and tilted his head quizzically up at the man staring down at him.

  His brothers and sisters were playing roughly in another corner of the birthing box, growling and barking at one another, uninterested in their new visitor.

  It was as if they could not see him. But he was there, standing above him.

  The puppy did not understand why, but he was fascinated by this one.

  There had been others that had come to look at them, males and females, young and old, but none had interested him like this.

  “Hello there,” the man said, and the puppy could understand the words as if they had come from one of his own kind.

  “Hello,” the puppy responded with a yip.

  “You're a cute one, aren't you?” The man slowly reached down with one of his large hands, allowing the puppy to sniff.

  He liked his smell and licked one of the man's fingers in affection before lifting one of his paws and placing it within the man's hand.

  “My name is Remy,” the human said.

  The puppy barked, not yet having a true name. In the language of dogs, he informed the man that he was fifth-born of seven.

  “Well, Fifth-Born of Seven,” Remy said to him. “How would you like to become part of my pack? Me, a female, and you.”

  The pup turned his gaze toward his brothers and sisters, who were still playing roughly in the corner. First of seven had seven of seven pinned to the floor and was biting her ear, while the other barked excitedly.

  “Leave pack?” the puppy asked, lifting his head to look back up at the man.

  “Leave this pack to become part of another,” Remy answered. “They'll all be leaving this box soon as well to go to other packs.”

  Fifth-Born of Seven thought about this for a moment.

  “Sad,” the pup whined.

  “Yes, for a bit, but you will be very much loved in your new pack.”

  “You love?” the pup asked Remy.

  The man smiled, showing off his large teeth. The master of the pack for sure, the pup knew.

  “I will love you very much,” Remy said, and Fifth-Born of Seven knew that this one's words were true, and that he would love this man very much in return.

  “Female?” the puppy asked, sniffing the air for traces of her. He could smell her scent on the man's clothes. That too was a pleasant smell.

  “I know she will love you too.”

  The puppy climbed to all fours and turned his head to look at his brothers and sisters at play.

  He knew he would miss them at first, and wondered if they, in turn, would miss him.

  “Will you join my pack?” Remy asked him again.

  The puppy turned away from the old pack to look at the new.

  “Yes,” he barked, his tail wagging in equal parts excitement and fear.

  Remy smiled again and bent forward, picking him up and removing him from the box where he had come into the world.

  It was a big world outside the box, filled with new smells and frightening noises, but as he nestled into the crook of the human called Remy's arm, he sensed that this was the beginning of something wonderful, and that there was no reason for him to be afraid.

  “You'll need a name,” Remy said as they left the only world Fifth-Born of Seven had ever known.

  He held the puppy out before him. Their eyes connected, and the pup waited to hear what he would be called.

  “I think your name will be Marlowe,” the male said, and kissed him gently on top of his head before returning him to the crook of his arm.

  “Marlowe,” the pup repeated, his eyes suddenly very heavy, the need for sleep overwhelming him.

  “Good name,” Marlowe agreed, not having the strength – or the will – to remain awake any longer. Feeling perfectly at ease, he fell fast asleep, dreaming of running very fast.

  And of how very much he would be loved.

  “Where?” Marlowe asked from the backseat of the car. “I told you already,” Remy said, trying not to sound annoyed. He'd told the dog their destination at least ten times since he'd returned home to quickly change his charred clothes and pick up the animal.

  “Ashlie's house. You're going to Ashlie's house.”

  Marlowe grumbled something Remy didn't quite catch, but he was sure it had to do with his displeasure of being left behind yet again.

  The Bergs lived on Mount Vernon Street, which was only the next street over, and they could very easily have walked, but the rain had yet to let up. It was nice that Ashlie's parents shared her love of Marlowe. They had no problem at all taking care of him for Remy, especially knowing how difficult things had been for him since his mother had fallen ill.

  Remy double-parked in front of the Bergs' brown-stone, then opened the back door, standing in the rain, waiting for Marlowe to exit.

  “C'mon boy,” he said, urging the dog out. “We're going to see Ashlie now.”

  Marlowe didn't move.

