TF- C - 00.00 - THE FALLEN Dark Fantasy Series: A Dark Dystopian Fantasy (Books 1 - 3)

by Steve Windsor

  I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I’ve been lying on my back, busted up in a church. Maybe because this is like the “Christday” of revenge. Anyway, I’m antsy and I can almost taste the blood.

  Blood’s coming soon enough, but right now, I take in a big whiff of the putrid piss smell of fear.

  “Okay,” he says. “You’re an—”

  “You’re a angel,” little Mercedes says. Now she’s pacing, too, biting her nails. “I told them that shit. I told them. I saw you. I saw her. I—I saw the other one, too. Angels, I fuckin’ knew it.”

  And I stop and look at her. She’s about as jittery as the father and his flask. But saw me?

  “I knew it, I knew it,” she says. “I told them I saw you. Bitches didn’t believe me. Doctor… Therapy mother…”

  And that’s a little wrinkle in the parchment. I sniff in hard and then I smell it. The coke’s easy to spot. Of course she’s on coke—every rich brat and their mother can get the State’s coke—but there’s… Smells like … dove-angel piss … judgment or something. No idea how I know it, but it’s like a dog marked a hydrant—a familiar smell? “When did you—”

  “She tried to kill herself,” Frank says. “We had to… The doctors brought her back and she was going on and on about angels. And—”

  “I didn’t try to kill myself,” she says. Then she turns toward me. “I told him that.” And then she turns back toward him. “I told you that. Psych asshole.”

  Psych doctor. No one but a rich bastard can get access to one of them. Average citizen tells someone they saw an angel—one way ticket, 5150 hotel. But money buys a whole lotta crazy, so little Miss Mercedes… She’ll be easy.

  “It was an accident!” she yells at him. “I OD’d. I’m not some loser suicide.” And now she’s got her arms crossed tight, glaring at me. “Didn’t believe me. There he is, right there … daddy. Now what are you gonna…? Ha, you are so dead.”

  And that last one is just—and I’m smack in the middle of an episode of “Beverly Bitches,” listening to the two of them get ready to use me for therapy. Not happening.

  “Stop!” I yell. Whatever glass is left breaks and falls. There isn’t much, but it sounds like it keeps falling and the high-pitched sounds of shattering lasts too long. Then I realize it’s not the glass.

  I don’t care that much about the sirens, but I can hear the faint sounds of dove-angel screeching. And now, I got no time for this shit.

  And there’s no sense trying to carry her up—she’s marked already—some other angel’s cab credits. I move toward her.

  She backs up a little. “No-no-no,” she says, “you said I could—”

  But I grab her and out the window little Mercedes goes, screaming her way down, cussing at me all the way until she smacks and explodes meat on the street. Hers will be the guide.

  “Holy shit! Holy shit!” he yells. And he can see it coming—powerless in his own ending. “I’m sorry. Jesus Christ, whatever I did, I’m sorry. Please-please-please! If I would’ve—”

  And that’s how it is for everyone, I bet. I look at him and mock-wave my hands as I talk, “Oh, if I’d only known, I would’ve done it differently. I would’ve been nicer, I wouldn’t have forced your daughter to get those shots.”

  And now he knows why, and he starts crying and begging. It’s pathetic, really. Jesus Christ, if you’re gonna play chicken with God—stick a dildo up her children’s asses your whole life—don’t be a pussy and turn the wheel at the last minute. You gotta plow head-on through the fence around her garden and do a couple of donuts in her daisies. Let her know what you really think about her “rules of the road.”

  I tear him up just enough—make sure he’s still conscious for the flight down. I owe the father that much, I think.

  And that is just a—no idea where that thought came from.

  I got no time, those souls are coming out any minute. I look at him—any more and it might take a bucket to get his body down to the street. It’s not enough, not by a long shot. It’ll have to do. Today, I got bigger bitches to boil.

  — XLI —

  I GRAB FRANK by one of his flapping arms and I get a moan and then a scream back. Then I fling him out the broken windows, send him into his own final fall. And I hop to the ledge and jump, follow his whining body down in a wings-back power dive. I almost slam the pavement with him, trying to make sure that I don’t miss them, but I pull up at the last minute and his sack of meat cracks wide open like guppy guts. Brains and bile burst out the sides of him and splatter across the street.

