A Kiss Before the Apocalypse

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  “Desperate times require desperate measures,” Na-thanuel proclaimed. “Is that not right, Lazarus? The Black Choir would have destroyed this world themselves if it meant getting back into His good graces. They yearn so desperately to be forgiven.”

  “Let me guess,” Remy said, nodding toward Lazarus, who still refused to meet his gaze. “You promised him that he would finally get to die.”

  Nathanuel covered his mouth with a thin white hand, feigning surprise. “So devious . . . it's almost as if I were human.”

  Remy heard the sound of a labored laugh behind him and turned his head slightly to see that Francis had managed to rise to his feet, tarnished blade of Heaven still clutched in his blistered hand.

  “I always said you were a prick, Nathanuel,” the fallen angel spat. “And this just shows what an excellent judge of character I am.”

  The Guardian's exposed flesh was an angry red, covered in oozing sores, and he swayed a bit as if the ground beneath his feet was moving. Remy backed toward him, retrieving the dagger that Francis had given him earlier from his belt.

  “Where's your sword?” Francis asked him.

  “Dropped it somewhere back there,” Remy replied, getting used to the feel of the knife in his hand.

  “You just can't have anything nice, can you?”

  Remy didn't have the opportunity to respond, for Nathanuel's voice rang out.

  “Take them!”

  And his three Seraphim soldiers were upon them, pulling swords from within the folds of their flowing coats. Francis threw himself into the fray with little hesitation, his blade thrust deflected by Zophiel's own. The Seraphim spread their wings, shrieking their excitement. It had been too long since these warriors of Heaven had seen conflict, since they had spilled the blood of their enemies.

  From the corner of his eye, as he attempted to keep Galgaliel and Haniel away with his knife, Remy saw Francis fall. The flat of Zophiel's blade struck the Guardian with a vicious blow to the head that sent him sprawling. Distracted by the sight, his Seraphim foes attacked as one, driving Remy down to the cold, wet sand, tearing the knife from his grasp.

  “So much less than you were,” Nathanuel said, contempt dripping from every word as he stood over him.

  Remy tried to climb to his feet, but Nathanuel slashed at him with his wings, driving him to his belly.

  “Stay down, Remiel,” the Seraphim ordered. “Things are too far along for you to prevent them now.” The Seraphim chief arched his back, furling his wings, and they disappeared from sight as he paced before him. “I believe you still have something that we need,” he said slyly, looking over his shoulder.

  As Haniel roughly searched his clothing, Remy smiled, knowing that at last he had the upper hand.

  But his superiority was all too short-lived.

  “Master, we have it,” Galgaliel called out, and Remy lifted his head to see Zophiel removing the fifth scroll of the Apocalypse from inside the jacket of a struggling Francis.

  Remy watched in horror as Galgaliel handed the delicate piece of parchment to his master.

  “We doubted you would be so foolish as to bring it with you,” Nathanuel said, holding the potentially destructive document in his hand. “But we were obviously wrong.”

  Remy stared at Francis in disbelief. “You couldn't have left it in the car?”

  Francis weakly swatted off Zophiel and Galgaliel, pushing himself up onto his hands and knees. “Yeah, but I thought we'd be able to use it as a bargaining chip,” he said, shaking his head to clear away the cob- webs. “I'll admit; it wasn't one of my better ideas.” The Guardian made an attempt to stand, but the Seraphim shrieked their displeasure, beating him back down to the ground with their powerful wings.

  Nathanuel held the final scroll in his pale, delicate hand, devouring it with his cold black eyes. In it he saw his plans come to fruition, and the pleasure that it brought to his face was most chilling.

  “All right, then,” Nathanuel said. “Let us commence.”

  It was the most human Remy had ever seen the Seraphim chief look.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Seraphim loomed over Remy and Francis, attack dogs from Heaven, making sure that they stayed on their knees in the sand, as Nathanuel approached Jon Stall with the scroll.

  The rains continued to fall, the nearly black sky slashed with glowing jags of lightning, followed by roars of rolling thunder.

  The Horsemen are growing impatient, Remy thought, watching as the Seraphim chief stood over the pathetic wreck of a man who was once one of the most powerful angelic beings in all the Choirs.

  Nathanuel lifted a beckoning hand, and Galgaliel moved toward him. From within his flowing black coat, he produced the leather briefcase. He reached inside, gingerly removing the other four scrolls, and carefully laid them down upon the sand in front of Israfil.

  Remy could feel it churning in the air, the impending end of all things. Every fiber of his being screamed for him to do something, but no, he had to wait.

  Wait for an opportunity.

