Jump: The Fallen: Testament 1

by Steve Windsor

  However… Now they got me doing it. It’s nothing compared to the brick wall that humanity will hit in two days. The father says our little joyride to the assfuck arena in Purgatory put us one day closer to the ultimate judgment day. And I sort of wish there was, but the father doesn’t think there is any way to avoid it. He says the two of them are sure to plug up our little security breach. We won’t be sneaking in the back door to that party again.

  The bitch of it is, there’s only one way he knows to get an invitation.

  — XLVI —

  ONCE THE FATHER and I finally get our flock of angels semi-patched up and put to sleep, cooing and cheeping themselves through whatever real dreams a fallen archangel has … I’m not really sure what we should do next. But after we both agree what has to happen in less than one day, the father has backed off on being so pissed about Mercedes’ mother.

  I know one thing, they need the rest before their big day starts in the morning. And I don’t know if Kelly will be up for it… Come to think of it, I hope she forgives me when she wakes up, because I don’t think I can get the job done with just me and Fury.

  So now it’s me and the father, watching over the flock like shepherds. And he is sitting sideways in a long pew at the front of the church, and I’m perched on the back of it, a few feet away, talons digging into the deep brown wood. More shit he’ll have to repair if he ever gets to the roof. And we listen to the rain dripping through the big hole in his church and the soft sounds of his new flock cooing, dreaming the dream.

  And when Rain sleeps, she looks like a bright candle, flickering in the dark. And the whole inside of the church has turned to a cave-like cavern illuminated by flames. The shadows jump and flit around like ghosts. In another life, I would have said it was eerie, but I feel pretty safe and comfortable in this one.

  And Fury is sleep-jerking and softly cawing on her pew, like she’s dreaming herself through her father’s guts again.

  “What was her name?” I ask the father. “He called her—”

  “Babette,” the father says. “Her name was Babette … and she was good people.”

  “Sorry,” I say. I don’t know if I am or not, but Kelly would want me to say it. Kelly, I think. “Yeah … hey?”

  “Yes,” the father says.

  I look at Kelly, resting and recuperating like the angel that she is. Bet she’s not boiling in blood, or having psychotic dreams in her sleep. “What did you name Kelly?” I ask.

  He smiles at me. “It wasn’t too difficult,” he says. Then he chuckles a little. “She has always been your only salvation.”

  And I cluck out a little laugh, because that’s exactly what Kelly is to me. “There you go again, all literal.”

  “The very best parts of the Bible,” he says, “and my book, can be interpreted in many different ways. For our purposes, literal will have to do.”

  “Leads to trouble,” I say. And I look around the church at our flock. “Just look at them, walking, squawking, misinterpretations of the Word. Me too. I think it’s just messed up, the way everyone pretends to know what the Bible—”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Really?” I say. “Exactly what did you change in there, anyway?”

  “Just enough to get the point across,” he says, “maybe a little more.”

  “You sure that’s the only way?” I ask. “I mean, it seems wrong, especially you being a priest.”

  And now the father looks older for some reason, like he’s been here too long. “As opposed to what,” he says, “letting us continue down the same path we’re on? We will never avoid the crash. In fact, we may already be in it.”

  And I know he’s right—we are the back-stabbingest, pettiest, most oppressive ghouls that ever crawled on our bellies through the bile of reality shows on the PIN. Humanity died a long time ago. Only thing left to clean up are the humans. “It’s too bad.”

  “Bad?” he says. “Bad is perspective. Is it too bad for a starving baby if it was never born, or is it too bad that it was, only to suffer and die in the agony of hunger and disease? Honestly, I never understood it. How can he—”

  “I never understood it either, Father,” I say. “I mean, you got billion-dollar yachts with assholes in the galley, eating contraband sushi off some chick’s naked tits, and then you got a starving mother with five kids and she can’t feed a one of ’em. What kinda species are we?”

  “That’s not what I was saying,” he says, “but I see your point.”

