All Who Wander Are Lost (An Icarus Fell Novel)

by Bruce Blake

  The spirit was staring at me, his gaze sending lancets of guilt through my chest, but he didn’t say anything, so I didn’t either. We stayed there for probably two minutes, him staring at me and me glancing away and back, away and back, like someone who’d done something wrong and couldn’t bear to hold his gaze.

  How appropriate.

  During the pause, my mind raced: what would Mikey think about this? How badly did I screw up? And, more importantly, what would the repercussions be? Mike sent me on a brief trip to Hell for botching a job once, a trip I didn’t like so much. I thought of Gabe and Poe and all the people whose souls ended up condemned because of me. The spirit watched my head swivel back and forth a few times like he really was Serena Williams and I was watching him play a tiny, invisible tennis match, then he tapped me on the shoulder as best a ghost can.

  “What do we do now?”

  I must have stared at him like he’d spoken some indecipherable ghost language because he felt compelled to rephrase the question.

  “What happens next?”

  I finally focused on him, grabbed the gun from where I’d set it down, and stood, feet straddling his corpse. The spirit stood, too.

  “Now you go to Heaven.”

  I started down the alley, but after a few steps, realized he hadn’t followed, so I stopped and looked back over my shoulder.

  “You’re going to take me to Heaven?”

  His disbelieving tone irked me a bit—why shouldn’t it be me who takes him to Heaven?—but I attempted to keep my irked-ness from showing in my response. Accident or not, I’d just killed the man; he deserved some compassion.

  “Sort of. I do the earthly part.” I resumed walking. “You better come, there might be others looking for you, and they’re not as nice as me.”

  An ominous statement coming from the guy who just killed you.

  With the gun held in front of me like they do on all the cop shows, I peeked around the corner, worried I’d thrown the cosmic plan out of whack and an assailant would jump us at any moment. None did. We emerged onto a side street empty of traffic and, glancing both directions, hurriedly crossed to the shadows on the other side. We walked in silence for a while, the dead policeman’s soul trailing a step or two behind, following uncertainly. After a few blocks, enough time and distance had passed that I figured we were safe, so I lowered the gun and decided to break the uncomfortable silence.

  “Sorry about what happened back there,” I said over my shoulder hoping he’d take my attempt at conversation as an invitation to walk with me. Having a dead guy walking at my heels made me a little uncomfortable.

  “Everyone’s time comes,” he answered nonchalantly, stepping up beside me.

  “Yeah, but it doesn’t happen that way.”

  “Really? How do you know?”

  “It’s not what I do. I’m a harvester not a...Hell, I’m the guy who collects the crops, not the one who chops them down.”

  “Maybe this time was different.”

  I stopped and he strode a step farther before realizing and doing the same.

  “Look, killing ain’t my business. They give me a scroll, I collect the soul.” It sounded like I might have come up with a slogan, though the one about the crops sounded more manly. This one rhymed, though. “Simple.”

  “Twenty-five years of police work taught me things are rarely simple.” He scratched his stubbly chin, probably a left over habit since I couldn’t imagine a spirit having an itch. “This scroll tells you how the person will die? Who kills them?”

  I gritted my teeth. The answers coming to mind lacked a certain politeness, so I held them at bay behind my lips. Sometimes I try new things.

  “Not everything’s a crime to solve.”

  Fucking detectives, I wanted to add. Our conversation ended abruptly, leaving me feeling lonely. After a month in solitary, it was good to hear a voice which didn’t belong to me or a television character. Another part of me rejoiced at the end of the discussion—he'd voiced some things already on my mind, things I’d avoided asking. Things like:

  Where was the guy who was supposed to kill Detective Shaun Williams?

  There wasn’t a soul—living or otherwise—within blocks when I ended the man’s life on the fortuitously-placed sharp stone. That small detail hadn’t escaped my notice amongst worry of repercussions; I’d chosen to ignore it. Now he’d fucked that up for me.

  Gabe wouldn’t have set me up, would she?

