Angels to Ashes

by Drew Foote

  “There’s no need to answer that question right now, Walter. Think about it, between your studies,” Paimon finally declared. “Now, speaking of your studies, we must continue.”

  Fear returned to Walter’s hollow features. “Please, Paimon … don’t … I can’t,” he whispered in a forlorn voice.

  The Demon did not respond. He rose regally, and retrieved a small white book from a nearby shelf. Walter sat paralyzed in his seat, his head shaking in denial. Paimon placed the delicate tome in front of Walter, and he sat once more across from Walter.

  Paimon smiled, and it was a good smile. A warm smile. “I think we have done an admirable job covering the basics, Walter. I think it is time to move onto something more advanced; now, let us read of Bonds.”

  The white book opened, and Walter slid into its warm depths.

  ~

  Walter grimaced in pain as the relentless cancer devoured his lungs, a slow and horrible death. He prayed for the sweet release of death, an end to his misery, but he put on a brave face. He wasn’t alone.

  Gloria, his faithful wife of fifty-two years, held his hands through all the pain. She was there through the useless chemotherapy. She was there through the radiation treatment that had practically destroyed him. She was there, at the end of all things. Gloria was his rock, his touchstone.

  Walter put on a brave face because Gloria’s face was brave, and strong. He had the easy job; all he had to do was die, and she had to sit there and watch it happen. She had to witness her dearest friend wither and blow away in the wind, a floating dandelion. She was so much stronger than he was, but she leant him her strength.

  She never gave up on him, and when the shuddering death rattle escaped his lips, she was there to kiss his cooling forehead. Walter rose.

  The rope around Walter’s neck was coarse and rough. He looked down from his chair at his small and lonely apartment. He saw the spaces in his life that had been empty since Donna had left. There was nothing here for him, nothing but shattered dreams and sleepless nights.

  How easy it would be to just step off the chair, to let go, to let it all swirl down the drain. Let gravity do all the work. A gentle, sudden tug … and then nothing. No one would miss him.

  Walter took a deep breath. There was no point in prayer. God never answered prayers. Better to get it over with. A clichéd suicide note looked up at him expectantly from his shabby desk. One … two … three …

  The phone in his pocket rang. He exhaled a gasp. Might as well answer it; it was his brother.

  “Look, Dave,” his brother said. “I know things have been bad lately. I just wanted you to know I’m there for you. You’re not alone. You should come over for dinner and we’ll talk.”

  Walter agreed, and hung up. He sobbed violently, tears flowing down his relieved face. They were clean and pure. He removed the grim weight of the rope from his neck. He floated free.

  Mortars exploded in a haze of dust and confusion. The staccato rhythm of machine gun fire played above Walter’s head, thundering through the trench. It was a song of death and dismemberment. He huddled in the mud with the three surviving members of his squad: Johnny, Luke, and Ted. They went through boot camp and infantry training together, leaning on each other for strength and support, and now they found themselves on a battlefield of hellish perdition.

  Luke rocked back and forth on his haunches, sobbing an unintelligible prayer. Luke knew he would not survive to see his sweetheart. She would receive a flag, instead, neatly folded and impersonal.

  We thank you for your husband’s service. The war machine was hungry.

  Johnny cried for him to snap out of it, but he was just as scared. He’d never return to his family’s farm, and he knew it. He would irrigate this meaningless plot of ground with his life’s blood, instead. All of humanity would harvest the bitter crop for seasons to come.

  Walter could hear the Germans charging toward their trench. They roared their fury in a foreign tongue, words of hatred and bloodlust. The allies bellowed their response, equally harsh and alien.

  Words failed. They always failed.

  A soft sound. Walter saw the grenade land innocently in the bloody mud at his feet. It was such a tiny thing, so gentle and innocuous.

  The grenade grinned at him.

  “Hey boss, don’t mind me!” it said cheerfully. “This will only take a second. Just relax! It will all be over soon.”

  Walt stared at it. What kind of man was he? What bravery slept inside his heart? Could he give all, even though he was already dead? A tumult of bitter gray ash spun through the air.