  And I open my wings wide—slam the brakes—pull up and flap over and then I hover, waiting off to the side of the street in the shadows of an ally. And then blonde-mommy’s husk—shit, her body is unrecognizable—starts moaning and her soul wriggles its way out of her titless, gutless pile of bile. And right on time, a dark-colored dove-angel—express driver to Hell—shows up, and apparently they got both flavors down there, because this dark girl angel is pulling and tugging at blonde-mommy’s soul. But it doesn’t look like the writhing little maggot is quite ready.

  Who is, really? To tell you the truth, I was kinda counting on them not wanting to go. I’m counting on something else, too. We’ll see.

  And there he is, just like I told him—lucky for him—and the father rushes from the dark doorway where he was hiding and, quicker than the little boozed-up priest should be able to, he slings his Rosary beads over the dark angel’s head, around her neck. Then he’s on her back and she takes off with both of them. And she’s squawking and screeching at him, trying to shake him off. But if he’s done what I told him to, he’s been chanting in that doorway for long enough.

  I send a couple of sharp squawks and screeches at her, “He’s coming with you.” And quicker than that, she stops squawking and starts flapping slowly and the three of them are headed up. And I’m sure the father’s shitting himself, and I cluck out a chuckle and a little caw. Some things just work.

  When little Mercedes’ maggoty butterfly claws its way out, a bright white angel screeches his way down through the fog and snatches her up.

  The white angel hesitates a little—drops her to the street and picks her up a couple times—before he looks around and then looks up in the sky.

  Whatever he’s waiting for doesn’t happen, and he flaps and starts flying up.

  Apparently, blondie-junior didn’t try to commit suicide after all. Even after all the other shit? I think. And then I remember where we’re going. I don’t think it matters much which color “cabbie” picks you up. I think the point is where you are headed. Because, dark or light, these angels are all flapping in the same direction. And that’s what I was counting on the most. Homing pigeons.

  And then I hear Frank’s husk howling like a shot dog, and it’s my turn. I hope this works or the father is gonna have some explaining to do when he gets where they are going.

  Then I hear it. Screeching and squawking down through the fog like it’s going to miss the last chopper out of Baghdad. And as soon as the sound breaks through the mist, it is a she. Tough luck, sister.

  This one is gray, and she spins and darts in a beautiful display of flying that would make a hummingbird hang up her wings. This ain’t her first rodeo—the little chickie has mad flying skills. Too bad… No idea why I care, but…

  When she swoops in on Frank, his soul is fighting her hard. And she’s flapping and squawking and beating her wings on him, but Frank is a fighter. He distracts her just enough.

  When I slam into the back of the little gray angel, she’s caught completely off guard. I mean, who attacks an angel coming to pick up a soul? That’s probably the look on her face, but I can’t see it, because I sucker-punched her from behind. And she drops Frank’s soul and tries to screech at me, but I’ve got both sets of hand talons around her throat and my feet talons are buried ten spikes deep, through her back and into her chest. The sound comes out as muffled chirping. But no matter what language it is, it’s not hard
to recognize the word, “No…”

  I rough her up quite a bit before I drop her. I don’t want to kill her, but I can’t have her following me either. Regardless, I can’t be distracted if that bright bitch shows back up. I hover a little and watch as gray-girl flutters and limps her wings off into the fog.

  Before all the judgment starts, angels are tough, chick or not. I got a cross through the gut that proved it, remember? So don’t go giving me any of that “beating up on women” shit, because I got my ass kicked by one of them. Regardless, the father was right—angel blood is red.

  I head down to snatch up Frank. Well, his rotten soul, anyway. I leave his wasted husk of a life where it should be, splattered on the street, washing away with the cleansing truth of the relentless rain.

  And I clamp my talons down on Frank’s maggoty moth and fly up after the others.

  “Sorry, sweetie,” I squawk it toward where I last saw the little gray dove. It’s the least I can say, I took her ticket back.