  Remy leaned in to the car. “What's wrong?” “I go,” Marlowe said, refusing to make eye contact with him.

  “You can't come with me, pal. It's too dangerous.”

  “No,” the dog said stubbornly, draping his head over the back of the seat.

  The heavy rain thrummed against the metal roof as Remy stood, half in and half out of the downpour.

  “Listen,” he finally said in his firmest tone. “I don't have time to fool around right now. It's very important that I get to where I'm going so I can take care of business and come back to get you.”

  Marlowe lifted his head to look him in the eyes.

  “When?” the dog asked.

  “As soon as I'm done,” he explained. “I have to go and help Casey and her friend... and then I'll come back. Okay?”

  The dog thought for a moment.

  “Must come back,” Marlowe said, and Remy could sense genuine sadness emanating from the animal's words. “Pack gone. Just Marlowe. All alone.”

  Remy reached into the car, tenderly rubbing the side of his best friend's face. “I'm not going to leave you alone,” he promised the animal. “Nobody's going to break up our pack, okay?”

  Marlowe's tail flopped feebly.

  “Let's go in and see Ashlie. The sooner I leave, the sooner I can come back and get you.”

  The dog's mood seemed to brighten a little bit. “Park?” he asked hopefully.

  Remy chuckled at the animal's attempt at blackmail. “Sure, you get out of the car now and I'll take you to the Common when I get back. Deal?”

  Remy held out his hand to the Labrador and Marlowe lifted his paw to be shaken.

  The deal was struck.

  “C'mon, pal,” Remy said, extracting himself from the backseat.

  “Remy,” Marlowe called to him.

  He stopped, crouching to look into the backseat of the car.

  “Loveyou,” the dog declared.

  “Love you too,” the angel responded in kind.

  And satisfied by this answer, Marlowe jumped out of the car and trotted up the steps to the Bergs' front door.

  Remy knew how the dog was thinking: The quicker they got this business out of the way, the quicker he could come back and take him for his walk.

  It was a plan that Remy could get behind. He only hoped that when this was finished, there'd be a world – never mind just a park – to come back to.

  Remy kept the good-byes brief, but as he turned to leave the brownstone, Ashlie's mother threw her arms around him in a hug, kissing him lightly on the cheek, whispering in his ear to be strong.

  He continued down the steps, hoping that he did have it within himself to be as strong as he was sure he would need to be.

  He was just about ready to drive away when he heard a horn behind him and saw a car pull up, flashing its headlights. He got out of the car, slamming his door closed, and appr
oached the car. The window slowly lowered and Steve Mulvehill looked out at him, cigarette dangling from his mouth.

  “Get in for a minute,” the homicide detective said.

  Remy thought that the man looked like hell; his face unshaven, dark circles beneath swollen eyes.

  He went around to climb in on the passenger's side. “What's up?” he asked, an involuntary shiver running along his spine as rainwater trickled down his neck as he sat in the front seat.

  Mulvehill reached inside his raincoat pocket and came out with a folded piece of paper. “Got the information on that Cape Cod property you were looking for. It was sold by the original owner about four years ago.”

  It was sold before Israfil took control of Jon Stall's life.

  Remy took the offered paper, reading the address scrawled there. “Thanks. You didn't have to drive over here. You could've just called me.”

  His friend gazed out the windshield, the wipers on high to keep up with the intensity of rain that was falling. Despite the speed, the blades were still having a difficult time.

  “Yeah, I know, but I wanted to talk to you . . . before you left.” Mulvehill took a long pull from his cigarette as he looked at him. “I should go with you,” he said.

  Remy shook his head. “Thanks, but no. This isn't for you.”

  “Angel shit?” the detective asked.

  “Angel shit,” Remy answered with a nod. “It's better that you stay here. I have no idea how this is going to work out.”

  It was Remy's turn to gaze out the front window, the wipers going back and forth in a mesmerizing beat.

  “Things are bad, aren't they?” Mulvehill commented.

  “Yeah, they are,” Remy replied.

  “Be honest with me,” Mulvehill said. “Do you think we've got a chance?”