  Thoughts of his friends flashed through his mind with the speed of light. Their off-color jokes. Their snores and their flatulence. Their dreams and aspirations, their families and loved ones. The love they shared in the face of their horror, a light in the abyss.

  Walter threw himself on the grenade and closed his eyes. Its concussion was muffled and annoyed, but fatal for one man. He soared.

  Above it all, through all the nightmares of pain, Walter rose on gentle winds of fellowship. He stared down at the teeming mass of humanity, a roiling tempest of stories and lives. They whirled like motes of divinity riding an unkind wind.

  They clutched desperately at each other, holding one another tight as the storm struggled to drive them apart. They danced together to an incomprehensible song, but they knew the steps. They never let go because letting go was worse than death, and death was inevitable, anyway.

  The glow of their intertwined lives was a pattern of such beauty that Walter cried out. It was a living lattice that struggled against the ugliness of its environment, enduring the cruelty and the pain. They stood strong against the black tide that crashed against them. They were greater than the sum of their parts, and they were stronger than God had designed them.

  Had Walter ever known a friendship such as that? He could have, but he had pushed others away. Afraid of the weakness and chaos they would introduce into the structure of his so-called life.

  Walt had cloistered himself in an ivory tower, turning loved ones away. His mote had danced alone, blown away in the storm. He saw now that his strength had been his weakness. He had been lost long ago.

  Walter wept.

  ~

  Paimon watched quietly as Walter sobbed and shuddered. He sat there for a time, gifting Walter the strength of his presence. The candles in the library cast a fitful glow, flickering with the movements of Walter’s journey.

  Paimon had wept too, long ago. He had wept in horror, and he had wept in joy. He had wept with the realization that all was ashes. He had wept with the realization that perhaps ashes were enough. He still did not know, for certain, but he knew that certainty was an illusion.

  Perhaps the most dangerous illusion of all.

  Paimon the Cruel rose silently and left once Walter slept. The Demon longed for the sweet release of tears, but he had none left.

  Eternity was interminably long.

  Chapter 12

  Devourer

  Arcturus’ wings beat frantically as he hovered beneath the ceiling, putting the final additions on the roof’s repairs.

  “Hmm …” I mused.

  I had to admit it was a piss-poor effort. Demons were less gifted at mending than Angels, true, but Arcturus’ shoddy workmanship was shameful. The rubble from the ceiling had been jammed back in place haphazardly, held together by what looked to be cobwebs and phlegm. The weight sagged dangerously, issuing alarming groans and creaks.

  “That’s pretty awful,” I decided. “I’m quite certain that won’t do at all.”

  “Maybe you should have done it yourself, then, instead of sitting there smoking. Jackass,” the Imp huffed. The overweight little fellow was out of breath from such uncharacteristic exertion.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. That’s why I have you,” I reassured him. I poured myself another drink and sat down in front of the fireplace. I took a sip. “That’s fine for now, Art. Why don’t you take a break? We can start o
ver later.”

  I was not a slave driver.

  Arcturus coughed a grunt of exhaustion, descended from the roof, and crash-landed on my desk with the grace of an albatross. Papers and curios flew in all directions, adding to the already substantial disarray of my formerly tidy office. He moaned and rolled onto his back, potbelly heaving. He really needed more exercise.

  I shook my head, and took another sip. The heat and smoke radiating from the cheerful fireplace was soothing. I felt a sense of momentary peace after the earlier madness, but I knew it was temporary. I had to figure out what to do about Mister Walter Grey.

  I reviewed Walter’s file again, but I could not find anything of the faintest interest. He was just another dissatisfied academician who thought the world owed him something because he was just so amazingly clever and insightful. How could Harvard not give him tenure after dispensing so many tired pearls of wisdom?

  I chuckled. I wondered how clever he thought he was now. Hell had a way of humbling everyone, even Demons.

  That being said, I was certain Kalyndriel cared little for my professional opinion on Walter Grey. She was obviously a stubborn creature, and I doubted she’d take well to being blown off. I had made her a promise, and I had best make good on it before she came calling. I knew very well the consequences.