  He only hoped it wouldn't be too long in coming, for there didn't seem to be much time left for the world. He looked to the Heavens, searching for a sign from God, anything that indicated He would step in and make things right. But he could see nothing, and it didn't surprise him in the least.

  God is funny that way, Remy mused, that whole working-in-mysterious-ways business defined in moments like this. He could picture the Almighty watching this whole scene unfolding, a big bowl of popcorn – or the Heavenly equivalent – on His lap, dying to know how it would all turn out.

  “It's time, Israfil,” Remy heard Nathanuel say, his statement punctuated with a flash of lightning and a clap of thunder. The Seraphim leader still held the last scroll, the final message from God, in his thin, pale hand.

  Israfil didn't seem to hear the angel. He continued to rock from side to side, whispering beneath his breath.

  Nathanuel stepped closer and poked him with the toe of his black shoe. “Do you hear me, Israfil? It is time to slough off your masquerade of flesh and bring closure to this failed experiment.”

  Israfil rocked all the faster, his voice growing louder, and finally Remy could understand his words. He was apologizing, saying over and over again how sorry he was to have caused so much pain and suffering.

  “You can end the pain.” Nathanuel squatted beside him and spoke into his ear. “All you need do is open the scrolls.”

  The Seraphim chief touched the final scroll to Israfil's chest, urging him on. “The constant barrage of sadness, pain, and suffering – I don't know how you can stand it, especially now.”

  Israfil's prayers for forgiveness intensified, as if attempting to drown out the angel's words.

  “Take it,” Nathanuel ordered, poking him with the scroll. “Take it and fulfill your final purpose. End the experiment. Do the humane thing and free them all from their misery.”

  The man's swaying movements began to cease, and Remy felt the pounding of his own heart intensify. Slowly, Israfil turned his haunted features toward the angel kneeling beside him.

  “I wanted to know what it was like,” he said, voice trembling. “I just wanted to know, but I never expected . . .” He shook his head, teary eyes wide in disbelief. “So much beauty and happiness . . . but also so much ugliness and pain.”

  Nathanuel reached out a tender hand, cupping the side of Israfil's face. “It's chaos, my brother, unrelenting chaos, and it is up to you to bring order to it.”

  There was a look in the eyes of the Angel of Death, as if the Seraphim's words had somehow permeated a thick fog that surrounded his thoughts. He took the scroll from Nathanuel in a trembling hand.

  “Israfil, no!” Remy screamed, lunging toward him. “It doesn't have to end. It doesn't have to be like this.”

  Galgaliel pounced upon Remy, forcing him back down to his knees, driving his face toward the sand.

  Scroll in hand, Israfil looked at Remy. . . . No, it was Jon Sta
ll who looked out through bleary eyes, and for a moment, Remy thought that there might be hope.

  But the moment was fleeting.

  And as if on cue, Nathanuel lunged at Remy. “Silence!” he thundered, grabbing Remy's face roughly in his hands, forcing him to meet the Seraphim's scowling gaze. “I despise this world, this miserable ball of dirt with its ragged emotions and savagery,” he said. “How the Creator can muster such affection for man- kind, I cannot even begin to understand. These are the creations that followed us, the Heavenly Choirs? This is how the Almighty intended to improve upon us? It's enough to make me doubt His sanity.

  “Lucifer Morningstar was right, but he let his righteous indignation get in his way. Now it's my turn. Now I can prove our supreme worth to Him.” He shoved Remy aside and turned back to the Angel of Death. “Proceed, Israfil,” he urged. “It is for the best.”

  Stunned by the Seraphim chief's rantings, Remy watched as Israfil slowly turned toward Nathanuel. “There has to be another way,” he whispered.

  From where he knelt in the sand, Remy could see the struggle within the cage of fragile flesh and bone, the two opposing natures – angelic and human – warring for control. It was a pathetic sight to see a being of Heaven, once so strong, reduced to this quivering mass.

  Nathanuel saw it too and shot Remy a hate-filled glance. “You are the one to blame for this,” he said, gesturing toward the Angel of Death, contempt dripping from his words. “You who have chosen a path other than service to the Almighty. Living amongst these lowly animals, walking in the mud of this planet, it was never meant for those of us who have soared above the spires of Heaven.”

  “The pain will just go on and on, brother,” Nathanuel said quietly, almost compassionately, to Israfil. “We will be doing them a favor.”

  Israfil's eyes turned to the scrolls and then quickly looked away.

  With a sigh of exasperation, Nathanuel turned to Lazarus. “The female, bring her to me,” he ordered. And Lazarus did as he was told, clearly so desperate to be free of his accursed life that there was nothing he wouldn't do.