  — XLII —

  WHEN I CATCH up to the dove-angels transporting the souls I just served up, the father is holding on for dear life, probably scared shitless about where I told him we are headed.

  Yeah, I told him. He didn’t believe me. But like I said, believing and seeing for yourself…

  And the one carrying Mercedes… He’s in the lead and flying toward a huge bright hole in the star-studded black of space.

  I hang back a little. Despite the saddled-up father, they don’t seem to notice that anything is wrong, but I’m not taking any chances. I zoom in and scan the bright hole ahead for any sign of that aggressive little angel, bursting out of there. But she doesn’t show herself and the other two angels cruise along like this is just a routine flight from Seattle to salvation. They’ve done it a million times.

  The one in front doesn’t look back. He’s focused. The dark one packing the father glances back at me a couple times, but whether she’s afraid of me, or the father’s Rosary “bit and bridle” are working like I figured, she stays in formation.

  And Frank’s soul is squirming around down there in my talons. He knows what’s coming. I squeeze tighter. I could say it’s so I don’t drop him, but that’s bullshit. Whatever vengeance I missed on him when he was alive, I figure I can get in a couple licks before I tuck him safely in at the hotel Hell.

  It seems like it only takes a few minutes. Might be more, the whole time thing is messing me up. But there’s no time to wonder, because the leader is through the bright light and his wings are cupped up like a duck landing on his favorite pond, and then the other one cups her wings too—sets up to land beside him.

  They circle together and I cup hard to catch up. I can feel the crisp cut of the snowflakes as my wing feathers slice through the falling white. And there’s the mountain and the roof of the huge temple on top of it rotates open slowly, and the leader dives down and so does his wing-woman. Then I set my wings and drop in hard beside them.

  Get ready for the show, I think, because, “Surprise, mom, I’m home,” seems a little bit too risky. So until I figure out exactly what I’m going to do next, I tuck in behind the tail feathers of the other two and flutter to a soft landing behind them.

  I didn’t notice them when we landed, but the grandstands in the shadows of the huge arena are packed. Only these fans are all clucking and screeching, and squawking and cawing like … well, like tens of thousands of angels. Millions is probably a better guess, because the place is stuffed like a turkey. Light, white, black, dingy gray, and when I look, there’s even some golden angels perched on rows of railing that encircle the entire stadium.

  I can barely look at the golden ones, because they are so bright. But every one of them is flapping their steel wings, cawing like they are prepping for … war.

  And as fast as the roof opened it closes, and the whole place goes black. Then a huge cone of light blasts the entire arena and I see her float out to the center.

  There you are. I look over at the father and he’s hugged so tightly to the back of his ride that you can barely tell he’s there. In fact, with his black clothes and jacket on, he kinda blends right in with her dark back feathers.

  He looks at me and I smile and wink back at him. Then I lean over and whisper, “Careful what you wish for.”

  And he squeezes his eyes shut, preparing for the worst. Freshly landed in the middle of the Hallowed Hall of the Word … safely tucked atop the Great Mountain of the Eternities … on the back of an angel in the Arena of Reckoning—I memorized all that shit— I bet he’s probably second-guessing how badly he wanted to know.

  And I recite the passage in my head: And high on the Great Mountain of the Eternities, in the Hallowed Hall of the Word: the Destiny of Souls, the Bread of Life and the Dark Angel of Light did know of their loins.

  I must have read it ten times while Father Benito slept, before I figured it out.

  I guess I got it right, because here we are, right at the beginning of his little red book, slipped in the back door to Heaven with the words he wrote. Well, not quite Heaven, but Purgatory is close enough.

  As fast as I finish patting myself on the back, six golden angels scream from the sides of the hall and snatch the three souls at our feet and head back to the edge of the arena, into the shadows. I barely catch a glimpse of them as two golden angels each—one for each arm—shuttle the souls out little holes at the bottoms of each one of the grandstands. This place is like a huge football stadium—tunnels out to … somewhere.

  And God—I know Life when I see her now—shines the cone of light in the center of the big arena—brighter than before. She’s definitely running the show. And she holds up both of her hands toward the crowd and then she speaks, “And I saw the dead, great and small, standing before the throne, and books were opened. Then another book was opened, which is the Book of Life. And the dead were judged by what was written in the books, according to what they had done.”