  I sighed. What a predicament. I was conscripted as a damned Angelic messenger boy.

  “Oh well,” I whispered to my drink. The infernal air might do my health some good, and I hadn’t returned to Hell in ages. There were worse fates than being an errand boy. I lit a cigar and inhaled deeply. I might as well get it over with.

  I would return to Hell tonight and track down the legendary Walter Grey. It should be easy enough.

  ~

  I was puffing away in a warm, contented haze when I, once again, felt the all-too familiar pulse of Angelic energy in my office. I slammed my drink down in irritation. “Oh, come on!” I shouted.

  The light resolved into two Powers, who glowed haughtily in the middle of my office as if they owned the damned place. They stood motionless, weapons unsheathed, staring at me with threatening intent.

  “At least they didn’t come through the ceiling,” Arcturus observed dryly, not bothering to rise from his repose. I nodded grudging agreement.

  “Let me guess,” I snapped at them. “You’re here about the fantastic Walter Grey, aren’t you? What a popular boy he is. Might as well take a seat and fix yourself a drink, then.”

  I gestured sarcastically at the wet bar. I had had quite enough of such nonsense.

  The Powers merely glared at me, their eyes cold, but it seemed there was a trace of amusement in them. The ghost of a smile lingered on their lips. It was profoundly unnerving, for I wanted nothing to do with anything an Angel found funny.

  “Look,” I continued in the face of their mute regard. “I already spoke with your mother, Kalyndriel. I will look into this Walter thing personally. Now, why don’t you run along to Heaven and leave it to me?”

  The Angels stubbornly refused to budge. They also didn’t avert their attention from me, making it clear that if I tried to pull a fast one, I would regret it. I gulped nervously. That was not normal behavior.

  “These guys are pretty creepy, eh?” Arcturus noted. I frantically waved my hands for him to desist, but the Angels didn’t seem to be bothered. Perhaps they were aware of how creepy they were.

  “Well, gentlemen,” I laughed smoothly. “This has truly been wonderful, but I must be off on Mistress Kalyndriel’s errand. If you will excuse me —”

  I began to rise, but one of the Powers gave a small, firm shake of his head. It was subtle, but there was no mistaking the threat behind it. I swiftly sat back down.

  My antique cuckoo clock slowly counted the time while I sat in awkward silence. I twiddled my thumbs and cleaned my fingernails, conscientiously ignoring my unwelcome guests. The Angels were obviously waiting for something, and I dreaded what it might be, but there were no options available to me. I was unable to dematerialize so close to their hostile Angelic energy.

  I suddenly felt another burst of energy in my office, but to my delight, this energy was infernal. Oh, thank Lucifer! Perhaps it was Makariel, coming to save my bacon once more. I turned to the Demons taking shape in the hellish smoke.

  There were two of them. One was an obviously ancient Fiend, and the other a fantastically fat and loathsome creature. The bloated Demon had an enormous, slavering maw lined with multiple rows of teeth like a shark’s hungry grin. The mouth seemed to be, impossibly, even larger than its warped and misshapen head.

  Just looking at the twisted dimensions of the creature’s gullet made my head swim and my stomach nauseous. Its slick, oily skin was roll upon roll of quivering, necrotic obesity. I had never even seen such a Demon.

  The monster gave a hearty chortle when it observed my confusion, but I quickly regained my composure.

  “Welcome, noble Demons!” I announced grandly. “I thank you for your intercession on my behalf, but I would greatly appreciate it if you took the ensuing battle outside. My office has seen enough destruction for now.” I spread my arms and gave a magnanimous bow.

  The fat one chuckled again. A tongue the size of a bloated python wet its slimy lips. The Fiend stepped forward and gave a small, familiar nod to the Powers. To my dismay, they returned his nod with thin smiles. The Fiend approached me, and he returned my bow with an ironic smirk.

  “Greetings, Barnabas,” the Fiend began smoothly, the smirk still on his face. “My name is Gressil, and this is my compatriot Nimis.” He gestured to the obese horror, who gave an obliging belch. The scent of rot and decay filled the room.