  Nathanuel grabbed Casey, and Remy could see the amusement on his face as he studied her fear-filled eyes. The Seraphim chief removed the gag from her mouth and freed her hands. She sputtered and coughed, fluids leaking from her mouth and nose.

  “Jon,” she gasped as she rushed to Israfil's side. “What's happening?” She wrapped her arms around him, the desperation obvious in her voice. “I . . . I don't understand. Who are these people? Why are they doing this?”

  “Everything is going to be all right,” Israfil promised in a gentle voice.

  But Remy knew it was a lie.

  Nathanuel suddenly reached down and grabbed a handful of Casey's dark hair, yanking her away.

  “It is not all right, brother,” he said, forcing her to look at Israfil before violently twisting her head to one side, breaking her neck with a muffled snap.

  To Remy the sound seemed louder than any clap of thunder, and he watched with numbed horror as Na-thanuel let Casey's body drop to the ocean floor at Israfil's feet, twitching and flopping about like the fish deprived of their watery habitat.

  Deprived of death.

  “No! No! No!” Remy screamed, his fingers digging deep into the wet sand, prying up a rock that he had noticed the last time his face had been pushed to the ground in subjugation.

  An opportunity? Perhaps, no matter how small.

  He made an attempt to charge forward again, and when the growling Galgaliel grasped the back of his neck in a grip like iron, Remy spun around, smashing the rock into the angel's face as hard as he could. Blood exploded from his pulverized nose as the angel released his hold, both hands going to his damaged face.

  Remy didn't hesitate, scrambling across the exposed ocean floor toward Israfil, who still knelt before the body of the woman he had loved.

  “Listen to me!” Remy yelled as Zophiel descended from the sky with a birdlike cry. He dropped to his belly as the angel soared over his head, outstretched hands just missing him, as Remy continued to crawl closer.

  “Think about what you're doing. He's asking you to end it all.... Tobring about the Apocalypse. Don't do it, no matter how bad you think it is. . . . It isn't time for that.”

  Israfil's face was slack, gazing down on the quivering body of the woman who had helped him attain his humanity, and Remy had to wonder if he was even hearing him.

  Nathanuel was suddenly there in front of him. He reached down, grabbing Remy by the throat, pulling him up from the ground.

  “There will be none of that, Remiel,” Nathanuel said, holding him aloft as he turned his attention to the Angel of Death. “Israfil has a duty to fulfill.”

  Remy tried to scream, tried to get the Death Angel's attention, but all he could manage was a strangled gasp.

  “Show me your human compassion,” Nathanuel urged Israfil. “Put a world filled with so much suffering out of its misery.”

  The Angel of Death tore his gaze from Casey's body, and Remy saw by his expression that any chance of reaching him was now gone. He turned to the scrolls lying before him in the sand, and without a moment's hesitation, picked up the first.

  “That's it,” Nathanuel urged. Israfil held the scroll out before him and with one quick movement, broke the waxen seal with a deafening snap.

  The foul weather immediately intensified, the thunder roaring and wind whipping, and the sky illuminated in an unearthly light.

  Still held in Nathanuel's grip, Remy managed to twist his head toward the horizon to see the enormous shapes of the Horsemen as their mounts moved inexorably closer.

  The Seraphim chief pulled him close, forcing Remy to meet his gaze. “It has begun,” he said triumphantly over the sounds of the advancing Apocalypse, and then he tossed him aside like a piece of garbage.

  Harmless.

  Remy landed on his back in the sand, the winds raging about him. As he prepared to stand, his hand fell upon something warm; something that sang of the glory of battles to be won in the name of the Lord God.

  He saw the sword that Francis had given him partially buried beneath the whipping sands, and picked it up. Searching the beach for his friend, he found the former Guardian curled in a ball upon the ground, Haniel and Zophiel looming over him like vultures.

  It looked as though it was solely up to him.

  Through the storm, Remy saw Israfil, another of the scrolls held aloft, Nathanuel by his side, urging him on. Struggling against the hurricane-force winds, Remy started toward them, only to have his progress stopped by a hand falling roughly upon his shoulder.

  He was spun around, coming face to face with a grinning Galgaliel, his face spattered with blood from his broken nose. The Seraphim slowly shook his head from side to side, sporting an evil grin far too wide for his face.

  Remy raised his sword, but the warrior of Heaven was faster, taking hold of his arm before he could carry through. Galgaliel pried the weapon from his grasp, nearly breaking his fingers in the process.

  “What have we here?” the angel asked, his voice nasal from the injury to his nose. He hefted the weight of the blade in his own hand. “A weapon of Heaven in the hands of one who has forsaken it? For shame.”

  Haniel and Zophiel had come to watch, their dark eyes glistening in anticipation of Remy's impending doom.