A Kiss Before the Apocalypse

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  Israfil stirred within Remiel, his strength and purpose regained. Reassuming his mantle, Israfil emerged in an explosion of brilliance, like the dawning of creation, leaving Remiel alone in the darkness of space, suddenly no longer connected to the lives of those souls that had been harvested.

  What a horrible and empty sensation to be cut off from an experience so vast, so intimate.

  And he drifted in the cold of space, feeling so very alone.

  Yearning for the touch of the world he had saved, and all the beauty it offered, Remiel moved closer to the planet, allowing its pull to draw him from space, pulling him back to the place he had adopted as his home so very long ago.

  He fell to the world again, plunging deep into the restored ocean of the Cape.

  Remiel emerged from the boiling sea, flapping the excess water from his cooling wings as he walked up onto the shore. Francis was waiting for him on shore, along with Sariel and other surviving members of the host Grigori.

  “Thought you might've . . . y'know, gone back or something,” the former Guardian insinuated, gesturing with his chin to the glorious blue sky above.

  “No,” Remiel answered, noticing that Francis had found his missing appendage. “Your hand?” he questioned.

  “Yeah, found it just before the water came back,” he said, flexing his fingers. “Good thing, too. I don't think I'd look as hot with a hook.”

  Remiel managed a fleeting smile before turning his attention to the Grigori. Their clothes were torn and stained, and they stunk of violence. There was a gleam of excitement in the survivors' eyes.

  “I didn't expect to see you here,” Remiel said to them.

  Sariel stared out over the ocean.

  “This is our world whether we like it or not – at least until the Lord calls us home. And until we hear His call, we aren't about to allow something to happen to it.”

  The fallen angel suddenly seemed distracted, glancing down at the Rolex watch that had somehow managed to remain intact upon his wrist. “Look at the time,” he said casually. “We're having a little party tonight,” he explained. “Celebrating the world not ending and all.”

  He and his followers began to walk away. “You're welcome to come.” He nodded toward Francis. “You and your winged friend.”

  The Grigori chuckled as they continued up the beach.

  Francis waved good-bye, a smile beaming upon his features.

  “He's such a dick,” Francis said, still smiling as he continued to wave. “Pretty good in a fight, though. Not a fucking Black Choir to be found. Doubt they're all dead – we couldn't be so fucking lucky – but at least they're not around giving us a pain in the balls.”

  Remiel looked about the beach, the roar of the surf behind him. “The bodies?” he asked.

  Francis shrugged. “Taken by the sea, with most of my friggin' weapons, I guess.” He placed a hand over his brow, looking out over the restless ocean. “Wasn't much time to move them when the water came back.”

  “And Lazarus?”

  “Lost sight of him after the shit hit the fan,” Francis said with disgust. “Doubt he's dead. Think we should look for him?”

  The Seraphim shook his head. “He'll turn up eventually, and besides, he'll have worse than us to deal with now. The guilt over what he has done will be torment beyond anything we could ever do to him.”

  “Yeah, I guess, but I'd still like to kill the bastard a few times. Y'know, to get even.” The Guardian paused, checking out the reddish line where his hand had been reconnected to his wrist. “So everything is taken care of?” he asked offhandedly.

  Remiel remembered what it was like to touch the world and to bring death back to it, but sensed that the memory would be fleeting. How could one being hope to retain memories so vast? There was only so much of the experience one mind could contain. He recalled the lives and endings of those connected with his life:

  Peter Mountgomery, Carol Weir, Casey Burke, ready to let the memories go with the seemingly countless others.

  But there was one in particular that he would not allow himself to forget.

  “Yes,” he answered, feeling so terribly alone. “It's been taken care of.”

  Francis accepted his answer with a satisfied nod. He removed his glasses from the pocket of his tattered shirt and held them up to the sun. Somehow they had remained unbroken. “So, do we want to get out of here?” he asked, adjusting the glasses to his face.

  “I think we're done,” Remiel said, although the thought of what he was returning to was more painful than anything he had experienced thus far.

  In a way, for him the world had come to an end.

  “So is that your new look?” Francis asked.

  Remiel stared at himself, at the pale brightness of his exposed skin, of the golden armor, the feeling of wings upon his back. It was time to again abandon what he had already believed discarded forever. It just went to prove that forever wasn't as finite as he would have liked to believe.

