A Deafening Silence In Heaven (21 page)

“You sure you want to go up there?” Baarabus called out as he sniffed at the angel’s corpse.

“I’ll let you know as soon as I get there.” Remy quickened his pace.

He’d noticed that it had grown more quiet, only the occasional sound of magickal release to break up the silence. Remy had no idea what he was in for, or what he would find when he got to the top, but that just seemed to be par for the course in this strange world he found himself trapped in.

Getting closer to the lip of the pit, he carefully reached up, feeling around for a proper handhold. He felt a boney hand wrap around his wrist and begin to assist him in climbing up over the edge.

“I’ve got you,” the Fossil said, free from his bonds.

Remy was glad to see that the old-timer was all right, and he climbed up over the side, then turned back to help Leila and Anthony.

“We still have to get Baarabus out of there,” Remy said, turning to face the Fossil, whose exposed flesh had accumulated even more dark scabs in the short time since Remy had seen him last.

“No problem,” he answered, signaling to several other of Samson’s children, who immediately grabbed some rope and tossed it into the pit to help the demon dog up.

It was then that Remy noticed them in the background, standing perfectly still, waiting to be acknowledged. There were ten in all, cloaked in fabric that seemed to be cut from the darkness of the night sky, patterns of star constellations twinkling on their hooded capes and robes.

He knew these beings, these angelic warriors that had refused to pick a side during the Great War between God and Lucifer. They were known as the Cowards by the soldiers of Heaven, but all others called them Nomads.

“What are they doing here?” Remy asked, moving around the Fossil to face the line of cloaked angels.

“They said they’re here for you,” the Fossil answered.

“For me?” Remy asked, walking toward the Nomads.

As he approached, they bowed their heads, and something began to gnaw at the edges of his mind—something that did not belong to him but to the other.

Something that struggled to be remembered.

“Hello, Remiel,” one of the Nomads said, stepping from the line. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Have we met?” Remy asked him.

“I told Azza about your little problem,” the Fossil said, coming to stand beside him. “That you’re not him but some other version from an alternate reality.”

Remy looked back to the hooded figure.

“You’re who you need to be,” the angel Azza said, unfazed by the absurdity of the information.

“I’m guessing that we have you to thank for driving away Michael and his Filthies,” Remy said.

“Only temporarily, I fear,” the Nomad said. “They’ll return shortly. I suggest we start our journey as soon as possible.”

“Our journey?” Remy questioned.

Azza smiled, turning to look at the others of his ilk. They, too, were grinning from within the darkness of their hoods.

“Of course,” he said. “Why else would you have summoned us?”

“I didn’t. . . .”

“You released the power,” Azza said, reaching out to place the tips of his fingers upon Remy’s chest. “These markings upon your flesh had been put there to alert us when this would be so.”

Remy watched as Azza returned to stand with his brethren.

“A power you swore would never be called upon again until it was time,” Azza finished.

“Time?” Remy questioned, for some reason fearing the response.

“Time,” the Nomad leader said with a slow, knowing nod. “Time to bring about the end of something old . . .”

Azza paused and looked about the village of the Filthies before turning his attention back to Remy.

“And the beginning of something new.”

L
eila tossed the thick, knotted rope over the side of the pit to Baarabus.

“Hold it with your mouth, and we’ll pull you up,” she told him.

Baarabus took hold of the rope in his cavernous mouth and bit down.

“Are you ready?” the daughter of Samson asked him.

He looked up at her and acknowledged her question with a nod.

“Let’s go!” he heard her cry out to her siblings, and the rope suddenly grew taut, and he began the process of scaling the pit wall.

“Heave!” Leila called out as they attempted to haul his weight.

Baarabus was helping them as much as he was able, the claws of his front and back paws sinking into the broken tile and concrete of the pit wall as he climbed.

Halfway to the top, the great dog wondered what he would find when he got there. A tingle of apprehension raced down the length of his spine, causing the hackles of hair along his back to rise like spines. He recalled the Filthy that had fallen from the sky, and the magick that had encased and killed it.

There was something about the way the magickal force charged the air, the way it smelled; it stirred something deep in the back of the animal’s memories, drawing it from the blackness.

Making him want to release the rope and fall back down into the pit, away from what potentially awaited him above.

But he didn’t, surging toward the object of his apprehension instead, climbing up the side of the pit all the faster.

He used the powerful muscles in his back legs to spring up over the edge, spitting the rope from his mouth as he scanned the area before him for a sign of what had chased away the Filthies and filled him with such foreboding.

His gaze fell upon Remy, the Fossil, and a robed and hooded figure. It was the sight of that stranger, and others similarly adorned, that brought the fear to the surface like pus from an infected wound.

