Order of Dust

by Nicholas J. Evans

  “Have it your way,” Jackson replied. “How about a smile?”

  The distorted face gave a weak, sarcastic smile and then spit a slime ball of blood and saliva towards Jackson. It landed on the pavement beside him in a runny pile. “Fuck off,” the bound man said back.

  “Human,” Jackson said softly. He turned slowly, his soaking wet jacket flopping behind him as he did so. With his right hand he pulled the silver pistol from his side, clicked the hammer with his thumb, and fired.

  The room was full of characters, some grinning and some just smiling. Everyone was awaiting something to start as if it were a production and behind the scenes the actors and actresses were ready to come out in bright costumes, songs being sung, and props being pulled around the stage. Instead what waited just beyond the curtain was a room of terrified strangers, bound and wet with their own tears and sweat and piss. It grew louder as the drinks flowed and the smoke clouded the air. Someone took a great deal of time to really make this event worth the dangerous cost of their lives and worth the actual cost of their deep pockets. Tables lined the outer walls with hanging red tablecloths and white flowers with ornamental gold vases. Resting along these displays were bottles of expensive and rare liquors, glasses of champagne stacked in small pyramids, and piles of imported cigars.

  All went silent as a thin, tall man with black hair pranced along the stage at the end of the large room and stood patiently. Each guest hurried to their seat, grabbing what they needed from the tables before they herded to their isles like packs of sheep. The seats were not the fold out seats of the previous meeting, but were cushioned chairs of solid black with wooden armrests which fit much better with the distinguished crowd. The man took a bow, flashing white teeth lining pink gums, and then rubbed a hand through his hair as he stood back up. Something about him could captivate a crowd like no other, as if charisma itself was flooding from his body and splashing into his audience.

  “Greetings,” said the smirking man in the pitch-black suit. “I will be your host this evening, fellow Scarabs, and you may call me Carter.”

  Jackson did not barge in as he had done so many times before. This time, he learned from his past, and became methodical in his work. There is, of course, no better teacher than pain itself. He watched from the roof through a small window beside them that gave a clear view of the gathering below. His ears were not able to comprehend the sound at this height, and the distant rolling thunder that followed flashes of lightning did little to assist. However, his eyes were his best tool in this instance as it was all he needed to see to know what he was up against: Carter. The water pooled on the flat roof and rose around his boots, but he remained still and watchful. Each pinging of rain droplets that bounced from the glass would be his disguise as he formulated a plan.

  “Shall we bring out our first morsel?” said Carter who stood adjusting his tie while his eyes danced over the crowd. “Please send out a guest, Cassiel.”

  Out from behind the stage, from the shadows of the large curtain, walked a familiar silhouette. First, a young man whose arms were bound and mouth taped shut. His skin was very dark and his hair was trimmed short, tight. His body was mostly uncovered with the exception of his black boxer shorts. The young man seemed nervous, trembled a little, but his eyes held a swirling whirlpool of pure anger. Yet, he was not the familiar one, for just behind him, accompanying him closely and holding a large blade, was an angel.

  She looked nothing like Ayres and yet just like Ayres. Same shining armor, same weapon, even same build and stare. This one, though, had flowing black hair that moved as silk with her steps, and her skin was like porcelain. She held fire in her eyes, and motive in her stride. The clank of her armor, the slam of her bare feet slapping the wooden stage, were the only sounds, other than the mixed chatter, Jackson could hear from his location. Only one thing rested on his mind…

  Jackson’s blood boiled, his teeth grinded, lips quivered. “We have to find a way inside,” he said in the darkness of the night.

  A streak of lightning crackled through the sky and flashed a Polaroid of his surrounding landscape of the rooftop. A large, dark skinned man holding a pistol stood near him, and a young boy who was angry from the rain. Another flash hit the dark and behind him glowed a woman in shining, dripping armor. His people had accompanied him into this possible mess, some with their own motivations, some as a show of gratitude, and one boy in particular just for the thrill.