  He closed his eyes, concentrating on assuming his human appearance. It was painful; his angelic nature was again fully expressed, and did not care to be cast aside, but he was stronger and not in any mood to be played with. He felt his wings grow smaller, receding into the flesh of his back; the golden armor melted away, returning from whence it came in some long-forgotten Heavenly armory.

  Human in appearance again, but so much less than he had been.

  The angelic nature existed just below the surface, so much closer than before, dormant for now, eagerly awaiting the next opportunity to exert itself.

  Remy looked down at his human guise, surprised to see that he was naked, his clothes burned away by the intensity of his transformation.

  “Let me borrow your suit coat,” he said, as Francis removed the ragged, bloodstained jacket.

  “Don't get it dirty,” he joked as Remy covered his naked body.

  “I think I've got a pair of sweats in the car,” he added, as the two of them quickly started up the beach to where they had parked. It was all they would need, to be found like this by the locals, beaten, nearly naked and spattered with blood.

  Remy sensed them immediately, the hair on the back of his neck tingling, a lingering aftereffect of having recently assumed his full angelic semblance. He turned around to see them silently coming up from behind them, three beings beyond comprehension. It had been at least a millennium since he had seen them. They appeared as perpetually rolling balls of energy, their rounded, seething surfaces – like the skin of the sun – covered with unblinking eyes.

  They were quite the sight.

  Francis turned and immediately dropped to the ground, hands going to his eyes, temporarily blinded. It was not meant for the unclean – those of the fallen persuasion – to gaze upon the majesty of the Heavenly host known as Thrones.

  Remy's angelic nature stirred, eager to emerge and interact with the representatives from Heaven that served the Almighty directly, but Remy would have none of it. He'd had just about all he could stomach of Heaven and its representatives.

  “What the hell do they want?” Francis asked, burying his head in the sand.

  Remy stared at the center Throne, unsure of which set of eyes to look into. He didn't think that it really mattered.

  “I haven't a clue,” he answered. “Right now they seem content to just stare.”

  “I imagine they'd be good at that,” Francis added.

  “Greetings, warrior of Heaven,” a voice like the tuning of the world's largest orchestra boomed inside his head for only him to hear. “We bring you glad tidings from He Who Is the Father of All Things.”

  “Greetings,” Remy responded, to be polite.

  “Are they talking to you?” Francis asked, still looking away. “Are they talking to you inside your head? I fucking hate that.”

  “The Lord of Lords has bid us find you, for you have performed a great service to the Kingdom of Heaven.”

  “I only did what I had to do,” he told the divine entities.<
br />
  “The Creator asks for your return to the City of Light – for the honor to sit at His right hand.”

  At mention of the privilege that was to be bestowed upon him, the Thrones' energy forms blazed all the brighter, the music of the spheres that blared inside his skull nearly deafening.

  “No, thank you,” Remy told them.

  The light of the three beings immediately dimmed, multiple sets of eyes suddenly squinted, scrutinizing him.

  “This is not an offer to be refused,” the Throne leader proclaimed.

  “But I am refusing it,” Remy informed it. “Tell the Creator thank you, but my place isn't in Heaven anymore. It's here, on this world with the crazy inhabitants that He created. Thanks, but no.”

  And Remy turned his back on them, these representatives of God's will. He reached down, pulling Francis up by the arm as he passed.

  “Are you sure that's smart?” Francis asked, eyes tightly closed against the blinding Heavenly glare.

  “It's how it is,” Remy answered.

  He could feel them coming up behind him, their presence causing the nerve endings in his spine to painfully twitch. He didn't turn around.

  “He will not be happy,” the Throne bellowed inside his skull. Remy felt a trickle of warmth – blood – slowly begin to leak from his nose down onto his lip.

  So fragile. So human.

  “And if I go with you, neither will I.”

  The sound of displeasure that only he could hear grew to a brain-hemorrhage-inducing crescendo before dramatically falling silent.

  Remy turned his head slightly to see that the emissaries from Heaven were no longer there.

  “Are they gone?” Francis asked, cautiously opening his eyes a crack. Seeing that they had indeed left, he removed his glasses, rubbing his eyes. “I think they burned out my fucking corneas. All I can see is spots. Think you're gonna have to drive home.”