  It’s easy to recognize scripture—incoherent babble—but the father is better at interpreting this crap than I am. I lean over toward him, as nonchalantly as I can. I really don’t care, though, because I’ve been here before. Or at least I dreamed I was here. Regardless, I whisper at him, “Father, open your eyes and get off that thing.”

  I pry his trembling hands off his dove-angel steed, and then I tuck him and his beads under one of my wings. I need him close—that’s why he is here. Because if you are going to send a snag-and-bag team on an overseas mission, somehow I know you gotta have a linguist. More shit I gotta reconcile later.

  I tilt my head down a little and whisper under my wing, “What’s she saying?”

  He’s too terrified to talk or he doesn’t know. It takes a couple seconds before he whispers back—I can barely hear him, “Revelation, twenty-twelve—judgment.”

  And when I look back up, two golden angels have dragged blonde-mommy’s soul back out from the tunnel, and they are holding her by the armpits and she’s wriggling and writhing, standing tall in front of “the man” … or woman, as the case may be. And I smile at her. Sucks for you.

  Then… I have no idea what to call her now. There’s a million names to choose from. While I’m finding one I like—

  “No whoremonger…” she says. Then she hovers toward blonde-mommy.

  And a murmur of clucking starts slowly building in the hall. They know what’s coming. Who doesn’t?

  Life slowly continues, “…hath an inheritance in the kingdom of the Word.”

  Now I find a name that makes me smile and seems pretty pertinent. I whisper under my wing to the father, “Then the Queen of Hearts said, ‘Off with her head.’ ”

  I can feel him freaking out under there and an urgent whisper comes back from under my wing, “Stop doing that,” he says. “We are in deep—that’s Ephesians, five-five, adultery.”

  “Then what are you worried about?”

  He could be right, but if they’re dinging us all for adultery, half of humanity is screwe
d. So to speak.

  And then there he is. The long-licker himself—the Dark Angel of Light—comes to the center of the arena, and then he growls at blonde-mommy’s soul.

  She struggles in the two golden angels’ arms, but it is mouse against the mighty and she might as well settle in, because it’s going to be a long hard ride for her.

  Then the Dark Angel says, “By the law of the Word, we of the second Heaven claim this soul for the kingdom of The Lion.”

  And, if I didn’t see it myself I would call myself a liar, but blonde-mommy sprouts deep rusted-orange colored wings. They rip apart her back and she’s screaming and moaning and the crowd goes apeshit. And a roar of cawing and clucking rumbles the arena grandstands until it feels like it shakes the whole mountain. Then raw, rusty, steel feathers sprout from everywhere but her face. And quicker than she can get used to her new bondage outfit, a third golden angel flies in from the side of the arena with a— “Holy shit,” I try to whisper it under my wing to the father, but it comes out a little louder than I wanted.

  And blonde-mommy’s soul screeches out a hideous cry, so loud that everyone in the grandstands gasps out a huge coo.

  Now the father is like a prisoner with a hood over his head, more afraid because he has no clue what’s going on out here. “Wh—what was that?”

  “They just branded the living shit out of her,” I tell him.

  I watch molten steel feathers fall away from blonde-mommy’s lower back, and she’s got a new glowing-red, demonic tramp stamp. And in a flash, the two golden angels that were holding her up, flap her limp body away. I watch her glowing back and flopping wings as far as I can, then the three of them disappear into the dark shadows of the other end of the arena. And she’s gone—out the exit—probably prepping for a little fun with her two new pimps.

  And I can’t help thinking to myself, if they just put this stuff on the PIN, we’d probably all stand up straight and start spouting the party line. It’s damn sure beating back the flames of my overblown thirst for revenge.

  And I’m involuntarily bobbing my head, waiting for Frank’s turn. But little Mercedes is next and they drag her to center arena. The gold-winged jailers—doesn’t take much to recognize the lapdogs of authority—tug at her arms as she squirms, waiting for her judgment. And, judging by the clucks and caws coming from the flocks on both sides of the grandstands, it feels like it could go either way for her.