  Things have to get pretty messed up for a priest to start agreeing with me. And I don’t think either of us knows what to say about that, because we sit there in silence for a few seconds, saying nothing.

  By now, you know I can only handle a few seconds of not hearing my own voice, but it’s the father who breaks the silence first, “What I do not understand is why he wanted to keep knowledge from us in the first place. And then he punished us once we got it.” And he turns his head and looks at me with pained eyes. “If you had knowledge and understanding, wouldn’t you want to give it to your children? But he punished us for it.” He turns back to staring straight forward, probably at Jesus staked to the cross in the front of the church. “However, I agree with you, he does seem to be indifferent to us punishing each other. Did you know that to some, the serpent in the garden was the hero?”

  “How the—” I pause when he cocks his head to the side and frowns at me. “I’m trying … Jesus.”

  “Try harder,” he says. Then he continues his story. “The snake gave us what he would not—knowledge.”

  And I know he’s seen it with his own eyes, but he still can’t bring himself to admit it. “She,” I say.

  “Yes, yes,” he says, frowning at me. “That … it simply makes no sense. The Bible is rife with the oppression and domination of women, and yet if it weren’t for women, the church would have died long ago, starved and withered on the vine for want of money and followers.”

  “Ouch,” I smile when I say it. “Your flask has got your filter way off. Better be careful with that. Trust me, no one wants to hear the truth. And next time, she might rain down wrath on you.”

  “I’m sure that is coming.”

  I glance around the inside of the father’s own sanctuary, trying to find topics to keep us awake. And with all the statues of saints and angels, and the ornate stained glass, not to mention the building itself … and the land it’s on… “How much does a place like this cost, anyway?” I ask him. “I mean, it doesn’t look like you’re hurting?” And then I can’t resist. I may not be as angry as I was yesterday, but wife and Amy back with me or not, I got a mad streak like the stripe on a skunk, and you can pour as much Purgatory on Pepé Le Pew as you want, it will never change the smell. “And then there’s the kiddie dungeon downstairs—”

  “Jacob.”

  And I cluck out a chuckle and say, “Sorry.” I’m not, but like I said, that’s what I’m supposed to say, right? I pause a little … letting the air clear from the poor taste of my joke. But as soon as the smell wafts away, I’m back at it. “Okay, but seriously, how much?”

  The father laughs at me now. Then he says, “You don’t want to know.”

  I shake my head and look at the pulpit. “Buying their way in to Heaven,” I say. “Shame on you, Father. Letting them think they can—”

  “Oh, no,” he says. And I can tell by the look on his face that he knows exactly what I’m saying. “My job is simply to remind them to be generous.”

  “Uh-huh…” I say. Then I smile and check on Kelly again. She’s still snoozing, breathing a little better now. I whisper anyway, “Father, you know what the difference between a whorehouse and a titty-bar is?”

  “For Heaven’s sake… . Please, it’s still a…”

  I can tell he has to think about it for a few seconds. Despite his whole life, there’s a hole right through his faith, as big as the hole in the roof of his church. Authoring the book that will end all humanity, bluffing his way into Pu
rgatory, not to mention his shattered beliefs… I’m guessing it’s getting tougher and tougher to keep up the charade.

  I ignore him, because for me it’s about seeing the look on someone’s face when I do something you aren’t supposed to … cram it in authority’s ass … and break it the fuck off. “Well … Father … a whorehouse is a place you pay for pussy because you know you’re gonna get it…”

  “Mother of Mercy, you are just … unredeemable.”

  “…and a titty-bar is a place you pay for pussy, knowing you’re not.”

  I can tell he kinda wants to laugh, but he just can’t allow himself to. So he makes the sign of the cross over his chest, kisses his thumb or some other cult shit, and then he looks up at the statue of crucified Jesus behind the pulpit. “Forgive him.” Old habits… Then he turns back to me with a look of disgust on his face. “And your point?”