  “Don’t see no guards or anything, besides her,” Coldin whispered.

  Aldrich peered downward to look in through the glass beside Jackson, “I dare say no new entrances on the ground floor either I am afraid.”

  Aldrich moved from the window, hands deep in his pockets, and scuffled along the rooftop with pendulum like eyes that swayed back and forth as they looked to find any way other than the Jackson way of utilizing the front door.

  Both Ayres and Jackson had other agendas as they watched the angel walk across the stage with the young man. Though Ayres had witnessed her kind fall before, the true sight of one before her still caused a cold chill across the back of her neck, and a crushing hollowness within her. She pitied them, though the rage and disappointment where the first emotions to come to play; even when she tried to be emotionless. Jackson, on the other hand, was a little more concerned with how he was to take her down if the need should arise. At the rate things were going for the group, he would be entering through the front door and immediately open fire which would no doubt cause the angel to become defensive, maybe even recklessly so.

  Jackson knew that this time he would have to think differently, rationally. The old Jackson would sweat, he would tremble, and he would flee. But, Jackson had grown strategic, and strong. He inhaled a sharp breath.

  “While I did not find us a suitable entrance on the ground, I did happen upon a nice latching square door up here that appears to drop us down inside the storage room, Order,” Aldrich reported.

  “Okay,” Jackson answered, and his mind flared like a dying bulb finding new light for just a moment more. “I think I have a plan.”

  “You think?” Coldin chimed in. “Shit, I hope you know.”

  Jackson gave him a quick look and a nod. “Tell you the truth,” Jackson began, as he walked over to the latch entrance of the rooftop and pulled on it until it creaked open. “I never know.”

  “So, what’s it like being a kid again?” Coldin asked as they stood outside the front entrance.

  Coldin’s large, muscular back rested against the red door and he crossed his arms while he leant. Aldrich, who appeared the size of a hamster in comparison to the giant statue of a man, also leaned back but figured his weight would do little to nothing for holding it shut as Jackson directed, so he instead leaned on the brick wall with his hands in the pockets of his tweed blazer.

  “I have experienced many ages,” Aldrich responded. “In this adolescent shell I tend to rest much better, but I do wish I could procure a bottle of fine gin without assistance.”

  “What about inside? Like, your mind? You ever get the idea to do things your bodies age?”

  “No, sir,” he replied a bit annoyed, “I do not.”

  Coldin shrugged, and rubbed a hand over his smooth head before crossing his arms once more. “You know,” he sighed. “We got some similar stories, the two of us. Stuck on the inside while a psycho kills with your own hands. How did you–” He paused uncomfortably. “How did you get passed it?”

  “Easy,” Aldrich snapped back with his true smile, which Coldin could not see. “I never have.”

  Coldin nodded and gazed off down into the darkness of the city streets around them. Aldrich could see where his mind had gone, he even knew what was tossing through his brain at this moment. He knew, because at one time that was him.

  “I read, I summon Azazel, I assist with case information, and I drink tea,” Aldrich said, breaking through Coldin’s concentration. “That sums up the life to which I find myself bound, like that of a fish
who tumbles through a never-ending whirlpool. But, after the passing of some time, you too will realize that the past is merely behind us now. It cannot control us, though I do believe it would like to.” The two looked at each other once more. “I see you like personal questions though, Officer, so how about it then? Explain your overwhelming stature. How does one find himself so large?”

  Coldin chuckled, “That’s an easy one, little man. I eat a lot, then I lift a lot.”

  “And, for just what purpose, Officer?” Aldrich asked sarcastically.

  “To hold doors closed, I guess,” and both shared a quick smile and laughed.

  It was so dark, and neither the moonlight nor the flashes of lightning made it inside of the hatch’s tunnel. Ayres had gone down first, quick and nimble without any issue or hesitation. Jackson, however, did not have this kind of luck. His large, broad frame and long jacket impaired his ability to climb down as fast, and in the dark he desperately fumbled at each step of the ladder with his boots. He could hear her calling up to him in a brash whisper, but he could not make it out as he took his sweet time.

