A Kiss Before the Apocalypse

Chapter eleven

Remy found himself sucked down into the ancient script — Israfil's thoughts and feelings in his own words. And the angel's worst fears about what was happening became realized.

It's even more than I suspected. Sensations and stimulations that threaten to overwhelm me every waking moment.

How do they deal with it? How do they function? The sights, sounds, and smells; the bombardment is both terrifying and exciting all at the same time.

If this is how it is for them even a fraction of the time, my admiration for them and for what the Almighty has created grows with leaps and bounds.

The human species is even more remarkable than I originally believed.

The body that I assumed for my experiment is now free of illness, and I can feel my new physical form growing stronger every day as I become acclimated to this new state of being.

Jon Stall was a good man, afflicted with an incurable illness; he sought to live out the remainder of his existence attempting to understand the meaning of life… and of death.

How many times did I listen to him as he spoke aloud of his condition, and how much he despised his affliction? He cursed the Creator for what was happening to him, but soon came to accept his inevitable fate, blaming no one and choosing to make what remained of his fleeting existence as rewarding as he possibly could.

For a reason that I still do not fully understand, I was drawn to this example of humanity, grew more connected to him than to any of the other countless millions that I have assisted on to the next phase of existence. How I loved to watch him, to experience life as he did in his final days. But I knew that I could never hope to understand the full meaning of what I had come to admire so.

The human experience; how attractive it had become. Jon Stall's life force was nearly expended, thanks to the disease that wracked his human frame. All he could do was wait for the inevitable… wait for me to release him.

And he was ready, oh yes. He was waiting for my touch when I had the most ridiculous of ideas. Even as I write these words now, I cannot believe them. It was the most insane of thoughts, and yet seductively exciting.

I would take his body, wear it like the finest of garments, and I would live as both human and angel, experiencing all that humanity had to bestow upon me, while still maintaining my function as God's Angel of Death.

Oh, what an experiment that would be, I imagined, thrilled as I had never been before in my long years of being.

And I was right. I was so right.

Remy flipped through more of the journal, finding entry after entry about Israfil's experiences with being human. There was something frighteningly familiar about the words the angel had written; if Remy had kept journals during his time on earth, they would — he imagined — have read very much like these.

But there was a difference. Israfil had appropriated a preexisting human body, merging with the dying college professor. Quite literally, Jon Stall's form, and everything that defined him, had been assumed by the Angel of Death.

Remy had stifled his true nature, basically forcing his angelic essence to configure to a more human form. Yes, he was still an angel, but mostly all that defined him as such had been locked away deep inside.

What Israfil had become was something altogether different, something unique, something both human and angelic attempting to live within a single form.

It seemed like a recipe for disaster.

And as Remy read through more of Israfil's journal entries, he began to see that his suspicions were right.

I've assumed Jon's life… his job as a teacher of life functions… of biology. Tapping into his memories, I've found everything I need to continue his existence.

Every day is more and more fascinating. I have even met a woman. Her name is Casey.

Not long before the beginning of my study, I had taken her mother. What a small world. She is providing me with such insight.

As far as humans go, I find her more outstanding than most.

I think Jon would have liked her.

I've become… involved. Romantically involved.

I did not intend for it to happen, but it did.

They are the strangest of things, these emotions and desires. I can barely contain them. Sometimes I wonder if I am actually in control.

It's absolutely irrational, I know this, but I'm feeling a nearly overpowering need to apologize to her — for performing my purpose — for taking her mother.

There appears to be a sort of conflict developing between my new humanity and my angelic function. This bears watching.

I would hate to see it evolve into something unmanageable.

Remy closed that journal and removed the last from the pile. Even the condition of the notebook gave a chilling insight into Israfil's deteriorating state. It was tattered and wrinkled, as if something had been spilled on it. A part of him did not want to open it, afraid of what he might find.

Tyger padded into the study, hopping up onto the desk and sniffing at the various journals.

"Where's your…?" Remy almost said owner before changing his mind midsentence. "Where's Casey?"

"Couch," the cat said, rubbing the side of his face and neck against the corners of the stacked notebooks, marking them with his scent.

Remy reached out to pet the animal and it reared back, avoiding his hand.

"No touch," Tyger warned.

Remy pulled back his hand. If only Israfil… had remained so aloof, maybe they wouldn't be in the situation they currently found themselves in.

Ignoring the animal, he turned his attention back to the last journal and slowly opened the cover. It was as he suspected. As he feared.

It's becoming so hard.

To shed this skin of humanity… to assume the form and purpose of what I was. Am.

It's all so very sad. To end their lives. None of them wants to die; they cling so desperately to what little life remains. What right do I have?

It's my job; that's what I keep telling myself, over and over, but it's getting so difficult.

I know what they're feeling — how they think. They fear death… me, most of all. They fear my design… They fear what I can do.