  Remy didn't mind; he enjoyed driving. Some of his best thinking was done while behind the wheel.

  Coming up from the beach, into the backyard of Jon Stall's former summer home, they walked along the side of the house and up the dirt driveway to where the Land Rover was parked.

  “Let me see about those sweats,” Francis said, going to the back of the Land Rover.

  Remy went around to the driver's side and opened the door.

  “Here,” Francis called, tossing him the gray sweatpants.

  He slipped them on, not feeling quite as naked when he heard the trill of a cell phone from inside the vehicle.

  “Not mine – lost it on the beach somewhere when I was getting my hand chopped off and shit,” Francis said, fiddling with his glasses.

  Remy stared across the driver's seat to the passenger's side, recalling that he'd taken his wet coat off when getting into the Rover to start their trip.

  The incessant trilling was coming from inside his coat pocket.

  Francis had moved around to the passenger's side to get in. He opened the door, reaching inside Remy's coat pocket to remove the ringing cell phone. He offered it to him.

  Remy took the phone and flipped it open, already certain that he knew from where the call was coming.

  CRESTHAVEN, said the black letters on the tiny screen, and he felt the weight of the world – of the universe itself – fall down upon him.

  The phone stopped its noise, but started again with only a moment's pause. He placed the phone on the dashboard as he climbed up into driver's seat, behind the wheel.

  “Aren't you going to take that?” his friend asked, handing him the car keys.

  “No,” he said as he put the key in the ignition and turned the engine over. “I already know what they're going to tell me.”

  For him, the world had come to an end. The Apocalypse had happened.

  What more was there to say?

  EPILOGUE

  Four months later

  They'd had snow overnight; about three inches, Remy figured, as they trudged down the winter-covered walkway through the Mount Auburn Cemetery.

  It was still relatively early, the sun just over the rise, but he hadn't been sleeping much these days, and it helped him to get out and do things.

  Helped to take his mind off missing her so much.

  And besides, Marlowe could use the exercise.

  The dog barked happily, his jet-black fur a severe contrast with the snow as he romped through the powdery white stuff on the trail of something that didn't hibernate through Boston's winter months.

  “What is it?” Remy yelled to the dog, wanting to be a part of his excitement.

  “Squirrel!” Marlowe answered, stopping for a moment, tail wagging like mad, before bounding toward the base of a large oak tree.

  “Awesome, but remember what we said about not doing your business here, all right?”

  “Right,” the dog grumbled, more concerned with the squirrel's scent. But the Labrador had been really good about such things, after it had been explained to him a few times that this was a special place where people came to remember those who had gone away.

  Remy didn't need this place to remind him; she was on his mind nearly every moment of every day and night.

  It was pretty here just about any time of the year, but breathtaking after a new snow; the trees, headstones, and monuments draped in a puffy covering of cotton white.

  Madeline loved this time of year, a New Englander through and through. She'd often talked about how it just wouldn't seem right without snow, that she'd lose her ability to gauge the passage of time without the seasons.

  The passage of time; Remy had never been more aware of it.

  He glanced around, making sure that Marlowe hadn't gotten himself into any mischief. The Labrador was getting dangerously close to a frozen pond, so he whistled shrilly to get the animal's attention.

  “C'mon, pal,” he hollered. “Back this way.”

  Marlowe stopped and turned in his direction. Remy could practically hear the gears moving around inside the animal's blocky head as he thought about whether or not he was going to acknowledge the request. He sniffed around beneath a willow tree for a little bit more before finally choosing to bound across a stretch of chest-deep snow yet untouched by man or beast.

  The defiler smiled in a cloud of white as he made his way toward Remy.

  Remy had no choice but to laugh at the sight. Marlowe loved it here, looking forward to their daily visits, lately even more than their walks to the Common.

  He guessed it probably had something to do with Madeline being here as well.

  “Run fast,” Marlowe said, bringing himself to a skidding stop just before the path he was on. “Run fast in snow.” There was a fine coating of ice crystals stuck to the Labrador's whiskers and powdered snow on his muzzle.

  “You certainly do,” Remy praised. “I bet you're the fastest dog on the planet.”

  “Yes,” the dog agreed. In his mind, at that moment, he was the fastest dog around. There was no other reason for him to believe otherwise.

  Rather like the world.