  Finally, he dropped his leg down for another step and felt nothing but empty space.

  It was in this moment that he recalled the old Jackson. He would not have been on this roof for the fear of heights, not have climbed down the shaft for fear of darkness, and definitely not have descended for the very real fear of falling. Yet here he was, a changed man for better or worse. He remembered the boy that climbed the neighbor’s tree, just to impress the girl who watched from the window. Jackson recalled her smile as he reached up for another branch with his foot planted on a thin branch below, just like his was planted on the ladder peg now, and he remembered how the bark felt on his soft, small hand. Then, there was the sound of cracking from the tree, and the scrapping of bark on his palms. Jackson had never forgotten that fall, the embarrassment and fear and the pain that followed. But he was not that boy anymore, and he was no longer afraid.

  Jackson took a deep breath in of the musty air, held it, and dropped from the pegs.

  Luckily, it was only a few feet.

  His large boots smashed to the ground and echoed lightly in the pitch blackness of the room. “You down here, Ayres?” he rumbled quietly in the dark with a hand on his weapon and another flailing slowly in the darkness to find a wall.

  “Would you like me to turn on the light, Order?” The familiar silky voice called from the dark.

  “No, I wanted to stay in the dark,” he replied sarcastically as the light flipped on, blinding him for a moment. He put an arm up to shield his eyes, “What were you saying when I was climbing down?”

  “I said,” she started in a sarcastic tone of her own, “would you like me to turn on the light, Order.”

  “Makes sense.” He took a minute to collect himself and monitored his surroundings.

  It was definitely a storage room. Boxes were stacked high against brick walls, with pipes running across the ceiling and jumping down into a large cylinder with several warning stickers on it. The shelves were made of metal and carried various supplies in no particular order, from pieces of machinery to tools for those same pieces. The thick blankets of dust that coated everything reminded him of fresh winter snow showers when he was much younger, and he could see that nothing had been disturbed in quite some time. The ceiling hatch was one of only two exits to this windowless room, with the other staring them in the face nearby: a large, black door with chipping paint and rusted hinges. Ayres stood beside it, the fluorescent light bouncing from her armor.

  Jackson had noticed that her blade was drawn, and she had a stance that said she was ready for war. The feeling in his gut almost spoke to him in that moment as he stared at the warrior who was poised to go in for the kill. It was almost as if that thing within him was drawn to her, even protective of her. It unnerved him, but also injected him with the comfort and confidence of just her presence. She nodded at him, a signal of readiness, and he made his way towards the door.

  “What is the plan?” she asked, the door just before them was ready to be opened.

  Jackson drew both of his handguns and scowled at Ayres. “Easy,” he answered and lifted a gun up as he pressed against the door. “We fucking kill them all.”

  “Six hundred thousand dollars, and not a penny more!” screamed a raspy, older voice in the front row.

  “Seven hundred!” shouted a much more pitched voice next to him.

  Carter stood on the stage holding a devilish smile that one could have mistaken him for Azazel himself. His thin fingers, adorned in various rings of silver and gold in all shapes, gently rested on the shoulder of the near-nude and bound young man they had watch escorted out earlier.

  Carter was breathing heavily with excitement as if he could smell the money in the air like the odor of fresh pizza coming out of a hot oven. Teeth gleamed in the light above the stage, and his eyes showered around the audience.

  The numbers climbed higher, each person fighting more than the last. A fat, older man in a toupee shouted out the first million-dollar offer, followed by a woman adorned in pearls who offered a little more. The second million came from a seemingly younger man who, judging by his general demeanor, did not have much life left within him. The offers grew, passing the three-million-dollar mark when the bids finally grew quiet. In his overly dramatic and flamboyant way, Carter beckoned the final bidder up to the stage with a single curling finger that moved like a dying spider’s leg.