“Hey, Baarabus,” Leila asked, suddenly beside him. She placed a tender hand upon his large blocky head. “You all right?”

“Don’t touch me!” the dog roared, snapping at the offending hand.

The young woman recoiled with horror, jumping back as the dog again turned his attention to the strangers speaking with Remy.

His Remy.

The memories surged to the surface, recollections thought buried so very deep that they would never be considered again.

Memories of another time, before . . . when the animal was something else, something loyal, innocent, and pure of heart.

•   •   •

Marlowe watched as his world crumbled around him.

Something bad was happening, something that made his ears hurt and the house in which he lived tremble and shake, raining plaster and glass onto him and his Madeline.

His Madeline.

He wanted to protect her, to get her away from the bad happenings, but they were all around them.

Marlowe barked excitedly as the air became filled with the choking smoke and dust. His Madeline was trying to make it toward him, to follow the sound of his voice, but the ceiling above her head started to crumble, collapsing down upon her.

Without hesitation he charged forward, over the rubble and through the dust, searching for the woman. Marlowe could not help himself, whimpering and barking pathetically as he scoured the area now covered in the broken pieces of his home.

The building continued to shake, creating sounds that foreshadowed even more terrible happenings. There were other noises as well—sounds from outside that terrified him so badly that he wanted to pee inside. But he tried his best to ignore his fears, to be the good dog—the best dog—that his Remy and his Madeline always said that he was.

And right now he had to find his Madeline and take her from this breaking place.

Marlowe sniffed and listened. He heard a moan nearby, and then caught a whiff of blood, which made him cry out. He followed the coppery scent, pressing his nose against the dust-covered floor, pushing aside the rubble to find his most cherished prize.

He found her under a section of wall that had tumbled inward. She moaned beneath the rubble, her hand extended out from underneath the wall and window frame. He could see that her hand had been cut, and blood oozed from the multiple wounds. He approached gingerly so as not to scare her, placing his snout into her open fingers to let her know that he was there. She responded, her fingertips weakly scratching at his nose. He was so happy that she was still moving; excitedly, he licked at the wounds to stop them from bleeding further.

“Marlowe,”
he heard her say softly from beneath the rubble. She started to move, to try to wriggle out from beneath the wreckage that had fallen atop her. He tried to help her, furiously digging around the rubble with his front paws.

“Hold on, boy,”
she said to him, grunting with exertion as she tried to shuck off the covering of shattered wood and plaster that had pinned her to the floor.

Madeline cried out, and the smell of blood grew stronger in the room. She had managed to partially free herself; her head, shoulders, and arms stuck out from under the cover of rubble.

Marlowe went to her, licking her dusty face as his tail wagged excitedly. He was so scared, so very, very scared.

“That’s a good boy,”
she said, reaching up to pat him. He continued to lick at her, the taste of plaster, blood, and tears salty in his mouth. The tastes just made him all the sadder, all the more scared. He did not know what to do, but knew that he must do something. Standing upon the pieces of broken ceiling and wall, he tentatively reached out with this mouth, gently grabbed the shoulder of her shirt with his teeth, and began to pull. If she could not move herself, then he would move her—drag her from beneath the wreckage of the room if need be.

His Madeline moaned once more, and the smell of her blood was stronger, wafting out from beneath the filthy cover atop her. He tried with all his strength, being a very strong dog—his Remy had told him this often when they played tug-of-war with his favorite rope toy—but the clothing clutched between his teeth began to give way, to tear, and his Madeline was still pinned beneath.

“I can’t
,” he heard her say, moving closer to her face so that he could listen to her. He looked down into her eyes and she spoke the words again to him.
“I can’t.”

He did not understand them at first as she lay there, slowly shaking her head, but then she tried again to free herself, and he realized that she could not. Even with his help, she was trapped.

Marlowe did not want to give up, sniffing around the rubble, trying to find a way to free his Madeline. But the more he sniffed, the more blood he smelled, and he came to the sad realization that his Madeline was hurt quite badly.

Frustration and fear got the better of him, and he found himself leaping back from where she lay and barking wildly. He was telling her that she could not give up, that she had to fight. She could not lie there beneath the stone, and the wood, and the broken glass. She needed to get free, and he would help her get from the building, and then they would find their Remy, and he . . .

“I can’t get free,”
she said again to him, her voice soft and filled with resignation. She was trying to get him to understand, but he couldn’t—he wouldn’t.

She had to get free; she had to get free and follow him so that they could find their Remy.