  He knows the point, but he’s doing the same thing I am—shooting the shit, passing the time, trying to keep his mind off the fact that I’m gonna kill everyone on the planet tomorrow. One thing’s for sure, neither one of us wants to sleep.

  “No point. Just”—I look around the church, for effect—“once you get inside and see all that glory … tough to remember which one you’re at.”

  A couple hours and too many jokes in poor taste later, and we are deep in the calm before the storm. We alternate trading barbs and sleep-jerking for about an hour, before I finally let the father nod off a few times. And when he does, I can smell that he is holding something back. Some little shred of insanity that he just won’t let go of.

  I catch myself sleep-jerking a few times, too. And in between my visions of the Dark Angel and the Queen of Hearts, entering the exit tunnel together, I hear the father whimper out, “I won’t let you do it again.”

  So I wake him all the way up with a little jab from my wing. Still don’t know my own strength, though, because I poke him a little too hard and send him flying into the aisle, flopping and flailing like a fallen angel. “Wha—what? Who did…?”

  “That’s the question,” I say, “isn’t it?”

  I watch him drag his confusion back onto its place on the pew and his mind back to its new understanding of reality.

  “What aren’t you going to let who do?” I ask. “You better spit out the last piece of it, or tomorrow—just as easy to spark up the fire with you.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Oh, you know, all right,” I say. And I sniff in deeply and I can smell the piss of fear, but the burning pepper of frustration and anger, too. “You’re just not telling. So cough it up, or I’ll choke it out of you.”

  By now, he knows my temper can go either way. And whether it’s that knowledge or the fact that a guy can only carry so much guilt all by himself, he starts spilling his guts. Once he does … it’s the first time that I would have rather remained blissfully ignorant of just how badly power can fuck things up. Because whatever blasphemy he’s been boiling up in his book so far, this shit is worse. I’m surprised he’s not bursting into flames right in front of me.

  When he finally spins down his story—I can handle the first part, but the second…? I say, “You’ve got to be kidding?”

  “If only I…” he says. And he pulls out his flask.

  At this point, I’m not busting his balls over the booze, because after this new shit, I might need a swig or six myself.

  “I wish I were.” And then he takes a long pull, trembling a little again.

  “No wonder you’re sucking on that thing like a tit,” I say. “That’s just—you’re burning with me for those, father.”

  “I didn’t write it that way,” he says. “It’s just what happened—that’s their interpretation of it. But when I saw them running from the arena, and then when I got to Fury, I could … feel it. Like a vision or a smell. It was simply there, all around me. The truth … and what they were going to do.”

  It takes a couple of minutes of silence for this new poison to infect its way into my understanding of reality. It’s hard to swallow, even for me. “Just what did you think ‘loins’ meant, anyway?” I ask.

  “It’s figurative,” he says. “I never meant for it—”

  “Tell that to Matthew and John and whoever,” I say. “Jesus, why can’t anyone just write a book that makes sense?” And before I know it, I’ve found a subject in my head that I can rant all day about. This will surely keep us awake. “That’s the same thing those idiots did with the old Constitution. ‘A well regulated militia…’ It’s the goddamn people’s right. They were the militia. And now everyone wants to interpret the living shit out of it. Why can’t someone just say, ‘Keep your ignorant, uneducated hands off my guns and I’ll let you spout all the stupid shit you want to on the news.’ Because I gotta tell ya, they killed more motherfuckers with the First Amendment than anyone had guns to keep up.”

  And I can tell I’ve lost him, because that’s what happens. In fact, that’s what did happen. The PIN spewed and spouted so hard and long at the public, and the citizens spit so hard back, that I think everyone in the middle just finally tuned out. And once the big fat middle class stops giving a shit, everyone’s fucked.

  And that’s what happens to me. “Ah, fuck ’em, Father.”

  “Huh—wha…?” he blurts, before he nods off again. And he’s fallen asleep.

  And what did I just say? I nudge him awake. “Ya see?” I mutter at him.

  “See what?” he says.