There's so much pain, but still they hold on with both hands. Fighting to survive. Fighting to live… even for a second more… they fight.

They fight.

The alcohol and narcotics help to numb the pain, giving me the ability to see things clearer.

At least I believe that I am seeing more clearly.

I have gone to the Watchers, to see if it is possible to be as I am and still live amongst them. Out of all of us drawn to the allure of humanity, I assumed that they would know best.

I was wrong.

They know as little now as they did when they first arrived upon the world of God's man; still wallowing

in excess and perversity, waiting… believing that they will someday be allowed to return to Paradise.

The Watchers will not be forgiven, and if I had not managed to control my anger, they would have all been destroyed.

There has been enough death for now.

Tyger had lain down at the edge of the desk beside Remy, the cat's contented purrs providing him a momentary distraction from what he feared he was about to read.

The two natures were at war, the angelic struggling against the human, and in reading Israfil's words, Remy was made privy to the mental collapse firsthand.

He flipped to the last page in the journal.

The jackals gather.

They know that I am weak. My thoughts troubled. I am not thinking clearly… correctly.

They want it all to end… for all the sadness to die. They say all I need do is stop. I know that it is wrong… but to end the pain. It would be glorious.

They want the scrolls… to break the seals. To begin the end times.

I know I'm not thinking clearly. I must escape their influence… hide what they seek from me. It's the only way.

I'm not sure how much longer I can remain strong. They tell me that this is what He desires. To end it all.

Remy looked up, icy fingers of fear running up and down his spine.

The jackals gather.

He had some answers, but now even more questions.

They want it all to end.

Who? Who are the jackals and why do they want it all to end? Remy's thoughts spun.

They want the scrolls… To begin the end times.

He felt as though he might jump out of his skin. The cat was still purring, and he resisted the urge to chase it away.

The scrolls.

He began to rummage through the two remaining drawers on the other side of the desk. Pulling open the larger bottom drawer, he found only a psychology textbook, some office supplies, and a few empty folders.

"I must've fallen asleep," Casey's voice said as she came into the room. "Did you find out anything useful?"

Remy didn't answer. He had just opened the top drawer and knew what he had found. He carefully removed the ancient object, the aroma of age wafting from the soft leather sack that had once contained the scrolls.

"What's that?" Casey asked, reaching across the desk to feel it. "Some kind of leather pouch or something?"

Tyger lifted his head toward her hand, wanting then to be petted.

Cats.

"Have you ever seen this before?" Remy asked.

Casey shook her head. There was a hint of confusion — of fear — in her eyes, and he wasn't sure how much longer he could keep the truth from her.

He was about to ask if there was any other place in the apartment where Jon might have hidden something when Tyger's body went rigid on the desk. The cat hissed, lashing out at Casey, his claws scratching the back of her hand.

"What the hell did you do that for?" Casey whined, bringing the injured hand to her mouth.

"Danger!" the cat said, his fur puffed, eyes wide with fear. Then he sprang from the desk with a growl, his back legs scrabbling for purchase on the wood floors as he fled the room.

Remy started to sense it also, a sudden chill in the air as the light gradually began to dim.

"Is it getting darker in here?" Casey asked, injured hand still pressed to her mouth as she glanced around the room. She reached out with her good hand, tapping at the hanging bulb.

Remy grabbed most of the notebooks and shoved them into the leather casing. "We need to leave," he said, putting the satchel under his arm and grabbing Casey as he moved around the desk.

"What's wrong?" Fear had crept into her voice.

The tiny office was darker now, as if the light cast by the bare bulb was slowly being drained away. Remy dragged Casey behind him down the hallway and toward the living room. It was dark there as well, an unnatural inky blackness flooding the room.

"What is it? What's going on?" Casey shrieked, on the verge of hysteria. And he couldn't blame her.

He had come up against those who traveled in the darkness earlier today, and he had no desire to deal with them again.

"A back door," he said, giving her a sudden, violent shake. "Is there a back door?"

She stared at him, eyes welling with tears, lower lip trembling. It was colder now and the darkness was beginning to coalesce around them. Something moved inside the black.

"Is there a back door?" Remy screamed at her again.

A bit of focus seemed to return to her eyes, and she moved toward the kitchen. They darted across the linoleum toward the forest green door in the corner, as a wall of solid black spread out behind them.

Remy reached the door first, grabbing hold of the knob and giving it a turn. It didn't open. He saw the dead bolt and grabbed for it, the sound of the latch slipping back deafening in the eerie silence that suddenly filled the kitchen.

Casey gasped from behind him. Hand still on the doorknob, Remy turned to see that a skeletal hand, its flesh pale and mottled, had emerged from its sea of gloom and grabbed hold of the woman's hair.

"Help me," Casey begged, her eyes wide in horror as she was violently yanked back.

Into the hungry darkness.