  I considered it. The archangel didn’t seem to have a nasty bone in her body, assuming angels had bones. Between her love for time spent in human form and the delicate swallows that followed her everywhere, imagining her as anything but gentle and kind was difficult.

  No, not Gabe. Michael.

  Anger stirred in me and I realized it was the first time I’d thought of him like that: Michael instead of Mike or Mikey. I’d transformed his name back to fullness the way a parent uses their child’s middle name when they’re angry. It never happened to me—no parents, and no one bothered giving me a middle name to use so they could illustrate their dissatisfaction. But the act of elongating his moniker fit as I thought about what the head archangel may have done, the way I might have been manipulated.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.”

  I only half-heard the detective-soul’s words. When I looked at him, the muscles in my jaw bunched as I strained to contain the anger bubbling into my throat.

  Not his fault.

  “What?”

  “When you were in jail, I didn’t believe you. I’m sorry.”

  “Why would you?” I shrugged, his words distracting me from the conclusion to which I’d jumped. “How often do you meet someone who’s been dead six months?”

  He chuckled. “Not very often.”

  A couple of blocks passed beneath our feet as I related my story, at least the after-death part. No point telling him all the sordid details of my life, he probably discovered them while working the case, anyway. My story included his head connecting with the sharp rock but stopped short of my suspicions about Mike. He listened, nodding occasionally, until I finished, then we walked in silence for a while.

  “Do you take me right to the pearly gates?”

  “Don’t know if there are any.” My turn to chuckle. It must have seemed odd to him: an agent of Heaven who’s never been there. “Judging by the address they gave me, it seems I’m taking you to a warehouse.”

  †‡†

  I guessed right. The address for the drop was a patio furniture storehouse. We wandered past stacks of colored plastic chairs and folded umbrellas, tables piled together like building blocks placed by the hands of a giant child, and cases of cushions reaching almost to the ceiling. The detective’s soul walked beside me wearing a look nearer to the disappointment end of the scale than to wonder. Understandable, but he should have seen the motel where I first met Mikey. At least no one turned tricks in the warehouse.

  It didn’t take long to find the angel assigned to escort Detective Williams on the rest of his journey. The corner of the huge room where the angel sat on a green molded plastic chair was more brightly lit than the rest of the storage area, whether because of the pristine white of his Mr. Clean-style clothes and pale skin, or because celestial beings actually glow, I couldn’t say. The angel stood as we approached.

  “Welcome, Shaun Williams,” the close-to-albino said in his sing-song voice.

  The escorts—they probably had a more suitable label that made them sound less like high-priced prostitutes, but I hadn’t bothered to learn it—all looked identical: snow-white duds, snow-white hair, translucent skin. They functioned only to take souls I delivered the rest of the way to Heaven and, judging from the discussions I’d attempted in the past, they were interested in little else.

  Try again.

  “Tell Mikey I want to see him.”

  The angel gazed at me, a question plain in his eyes. He didn’t move or speak.

  “Michael. You know, the ar
changel? Second in charge? Tell him Icarus Fell wants to see him.”

  Detective Williams’ soul went to the angel’s side and turned to me.

  “Thank you,” he said. I stared at him a second, confused, then the anger and guilt roiling inside me spilled over like a pot of potatoes left to boil with the lid on.

  “You’re thanking me?” My throat clamped down on the words, compressing them until they came out like short, squat men wielding hammers. “I killed you, don’t you understand that? Someone—or something—manipulated me like a goddamn puppet with their hand up my ass and now you’re dead, Detective.”

  The spirit shrugged and smiled, increasing my ire. “I had nothing left but my work; someone else will do it. They won’t miss me. Thank you.”

  The angel took Detective Shaun Williams’ soul by the arm like he intended to lead him away, but they didn’t move. Instead, their forms wavered like on a television with poor reception, then they started to fade.

  “Tell Michael I want to see him,” I yelled. In my final glimpse of them before they disappeared, the angel raised his arm and pointed over my shoulder.