  “Failure's not an option,” Remy told his friend, forcing a smile on his face. “Get a bottle of Glenlivit, and when I get back, we'll go up on the roof and I'll tell you all about it.”

  Mulvehill nodded, smoking his cigarette down to nothing. “Don't stand me up,” the detective said finally. “You know how much I hate to drink alone.”

  Remy laughed as he pulled the latch and opened the car door. “What the hell are you talking about? You always drink alone.” He got out into the rain.

  “Yeah, you're right,” Mulvehill agreed. “All the more for me that way.” The detective smiled at him. “Watch your ass, angel,” he said, putting the car in drive, starting to pull away.

  Remy closed the door, standing in the early morning rain, watching as his friend continued down Mount Vernon Street, taking a right and disappearing from view. He wondered briefly if it would be the last time he'd see Steven Mulvehill, before dismissing the dispiriting thought.

  Hurrying to his car, he glanced at his watch. It was getting late, but he still had one more stop to make.

  One final good-bye that had to be said.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Somerville, Massachusetts, 1972

  Madeline knew that he wasn't asleep; after fifteen years of being married to Remy, she could tell these things.

  They had finished making love a little while ago, but she found that sleep was eluding her as well this cool summer night.

  It was dark in their one-bedroom apartment, and the light curtains that hung in front of the window billowed in the night breeze, looking like a ghost from any number of scary movies she'd seen throughout the years.

  “Hey,” she said, her voice sounding intrusive in the still of the dark.

  “Hey back,” he answered.

  “What's wrong – not sleeping tonight?” Madeline rolled onto her side, throwing her naked leg over her husband's lower body. She snuggled her face in the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent. He smelled faintly of cinnamon and some other spices she couldn't quite remember.

  Madeline remembered when she'd first asked him about the aroma, not too long after he'd told her what he was . . . had been.

  He'd told her that that was just how angels smelled.

  It was fine by her; it reminded her of fall in New England which was her favorite time of year. Madeline kissed his neck.

  “What's your story?” he asked. “I'm not keeping you up, am I? I could go in the living room and read if... “

  She patted his muscular chest. “Shhhhhhh,” she told him. “It's all right, I just can't seem to sleep either.”

  The room momentarily returned to quiet.

  “Want to fool around again?” she asked him, taking the skin of his neck in her teeth.

  Remy chuckled, putting his arm around her and pulling her closer to him. She never felt as safe as she did when he held her.

  “I was just about ready to put myself to sleep when I made the mistake of listening.”

  For a second she didn't understand, but then remembered that Remy still retained the gifts of his kind, the ability to hear those praying to their gods.

  “Did you hear something that bothered you?” she asked.

  “Worse,” he said. “I heard something that made me think.”

  “What was it?”

  “It was a guy, older guy from the sound of his voice, whose wife is dying. He was begging God to help, promising anything just so that his wife wouldn't die.”

  “That's sad.”

  “Yeah, it is, and it made me think of us . . . of you, and what if . . .”

  Remy gently moved her over and sat up, throwing his legs over the side of the bed.

  “Hey,” Madeline said consolingly. She hugged him from behind, liking the feeling of her bare breasts pressing against the warmth of his back. “I'm fine, nothing's wrong with me. No need to think this way.”

  She kissed his shoulder blade and hugged him tighter.

  “But I do need to think that way. I'm not like you, Madeline, and no matter how much I want to be, I never will be like you.”

  “Don't talk like that, please,” she said. “You're my husband and I love you very much, and I don't want you to ever forget that. Yeah, you're different. So what? My girlfriend Ginny's husband is Armenian. Big frig-gin' deal.”

  Remy turned around on the bed, taking her into his arms. He brought his face down and kissed her long and passionately on the mouth, both their tongues hungrily searching out each other's.

  He broke their kiss and looked lovingly into her eyes. In the dark his eyes had a golden glint, the flecks of color reflecting in the faint light of the bedroom.

  “Hearing that man's prayers,” he said, his voice an emotional whisper. “It reminded me of how fragile you are.”

  Madeline couldn't remember the last time she had seen her husband so upset. She pulled him close, wrapping her arms around him, a bandage to his emotional wounds.