Remy grabbed hold of Casey's flailing hands.

She was screaming now, her head bent awkwardly backward as she struggled to keep from being drawn into the shadows.

"Don't let go!" she shrieked at him. "Please!"

But he did, shutting out her wails of despair as the darkness pulled her in. Remy's focus was on the counter and what he could see glistening seductively in the dish rack. He lunged, snatching up the butcher knife and turning back toward the advancing wall of black. Steeling himself, Remy threw himself into the inky darkness.

He was blind, but had expected as much. Holding the knife aloft, he called upon a portion of the power inside him. He hated to do it, but another's life was on the line now, not just his own.

Eagerly it surged forth, energy so great that it caused his almost-human facade to violently tremble. Remy pulled back on the Heavenly force, focusing its power, allowing it to flow up his arm and into his hand. The pain was excruciating, his fleshy form barely able to contain the power, but the knife suddenly glowed like a miniature star, dispelling the darkness.

Remy gasped at the sight of the creatures within. There were at least six that he could see. They were hu-manoid, thin, pale, and tightly muscled. Wings with a decidedly leathern, batlike appearance sprang from their hunched backs.

A horrible amalgam of the demonic and angelic.

They shielded their eyes from the brightness of Heaven's light, letting the petrified Casey go.

"Come to me!" Remy ordered, motioning the frightened woman toward him.

With a whimper, Casey darted toward him — toward the safety of the light.

"You're going to be all right," he assured her, pulling her close.

She was staring at him strangely, the sight of his glowing hand holding a burning knife. "What's happening?" she asked, her body quivering.

"There'll be time for answers later," he said, moving them back toward the door. "Right now, we need to get out of here."

One of the pale-skinned creatures took to the air, averting its gaze from the knife's glow.

"You'll go nowhere!"

It dropped to a crouch before them, and Remy threw Casey back against the door, shielding her with his body as it lunged.

"You should have listened," it hissed.

Remy could hear Casey fiddling with the door behind him as he brought the knife blade up, burying it in the black, leathery flesh of the creature's shoulder.

"Guess you should've killed me when you had the chance," Remy growled, giving the blade a nasty twist, feeling the muscle shred through the wooden hilt, the stink of cooking meat wafting through the air.

The beast tossed its head back and howled in agony, its arms flailing. One of its leathery wings slashed the air, catching Remy across the face, sending him to his knees.

The world spun and he fought to stay conscious. He still managed to hold the knife, but the agony in his hand had begun to spread down his arm as his angelic nature took the opportunity to try and reclaim what had once belonged to it.

A sudden blast of damp, cold air on his neck stimulated his senses, and he saw that Casey had managed to get the door open and was reaching to pull him out onto the back porch. Tyger exploded out from the shadows, the cat's eyes wide with panic as he made his escape.

Typical, the angel thought offhandedly. Every cat for himself.

Remy scrambled to his feet, moving the glowing blade about to find his enemies. He saw them, clustered in a bunch, digging through the leather satchel that had once contained the sacred scrolls.

"They're not here," one of the abominations bellowed. They all turned their malefic gazes toward him.

"The scrolls," his injured adversary hissed, stepping aside as the others surged in Remy's direction. They were manipulating the shadows now, shielding their eyes from the knife's ethereal glow. "Don't let him get away."

Remy was already backing out the door, but he had to slow them down long enough for he and Casey to get away. Carefully, he channeled a little more of his power into the knife; then, pulling back his arm, he let it fly, watching as the burning blade embedded itself in the skull of the lead attacker with a hollow-sounding thud.

The creature's eyes bugged from his head as he fell backward into the arms of his unholy brethren.

Remy smiled, watching the angelic energy continue to burn, sputtering and sparking as if ready to explode.

Which is exactly what it did.

The room was suddenly filled with the brilliance of Heaven and the screeches of the winged creatures as the glorious release of light seared their every sense.

"Mr. Chandler, come on!" he heard Casey yell from the steps below.

It was still raining hard, and the cool air made the blistered skin on his hand throb as he threw himself down the stairs. They ran through the backyard and down the narrow alley between Casey's building and the one next door.

"Mr. Chandler, please tell me what…"

"Remy," he said, as he opened the gate to the street with his good hand. "After what we've gone through tonight, you should be calling me Remy."

The porch light suddenly went on and the front door opened to reveal an elderly woman, her hair adorned with bright pink curlers.

"Oh, shit, it's Mrs. McGovern," Casey whispered.

"What the hell is going on up there? Do you think it's funny waking an old woman up at this time of night? I'm gonna call the cops and we'll see how fucking funny it is!"

Casey started back toward the porch to explain herself, but Remy caught her by the arm.

"No time for that," he said, dragging her across the street, toward the car.

Her protests were interrupted by the roar of an explosion as an undulating cloud of solid black burst through the roof of the South Boston home.