  “Tell him yourself.”

  I didn’t turn around immediately. The hair on my arms, on the back of my neck, stood up; hyperactive butterflies fluttered madly in my gut, crashing into the walls of my stomach. Did I really want to see Mikey after all?

  No point putting it off.

  I pivoted slowly, drawing out the movement.

  I’d have felt his unmistakable presence if I didn’t give in to anger, but I did, and the pressure pushing against me, the warmth bordering on uncomfortable, went unnoticed until I looked upon him.

  The archangel stood ten feet away, thigh-sized arms crossed in front of his chest. The buttons of his button-down collar were undone; the blond hair draped across his shoulders glowed against the stop-sign red shirt. His shirttail hung loose over black dress pants; black-and-red wing-tip shoes completed his questionable fashion statement. All this received only brief consideration because his expression captured my attention.

  The archangel Michael—the biblical right hand of God—looked pissed.

  Bruce Blake-All Who Wander Are Lost

  Chapter Three

  In the time since I’d seen Mikey, I’d forgotten what an imposing figure he was. Last I saw him, he was wielding a golden sword as big as me, protecting me from the angel of death, something one would normally not fail to recall. He didn’t look any worse for wear after the epic battle with Azrael at the church: his blond locks flowed in waves over his shoulders; his muscles strained against the silk of his shirt as though Michelangelo had sculpted a tribute to David’s bigger, body-building brother. His presence both scared the shit out of me and thrilled me to my spine.

  “You were looking for me.”

  His voice came out flat, something which took considerable effort for an angel. His words sounded more statement than question.

  “Yes.”

  He spread his arms in a ‘here I am’ gesture. I parted my lips but my lungs refused to aid my vocal chords in forming words. My mouth snapped shut, teeth clicking, and I sniffed a deliberate breath through my nostrils, forcing my lungs to do the work they’re employed to do. The fresh pumpkin pie smell of the archangel tested my resolve, but my vocal chords gave in to my wishes on the second attempt.

  “Did you send me to kill Detective Williams?”

  He regarded me with flickering golden eyes. The pause wasn’t to give him time to formulate the proper response—I didn’t believe for a second Mikey or any other angel was ever at a loss for words—he wanted a different effect. I shivered a little, giving it to him.

  “It matters not how a man’s body dies when it is the soul’s time to go on.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “Does it not?”

  I bit down hard enough that the cords in my neck stood out. The prickle on my skin vanished taking with it the thrill in my stomach and the shortened, excited breath the archangel’s presence brought. Their disappearance left anger and guilt alone to brood over my actions, my decisions. And Mike’s.

  “This isn’t what I signed up for,” I seethed between clenched teeth. “I’m not your goddamned tool.”

  “No, Icarus Fell, you are my God-saved tool.”

  His comment spun my brain in a tight little circle. It took a moment to regain my equilibrium as a wave of nausea swept through my midsection.

  “I’m supposed to save people, not kill them,” I said, much of the gusto gone from my voice. “Too many people died because of me.”

  “You did save him.” Mikey tipped his head indicating the spot where the detective and his escort were a minute before. “What is the problem?”

  “The problem is: if I didn’t kill him, I wouldn’t have needed to harvest him.”

  The archangel appeared to take one step but suddenly stood directly in front of me, his chest brushing mine. The fierce heat radiating from him brought sweat to my brow instantly. I looked up into his face; I’d estimated Mikey at six and a half feet tall but, as he stood before me, he seemed considerably taller. His heat leaked into my chest, seeped through my clothes and flesh, warmed my internal organs, and threatened to boil my blood.

  Did he mean for it to calm me or discourage me? It accomplished both. And more.

  “God’s universe is a place of give and take, but it is He alone who gives and takes. You, like all others, are part of the mechanism He uses to do so.”

  “I’m no killer,” I snapped and, before putting thought to my action, shoved against Mike’s chest with both hands.

