Jump: The Fallen: Testament 1

by Steve Windsor

  JUMP

  THE FALLEN: TESTAMENT 1

  STEVE WINDSOR

  WFN

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  JUMP: The Fallen Testament 1

  A WFN book/Published by arrangement with the author

  Copyright © 2014 by STEVE WINDSOR

  Cover design by:

  Steve Windsor - stevewindsor.com

  Cover photos by:

  Cristina Otero Photography - cristinaotero.com

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission

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  To the little demon in us all

  FUTILITY

  — I —

  LIFE’S LIFE WAS for eternity. That was just too damn long.

  My new name is Jump. This is my testament:

  I heard somewhere that you would have a cardiac before you hit the pavement. The hot lead through my shoulder and ass hasn’t killed me yet, so I can tell you that heart attack stuff, that’s just bullshit—I’m wide awake as I fall.

  And they said man couldn’t fly.

  My inner critic hasn’t croaked yet, either—the little voice in the back of my head, points out my failures again. As if I need help with that.

  I try to squeeze my eyes shut, but I can barely keep them closed in the rush of wind. I don’t really want them closed. It seems scarier with them shut. So I open them up, but the blasting wind has them watering so bad, everything looks like I’m underwater—total blur.

  I guess I don’t need to see to know that the ground is racing up at me like the end of a bad book. When it gets here, I’m a footnote. Then again, anyone with half a brain knew it had to end this way—a pointless splattered mess on the street below. I won’t last a day on the Protection Information Network.

  The PIN doesn’t even run domestic terrorist bombings longer than a week. Thanks to the new Scent-seeker technology we installed at every access point into the country, there are no more foreign terrorists … alive, anyway. The PIN—the news—what a joke. But that’s the only wave left, so that’s what we all watch.

  Before, I had a little more access to the old archived waves of TV, but that stuff is just more of the same. Lies, pretending to be the truth.

  Some of the water from my eyes runs into my mouth, and it’s weird, because it doesn’t taste like tears. Believe me, I’ve shed enough of them to know. But as they stream down my cheeks and drip into my mouth, for some reason, they taste like … blood?

  When I look back on it, would I have done anything differently? I mean, I should have something that I would change, right? Things I regret? I don’t know. Maybe I can give you a better answer when I land.

  My name? Trust me, by the time this is all over, you won’t know what to call me. But if you gotta call me something … I guess you can call me Jake.

  — II —

  HIGH ATOP THE Great Mountain of the Eternities, inside the huge Hallowed Hall of the Word—the destiny of every soul since the first—Life’s bright light shined into every last crevice of the huge Arena of Reckoning. She and her fallen archangel, Dal, stood locked in oratory combat.

  The arena was the battlefield where souls passed through the Pearly Gates to be judged, and then tested by fury and faith. Damnation and salvation were the stakes of combat.

  Life’s light emanated from the center of the arena like a bright, shining star. She had many names during the time of her eternity—the Chosen One, the Bread of Life, the Lamb, the Author of Life… God’s children had created so many ways to beg for her forgiveness, that she had difficulty listening to all of their pleas.

  Tedious as the duty of Protector was—as difficult as ruling over Heaven and Hell became—Life still attempted to answer any that spoke to her … one way or another. All too often, she gave them the answer that pleased her the most—silence. To those she did speak with, and as this was her eternity, Life Is For Eternity preferred to be known as “Life.”

  Life endured her eternity, even as it drew near to a close. And the jeweled floor of the huge, indoor arena, shimmered beneath the brightness of her years. Her brightness shined hard truths that reflected off the white diamonds and red rubies that blanketed the arena floor. The gems were stones of justice, chipped and cracked on their edges, telling the truth of judgments past—long forgotten battles between fallen and faithful angels.

  The grandstands around the arena clawed their way almost straight up from the floor until they met with the roof. And today, those perches were filled with the razor-sharp talons and feathers of the faithful and fallen angels of the two heavens—Heaven and Hell.

  The bright angels who served Life, perched along one side of the great arena, and the dark angels, those who prayed only to the Dark Angel of Light, Dal, wrapped their talons around long, iron railings on the other side. But however at odds their faiths were, all of them carried a common responsibility—serve each great eternity’s protector. And ever since the first eternity, the Protectors authored their Beginning, while all under her prepared for the burning truth of their End.

  Outside the hall, snowflakes fell on the mountain like newly judged angels—hatchlings that descended from the two heavens for their fledgling flight to the garden—Earth. All of them were individually beautiful, yet each one was faithful in their own special way.

  And though every falling angel looked as different from the next as they could, each of them fell from above with a single purpose—blanket their eternity beneath the cold, white truth of the Word, and keep the Arena of Reckoning freshly stocked with souls.

  All watched the fall.

  The Dark Angel of Light—the Darkness, Liar, and the one he hated, Devil… The evil one had so many names, it was hard for the faithless to remember them all. But at the end of this eternity, he preferred to be called “Dal.”