  “Doesn’t matter now, does it?”

  “I guess you’re right,” he says. “I still can’t believe that—”

  “Yeah,” I say, “and I can’t believe a priest—”

  “Jacob…”

  Disbelief—the whole reason no one lifts a trigger-finger until it’s too late. But despite all this shitty news—old and new—I feel worse for him than me. Poor miserable son of a bitch had to fight his way all the way into Purgatory to find the truth of the Word that he’s been waiting for, and when he gets it—it’s lost love and false faith—more bad news.

  But which part is the worst? That God and the Devil are in the whole thing together? That they’ve run this charade over and over again, back and forth since eternity? Or is it that I’m their bastard love child?

  I know my vote. “Misinterpreting motherfuckers,” I say. “We should kill them all.”

  When I say it, we both look up at the cross behind the pulpit—Jesus splayed out in sacrifice. We gnaw and think and grind the gears in our ever-dizzying heads for … minutes, at least. Both of us hoping we are dreaming and neither of us wanting to say anything that will wake us up so it has to be real.

  Once I wrap my wings around it, I’m back to flaming pissed. “You sure there’s only one way to get back up there?” I ask.

  “Pretty sure,” he says, “but … what do I know?” He’s staring into himself now. “I’m a priest of the Word, enforcing the laws of despots.”

  I look at him and he’s still zoning out. I frown at him, but he doesn’t notice. “Well, that’s pretty clear,” I say. “Only question is, what are ya willing to do about it? Because I’ll tell you what”—I look back up at the cross—“I’m not going out like him.”

  “Huh?” Now he’s snapping out of it.

  “Look what they did to him,” I say. “Fucked him up just for trying. That is not me.”

  Now I go off into my own mind, because I’ve had enough of the authority, and the torture, and the manipulation by the powerful. In this world or the next … or, if the father is right, the next one after that.

  “I understand,” he says, “but that is not what they want.”

  And I know what they do want. “They want an ocean of blood and sacrifice for their little reincarnation arena?” I say to him. “I’ll drown them in it.”

  It’s a bold statement, but one that by now we both know I’m capable of. One thing they might not know up in Heaven—you go keeping a pit bull around as a pet, it’s only a matter of time before he
gets pissed off and mauls you.

  The father talks to me for a while after that, but I’m off in a conspiracy rant in my head.

  Once I snap out of it, the first sentence I can comprehend is, “You have until the end of the seventh day.”

  “And we’re on the sixth,” I say. “I got that. Cute, he—” Shit, now he’s got me doing it. “She builds it in seven and that’s how long I have to knock it down.”

  But there’s still something on him. A little tidbit I can taste.

  Then the father gives me the death blow. “Once we are all gone… If and when we come back… Nothing changes after that, no one will remember their past life, and we will all just do this over as someone or something else. With both of them as our masters … again.”

  “Oh, now goddammit,” I say. “What kind of Hindu cow-shit is that? You don’t… Catholics don’t believe in that reincarnation crap.”

  He cocks his head at me, looks me in the eyes, and raises his eyebrows. Then he points to the cross—crucified Jesus behind the pulpit. “He did.”

  FURY

  — XLVII —

  WHATEVER DNA LIFE and that devil, Dal, gave me from their unholy “loins,” the father says I have a seriously overdeveloped sense of revenge and vengeance. Because when I finally figure out what I’m gonna do about all this, he thinks it’s pretty rotten, even for me. But if I had to put it in my own words … I’m just a sore loser.

  Whatever it is, I make him spend the rest of the night rewriting what’s left of the “shalls” in his book—all the stuff that hasn’t “come to pass,” as he puts it. And I pass the time re-familiarizing myself with the other book—their Bible. Because if there’s one thing that is constant throughout the world, the universe, and eternity, it’s that the people who write the rules … never fucking follow them.

  It’s still pretty dark out when the father and I wake them all up. And they squawk and caw in protest as they pull themselves out of whatever cozy feelings they could claw from their dreams.