  Really bad idea. I may as well have pushed the Empire State building. Michael remained stationary as the shove jammed my wrists back painfully, then sent me to the floor directly on my tail bone, rocketing a flare of pain up my spine. When I looked up a second later, the archangel already loomed over me.

  “Every effect has a cause.” He knelt in front of me and the fire in his eyes felt like lasers burning into mine. “Every action a result. Do you think nothing you do has consequences? Do you think you live this second life—this gift I gave you—without connection to any other living being?”

  I stared at him, breathless. My head might have moved in a gesture signifying I didn’t think that was the case, but I was trying so hard to keep from shaking, I couldn’t be sure. I searched desperately for a sarcastic response but came up lacking. Between the jarring impact of falling on my ass and the archangel’s proximity, my senses were rattled almost to the point of uselessness. He could have told me Martians had invaded New Orleans or that the Titanic was a rowboat and I’d have agreed with him.

  “Get up,” he said as he stood.

  I scrambled to my feet wanting nothing more at that moment than to make him happy with me. He grabbed my arm, his fingers hot as embers, but they didn’t burn. Instead, electricity coursed through me like I’d been struck by lightning. My body stiffened, eyeballs rolled back in their sockets. My eyes closed and I felt as though we were moving.

  When I pried my eyelids open, the patio furniture warehouse was gone and I had to squint against the daylight. We stood on a busy street corner, a place downtown I’d have recognized if the archangel’s mode of transportation hadn’t left my head spinning.

  “Where...where are we?” I ventured through dried lips.

  He raised his finger and pointed. Across the street, obscured by traffic flowing past, a woman with long, chestnut hair stood holding hands with a five-year-old boy. She watched the cars zipping by, waiting for a break so they could cross; the boy held a small toy, something tiny enough for him to conceal in his left hand.

  Should I know these people?

  I didn’t think so. Why would he bring me here?

  “Why are we here?”

  The words were barely clear of my lips when the boy dropped his toy—a red dinky car, it turned out. It tumbled from his hand, bounced once on the edge of the curb, pirouetted in the air, and came to rest in
the street. The boy released his mother’s hand and bent to retrieve it but over-balanced. The woman shrieked as her son fell in front of traffic. She leaped from the curb and caught the boy under his arms, threw him clear of the on-coming car which struck her before the driver had time to remember his car had brakes. The impact catapulted her ten yards, flying over the boy, until her head impacted a light post and flipped her body three hundred-and-sixty degrees like a rag doll caught in a wind storm.

  My mouth fell open.

  Pedestrians jumped away from the woman’s body, one man narrowly avoiding contact with her ruined head. The boy lay on the sidewalk wailing, his arm scraped when his mother threw him to safety, no idea she’d given her life to save him. As her body came to a stop in a jumbled heap, her soul separated from it and a man in a black trench coat and hat pulled down over his eyes stepped out of the crowd. He ignored the child and the woman’s corpse, instead making his way toward the woman’s soul where she stood halfway between the boy and her body, looking from one to the other, unsure what to do.

  I recognized the man immediately.

  “Carrion,” I blurted and went to step off the curb.

  I didn’t think I’d get there before him to rescue her from a trip to Hell, but I’d give it my best try. Or would have if Michael’s hand on my arm didn’t stop me. The shock of his touch stiffened my body again and the world went blank.

  Upon the return of my senses, I found the sun still shining, but the harsh smell of car exhaust had been replaced by the bite of brine in the air. I turned to ask Mikey what-the-Hell happened, but the words never formed. Water stretched around us in every direction—water, water everywhere as Samuel Taylor Coleridge said in his poem, or Bruce Dickinson from Iron Maiden quoted in their Mariner-inspired song. I glanced at my feet and was shocked to find water beneath us, too.

  “How...?”

  No point finishing the question—what do silly things like the laws of nature mean to an archangel? I might not know an angel’s full capabilities but by now you’d think I’d at least expect the unexpected. No quick learner, me; another of my shortfalls.