  Dal waited, barely outside the brightest part of Life’s light. He was his own brightness—his own personal truth—and he felt no compulsion to saunter about at the center of her bright-white lies.

  He adjusted his shining, crimson wings and shook and shivered his dark, blood-red feathers to perfection. Then he tucked his wings behind his back, forming his shield. And if freshly devoured souls had an aroma, Dal’s breath reeked of desperation and despair. “And the show goes on,” he said to Life. “I still do not understand your covenants. This tale—over two thousand years of it—I tire of the words.” He pointed a long finger toward the fall. “They devour the words of your book, and then spit them like flaming arrows at each other. And their descent continues. Yet you … you are content to observe, pretending that your own time is infinite.”

  Life watched and waited, hovering in the center of her great brightness, overexposed to the penetrating reality of the fall—another death of one of her own creations.

  Her hair still carried its long locks of light and her wings, though nearly invisible, were hard and sharp to the touch. Her feathers were crystal white and winked in reflection at the tiniest light. To a mortal, Life was pure. And yet all of her s
agged beneath the weight of an eternity almost passed.

  That time had acquainted her, all too well, with the depths of Dal’s dark heart—his vile, violating nature. She had enjoyed his company once, but the time was long past since she had reveled in his beauty. She could no longer afford such youthful pursuits.

  She and Dal were an unlikely pair—shepherding both halves of The Word—but stranger things had been written before them, so they faithfully ruled their own heaven and hell.

  The stakes were higher now, especially for Life, so she prepared herself. The End was nearer than she wanted, but could this one be…? She looked at Dal and spoke, “And at the end, the beginning shall be—”

  “Judged,” Dal said. He stared up at her, hovering just above the arena floor. “This is your word? And yet, you say I am arrogant.”

  Dal moved closer to her, staying carefully at the edge of Life’s searing center. For some reason, she always smelled of vanilla, and he sniffed in a huge whiff of the aroma. He thought it would have been better if the scent were burned. Then he gazed back to the fall and continued to observe.

  It was difficult to explain how angels saw it, they just did. Like a vision or a dream that they all shared.

  “They act as they were created,” Dal said. “Excuse me, born to.” The thought of the spawn of her creations, gnawing their way out of the wombs of their Man-monkey mothers, repulsed him.

  Life peered into the light, watching the fall. She bobbed her head gently and then stopped and cocked it slightly to the side. A small furrow appeared on her otherwise smooth and flawless brow. She never understood how her beautiful creations had become so destructive. “He was given an option,” she said. “I gave them all a choice. It was trivial—so I believed—find faith and forgiveness or deny belief in the Word.”

  “You see,” said Dal, “this is exactly my—your word offers no alternative. Pardon my insolence, your eminence, but your choices reek of the vile fate you have condemned them to … and this story stinks of the sweet smell of rot.”

  Life kept her gaze on the fall. “His purpose in the beginning ends,” she said. “Just as yours did.” She looked around the arena. “As all of theirs did, as well.”

  Dal looked at himself then slowly touched his arms and shoulders. “And yet … here I stand,” he said. Then he gazed into the grandstands, also.

  The sparkle of the wings and the glint of the feathers of the brothers and sisters of the two Words, glinted back like stars in the black sky. Each one tried to shine hope from the heavens down onto the darkness of their Protector’s Earth—Life’s eternity ruling the garden.

  Dal swept his arm in an arc around the arena, waving his arm casually at the crowd of waiting warriors. “Here we all stand … once more.”

  — III —

  I RUN UP the steps, switchbacking my way higher in the scraper’s emergency stairwell. I bounded them two at a time for a few flights, but now my feet are down to thumping my way, one step at a time, like an echoing machine gun—bap-bap-bap-bap-bap. I can hear the bastards—armored-up Protection agents, probably citizen compliance division—snatch and bag team, I think. They’re yelling below me, barking and shouting, chasing me like my own personal demons.

  Protection—the State’s personal pit bulls of justice—all that’s left of a failed two-hundred-and-fifty-year experiment in democracy—the masters of a ruined republic gone rogue and drunk on their own runaway power.

  It’s a pretty good rant. And I keep it stewing in the back of my mind to console my more “enlightened” friends when they whine about the consequences of begging someone else to take care of you. Works great for climbing stairs too, I guess.

  The echoes of half a dozen Protection agents waft up the tall escape stairwell. Escape … that’s got my senses pumped way up—feels like I can hear everything, but as I grab the railing on the corners, pulling myself up the next flight, the thing I wish I couldn’t hear is the little voice in the back of my head, heckling me with the one question I can’t answer, What are you going to do when you get to the top?

  I don’t have a clue. It’s a lie … I’ll keep telling it to myself as long as I can. The truth? The only thing I know for sure is that I can’t let them grab me. They do, and a whole lotta other people are in deep shit, too.

  It’s easy to stay in front of them—standard gear for a Protection agent has them humping thirty pounds of black and gray armor, not including the helmets and goggles, and five pounds of gun. How do I know that? It’s not important right now. Let’s just say that I don’t have their burden. But I will tell you, forty-eight doesn’t run like it used to, so sooner or later … I grab the railing on another corner with my left hand and clamp down hard on my Kimber .45 caliber handgun with my right.