"Go! Go! Go!" Remy yelled, pushing her to the car.

Mrs. McGovern was out of her house in a flash, ranting and raving. Like sharks to blood, the creatures within the cloud of shadow couldn't pass up an innocent victim. The mass, blacker than darkest night, dropped from the sky, enveloping the old woman before she even had a chance to scream.

Remy and Casey had reached the car, slamming the doors closed in unison.

"She's going to be so pissed," Casey muttered as she snapped her seat belt in place.

"I don't think that's really going to matter now," Remy said, starting the car and slamming it into drive. He pulled out of the spot with a screech of tires, grabbing the rearview mirror to see if they were being followed.

Of course they were.

He wasn't sure exactly where he was going as he turned up and down the streets of Southie. All he knew was that they had to get away; the human race was depending on him. If he didn't find the scrolls and convince the Angel of Death to snap out of it, the Apocalypse would be called down and the world would end.

And he really didn't want to see that happen. He'd grown quite fond of the place over the years.

"Oh, my God, they're behind us!" Casey suddenly screamed, twisting around in her seat as she gazed out the back window.

Remy looked to the rearview mirror again. There was nothing but blackness behind them, as if somebody had placed a blanket of black velvet over the back of his car.

"Hang on," he said, gunning the engine, trying to move faster than the cloud of shadow. It was late on a weeknight, and luckily the streets were practically deserted. They were back on Atlantic Ave. now, and moving in the direction of Government Center. His eyes darted to his mirror again.

"We may have lost…" the angel began, but something dropped from the sky upon the roof of the car.

He jerked the wheel to one side, causing the car to swerve, and the bloody body of Mrs. McGovern slid down the windshield onto the hood, her eyes wide and still alive with agony beyond imagining. Trailing streaks of blood, she slid off the hood, and then the car bounced obscenely as she fell under the tires.

Casey started to scream hysterically, but Remy couldn't stop. He had to keep going, for there was no way these creatures were going to let them survive once they knew that he didn't have the scrolls.

And suddenly, he knew where he was going, as if his subconscious had taken over the reins for a moment and provided them with a way out of their current predicament.

He was the only person that could pull their asses from the fire.

They were nearing the Public Garden now, and Casey had become oddly quiet, hands covering her face. But then the faint light of the city seeping into the car through the torrential rain began to diminish, and Remy flinched at the sudden nails-on-a-blackboard sound of claws dragging, dragging across the roof of the Toyota.

"Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God," Casey began to repeat over and over again, peering out from behind her fingers at the encroaching shadows.

"Hang on," Remy called as he banged a sharp left into a narrow public alley, barely missing a large green Dumpster.

"Get ready," he said, over the sound of flapping wings.

"Ready for what?" Casey cried, the panic in her tone intensifying. "Ready for fucking what?"

Remy slammed on the brakes as he spun the wheel, sending the car fishtailing toward the back entrance of a brick building on the left-hand side of the alley.

"Get out now!" he yelled as he fumbled with his own seat belt.

She nearly flew out the door, then raced around the car to join him in front of a large metal door painted an ugly shade of maroon. Remy pounded on the door.

"Francis, open up. It's me!"

The light of the streetlamp began to dim and the sounds of flapping wings seemed to be coming from all around them. Remy glanced over his shoulder to see his car swallowed up in the advancing wave of darkness.

He pressed Casey against the metal door in front of him and continued to pound. Where is he? he wondered, his own sense of panic beginning to build.

"Where are the scrolls?" came a nasty voice from behind them.

Remy recognized it as the one he had stabbed back at Casey's apartment. He spun around to face the encroaching shadow, putting himself between the darkness and the girl.

"Francis!" he screamed, one last time as a skeletal hand reached from the roiling ebony mass.

Voices within the cloud of blackness began to chatter excitedly, then suddenly he was falling backward, landing in a heap atop Casey as the metal door was pulled open.

A tall, balding figure with horn-rimmed glasses, wearing only a T-shirt, boxer shorts, and a frayed terry cloth bathrobe stepped over them, aiming a pump-action shotgun into the darkness outside.

The weapon roared, and the creatures in the darkness screamed in pain as each shot found its target. Plumes of orange fire erupted from the barrel, and like the purifying rays of the sun, it burnt away the darkness and all those concealed within its folds.

Remy lifted his head to see that the last shot had been fired, and that now only the legitimate night remained. He helped Casey up from the ground.

The man in the bathrobe turned, smoldering shotgun by his side, a look of distaste on his face.

"Remy Chandler," he snarled, reaching into the pocket of his bathrobe and removing the nub of a cigar.

"Hey, Francis."

The man lifted a finger to the blackened end of the cigar and ignited it with an orange spark of flame. He took a puff, letting the smoke swirl above his head.

"What crap have you managed to drag me through this time?"