  An older gentleman, thin as if his skin were hanging on nothing but bones, crept his way up the stage and next to the prize. He admired the boy’s muscular build up close, the rich color of his dark skin, the thick hair that opposed his own thinning strands. The old man's smile started off human in its slow, shaking rise, but it continued to grow, and his eyes grew ablaze. Soon his face matched Carter’s as he stared at the boy while Carter stared at the man. The other two did not share the moment; the boy, and Cassiel.

  “Claim your prize, vermin,” Cassiel said firmly. She had a twitch as she spoke, a slight jolt that caused just the slightest body spasm and a small flutter of her eyes.

  “Easy, now,” whispered Carter with his silver tongue. “These are our guests, and this boy is now his property. Be kind in your words, Angel or your services may no longer be required…”

  She rolled her eyes, then pushed the boy towards the older man.

  “Yes... Yes...” croaked the old man. “This body… will do me... Well...” And he let out a series of gruesome coughs. “May my Dust enter him now, Mr. Carter?”

  Carter looked towards Cassiel, motioning his head towards the black door behind them. It was just behind the draping red curtain to keep it out of sight, and on the ground along the wall near it sat each of the other offerings for the auction. They ranged in similarities just as the prior group did; some younger than others, various ethnicities, but all seemed to be athletic, or beautiful, or a combination of both.

  “Follow her back, sir,” Carter said softly. “There is a simple room in the back in which you can leave this body for our disposal and enter the new vessel. Cassiel,” he called to her. “Let’s keep it brief and painless this time. Death needn’t be so… barbaric. Especially when it is not your first time.”

  The young man, who held strong during this experience was now trembling in fear. Eyes shook, each deep breath flared his nostrils. He desperately shook his head to say no, but the audience and his surrounding company ignored him. With a whimper and tears, he struggled to move from Cassiel’s clutch which was too strong for him to break free of. She made her way towards the door, with the old man following and dragged the boy as he fought desperately. They were just before the door now.

  And, it burst open.

  From its frame walked Jackson, long coat shook with his slow, long strides and his arms extended out before him. This time he would not waste time with small talk. Jackson thought back to the stories he heard as a child about costumed heroes. He thought of how they
did not always just win the first fight, but how sometimes a hero has to learn from defeat and capitalize on their growth. In this moment, Jackson almost felt heroic for the first time of his second-life. As the door flung open Cassiel leapt to one side, releasing the boy who fell onto his back against the wood of the stage. Carter jumped down, taking cover at the stage’s edge. Then the first pop of a bullet rang into the room.

  It was followed by shouts and screams.

  Jackson fired a flurry of rounds from his Arm of the Savior, filling the room in streams of light that flashed like rounded bolts of lightning. They beamed through the audience who resembled attendees of a concert with a very special light show. A round entered the chest of the man who called the first million, and as the body dropped, a Dust stood frozen in his place. The next three rounds all followed a similar path; two bodies dropped under the silhouette of their Dust, and one person stood unaffected then began to run for the red door behind them. The pearl-lined female was next as the light shot through her stomach revealing her Dust as well. Soon over a dozen Dusts stood frozen in the room, their bodies piled on the ground, while a few others plowed against the red door that remained unbudging.

  “Azazel.” Jackson said as he wandered off of the stage, and quickly turned back to his true targets. Jackson had grown more than he knew, for it had been nothing but mere seconds before the room’s cast was now down to the true performers.

  Behind him the black smoke rose and the familiar devil walked out of the cloud’s cover. Cassiel stood strong, even while trembling in her armor, with blade in hand, and Carter behind her. He was not as nervous as she was, but retained his smile. Azazel looked around at the many Dusts around him, frozen for the taking. He did not smile, his eyes did not light up as normal, and in fact he looked quite human. Until his gaze found its way to Carter and Cassiel.