  Keep going. You might make it.

  Make it to where?

  The Kimber—my pistol—thirty ounces, give or take with the bullets. Two pounds of steel pain in my ass. It’s actually part of the reason I’m in this mess. Now it’s the only thing keeping it from getting worse.

  Sure, I guess I could do it with the gun, but my mind still believes I’m gonna find a way to escape, disappear—turn invisible or some shit. Everyone thinks they’ll get away at the end—somehow they’re “special” and they’ll never bring us to Protection’s version of justice. Wouldn’t that be nice? Voila—poof! … Not a chance. In the end, everyone gets judgment. If they’re lucky, they don’t get condemned.

  I halfheartedly point my pistol over the railing and—Boom-boom-boom! I send three, two-hundred-and-thirty-grain, Rufflon-tipped bullets ricocheting down the middle of the stairwell. I know I’m shooting at nothing, but it keeps their heads down. Might hit somebody, ya never know. I hope I do. Give me a little more distance—extra time to figure out what in hell I’m gonna do. This chase won’t last long. No matter what I think of them, these guys are pros—they’re gonna bag me at the end of it. Once they do … when they’re done … there’s no redemption from this. The world’s way past “due process.”

  Thirty-three…

  That annoying little voice in my head again, reading the big, white letters as I pass the gray metal doors to each floor—all locked. Nothing like having someone counting floors while you run for your life, though. A city crammed full of glass scrapers and I gotta pick the one building with a Protection sentry who gives a shit. Sentries, hah! I think. Wannabe agents.

  I’m actually happy none of these doors are opening up. By now, they got the second team in the elevator, and if those guys get above me… let’s just pray that doesn’t happen, because…

  Praying, where did that come from? I shake the thought, because I barely have energy left to run—pure adrenaline flight. That doesn’t last long.

  I stop, hunch over, and hold the railing, struggling to get a breath of air. Suck for salvation is more like it—just enough to keep going. Steam rolls up off my brow. It’s colder and muggier in this staircase than it was outside, and the water from the rain mixes with my sweat, and they both pour down my face and neck. My lips are curiously dry and tasteless. Funny what you notice. What I can taste, is the empty and pointless bitterness of the end.

  They followed me along the wharf—black van creeping behind me. It was about as subtle as ripping someone’s heart out. They were probably trying to see if I was meeting someone. On another day, they might have been in luck. Today, I knew they were coming. It was the only move they had left.

  I walked through the flow of filth on the streets. The rain had all the sins of Seattle washing away. Dripped oil from ten million rolling guzzlers and the shit and piss of thousands of homeless Protection veterans living in cardboard “barracks,” spending the last years of their miserable lives drinking themselves into a dream world so they can forget the nightmare that they lived in the Middle East.

  It all leaked down the gutters along the streets, pulled by gravity to the only place left to shove anything we don’t want—the humanity in the Northwest Quarter’s huge cesspool of
sin—the salty shit of the Puget Sound, gateway to the Pacific Ocean.

  Seattle in the winter. Welcome to the cold, shit-steaming, pearly gates of the Emerald City. It’s still better than the granite hole they wanna cram me in for interrogation. More pointless rant, but this one’s not helping, and I’m running out of fire to fuel my legs.

  Now I’m like a drowning cat, struggling to get out of a burlap sack as I float down the last mile of the hopeless river of my life. That’s a little too poetic for me, probably my little voice.

  I can hear the boots below me, still stomping their way up, climbing. Shit, where would they go? I peek over the side and catch a glimpse of a black helmet—a few floors down, but they’re gaining.

  That’s because you’re not running.

  My inner critic—master of the obvious.

  I aim this time, try to hold my breath as I squeeze. I can feel my heart, trying to rip its way out of my chest and—Boom!

  Bullets make a particular sound when they hit meat. No way to describe it unless you’ve heard it before. A sloppy “whump,” maybe. I heard it plenty of times deer hunting when I was a kid, not to mention the other places. But there is no more hunting now, so not many citizens know that. The guy that just took that round … he knows it. Only difference when you hit a man is the—

  And I hear him scream, and then there is yelling and shouting and bullets come flying up the center of the stairwell—undisciplined fire. It’s angry and there’s a lot of it. Now I know I hit him.

  Maybe you can lose them.

  Ten floors later, barely able to draw breath, dizzy from the lack of oxygen to my brain, and wincing from the burning acid melting into my thighs, losing them is a little girl’s dream.

  You’re gonna have to—

  I try not to think about it, and I drag myself, clawing at the railing with whatever I got left. It ain’t much.

  You got her there okay. Kelly … she’ll make it. That’s what I tell myself. Or is it my annoying little voice again? It’s getting harder to tell the difference.

  Kelly. My only salvation in this fucked-up dream of life. She needed a head start—time to get clear of all this shit, clear of me. If I didn’t give it to her, they would have her raped and tortured. I’m not letting that happen.