  I looked nervously from the Demons to the Angels, who apparently had absolutely no desire to do battle. They were practically chummy, for all intents and purposes. That was new.

  I cleared my throat nervously. “Welcome, Gressil and Nimis, to my office. What can I do for you?”

  “It’s not about what you can do for me, Barnabas. It’s about what you can do for my employer. Lord Leviathan. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”

  Gressil smiled an icy grin, letting the name sink in. Arcturus gave an alarmed yelp and beat his wings once, sliding himself off the edge of my desk to take cover underneath. I felt my knees begin to tremble. I had indeed heard of Lord Leviathan, and none of it good.

  None of it even remotely close to anything other than awful.

  Leviathan, the Director of Gluttony, the Worm. Leviathan was a legend of terror, unimaginably brutal and vicious, even by Fallen Angel standards. He was as feared in Hell as he was in Heaven.

  It was said that long ago, while Heaven was distracted with internal disputes, Leviathan snuck up to Earth and devoured the entire continent of Atlantis. When no one was watching, he snapped the entire thing up like a large-mouth bass. I heard the Angels were quite distraught about that one. If Director Leviathan was involved in this business, I most certainly did not wish to be.

  “Um, yes, how might a humble Demon such as myself be of service to the Director?” I asked, terrified of the answer. I heard Arcturus whimpering softly beneath my desk. I wished for nothing more than to join him there.

  “How very glad I am to hear you ask that, friend Barnabas,” Gressil drawled. The Demon walked over to my desk, selected a cigar from my humidor, and lit it with the touch of his finger. Smoke wreathed his gnarled horns. “As you likely suspect, it has to do with a soul belonging to Walter Grey.”

  Damn that Walter! If I had known his soul was going to be such a pain in the ass, I would have let him keep it. No soul was worth such trouble.

  “I see,” I carefully replied. “And what would you have me do?”

  “Merely a small favor, Barnabas. Just transfer ownership of his soul to me, nothing more. Director Leviathan would be most grateful, of course, as would Nimis, here.”

  Gressil leaned forward, whispering to me conspiratorially. He gestured at Nimis. “Nimis is a Devourer, you see.” Gressi
l grinned.

  I felt my blood run cold, and I heard the thud of Arcturus’ head hit the underside of my desk as he flopped in alarm. There was no breed of Demon more universally feared and loathed among their fellow Demons than Devourers.

  It was exceptionally difficult for Demons to kill one another. While Angelic weapons could unmake us easily enough, our own infernal powers were often insufficient to permanently destroy another Demon. That was undoubtedly a good thing, or there would likely be no Demons left, but exceedingly powerful Demons could still destroy one another. Fallen Angels and Arch-Demons could do it, certainly … but so could Devourers.

  They were the chosen warriors of Director Leviathan, and their gift, if one could call it such, was the ability to consume something so completely that no trace remained afterward. Hamburger, soul, Angel, Demon, it didn’t matter. There would be nothing left. The great Barnabas would be gone, forever.

  My eyes widened in terror as I looked at Nimis, who seemed exceedingly pleased with himself. He grinned hungrily at me, and I saw that the rows of teeth that surrounded his lips actually descended the entirety of his cavernous gullet, down and down. I did not know what terrible thing lay at the bottom of that toothy well, and I didn’t want to find out.

  My mind raced. I would love nothing more than to give away Walter’s useless soul, but it clearly wasn’t going to be that simple. Angels and Demons were conspiring together, to unknown ends, and Leviathan’s emissary had actually brought a Devourer with him. There was no mistaking the meaning of that.

  I was dead. They would not let me survive to tell this bizarre tale. Even if I gave Walter’s soul to Gressil, Nimis would devour Arcturus and me anyway. There was no way out.

  I took a deep breath and rose slowly from my seat. The Demons and Angels looked at me with smug expectation. I slowly paced the room, making noises as though I was considering the offer. I leaned back against the edge of my desk, my thoughts lost in contemplation.