The noises from outside were louder now. Marlowe cowered, looking all around, fighting the urge to run and hide. But he could not leave her. Instead, he moved closer to his Madeline, lying down atop the broken pieces of his home.

“You are such a good, good boy,”
she said to him, reaching out a blood-covered hand to stroke the side of his face.

No, no, he wasn’t a good boy, he wanted to tell her. A good boy would get her free. A good boy would help her from this broken house.

“You can leave me if you like,”
she told him.
“I’ll be fine
—
promise.”

Marlowe stayed right where he was, moving his body a little bit closer to her, laying his face beside her head, where it lay on a pillow of broken plaster.

“Go. I’ll be fine. I don’t think the old wall will be standing much longer, and . . .”

She started to cough then, hard coughs—scary coughs that shook her body even though she was pressed beneath the broken wall. Her movement made more things fall, pieces of the house crashing down, but he stayed where he was.

There was blood on her mouth now, on her lips, and the smell made him very nervous. Gently, he extended his snout, lapping away the blood that now stained her face.

Marlowe was scared, more scared than he had ever been. He wanted to run away, but where would he go? And he could not leave his Madeline.

He was shaking now, and he moved that much closer to the woman who was his life.

“That’s all right, good boy,”
she said, her voice so soft now that it was practically a whisper.
“I’m here. . . . I’ve got you.”
He felt her hands weakly upon him, stroking his fur and trying to calm him.

She was everything to him, she and his Remy.

Where was his Remy? the dog wondered. Why wasn’t he here to help them? He almost sprang up then—to go and find his Remy and bring him back so that he could save their Madeline and . . .

Marlowe lifted his head and looked at her lying there. His Madeline was hurt, and he could not—would not—leave her.

He nuzzled closer to her and listened to her breathing.

Marlowe wanted to tell her that everything was going to be all right, like she did for him on the nights when the thunder boomed or firecrackers exploded, and he hoped that just being there, pressed up close to her, would let her know that he loved her.

He could tell—dogs just knew such things—that she was about to leave him. Her body had grown cold, her breathing—he had to listen very hard over the scary sounds outside, to know that she was still breathing.

Marlowe pressed his face to hers, wanting her to know that she wasn’t alone.

“It was supposed to be so wonderful,”
she said.

He lifted his head to look at her, to listen. Her eyes had grown wide, and she was staring up to the ceiling, which wasn’t there anymore. The ceiling was gone, and she—they—were looking at the sky.

Marlowe could not understand what it was that he was seeing. Where was the blue? The clouds? The birds that darted across his field of vision?

The sky was wrong, filled with fire.

As something tried to take its place.

“I wonder what happened,”
his Madeline said.

The noises outside grew even louder, which caused his house to shake even more, the sounds of other walls, other windows, breaking, crumbling, falling inside.

He was scared . . . scared for his Madeline and scared for himself.

“Come here,”
he heard her say to him, and he felt her arm go around his trembling body and draw him closer.
“I’ve got you,”
she said.

She held him, and loved him as much as he loved her.

And the world that they shared came crumbling down around them.

I wonder what went wrong.

•   •   •

“Marlowe, no!”

The words left Remy’s mouth before he had the chance to check them.

There came a roar and a flurry of movement, and Remy turned to see the great demon dog newly emerged from the pit, charging across the ground with murder in his fiery eyes.

The dog came to a sudden halt before him, his burning gaze now fixed upon him instead of on the Nomad. He was breathing heavily, his hackles raised along his back and tail.

“I told you,” he roared between labored breaths. “Never to call”—thick spit flew from his enraged mouth—“me that!”

And before Remy could react, before he could say something that might calm the beast down, Baarabus lashed out, swatting Remy aside.

It was like getting hit in the face with a shovel. Remy’s feet left the ground, and he sailed about three feet before gravity reclaimed him, pulling him hard to the earth. He managed to keep his eyes open and saw the demon dog stalk toward the Nomads.

“Baarabus, wait!” Remy called out. “They’re part of the plan!”

But the dog seemed not to hear him, padding menacingly closer, growling like the rumble of a Sherman tank engine.

Remy knew that he had the power to stop him. All he had to do was reach inside and call upon the divine, but the thought of rousing that insane power again made him desperate for other options. He got to his feet and caught sight of the net the Filthies had used earlier to confine the demon dog. Remy ran for it, scooping it up and tossing its weighted end toward Baarabus just as the beast was about to pounce on the unmoving Nomads.

The net draped across the animal’s hunched shoulders, doing little to stop the demon dog as he sprang. The Nomads didn’t move, as if they were waiting for Baarabus to land on them, to bite and rend them limb from limb.

But that wasn’t it at all.

Azza casually lifted a hand, his robes falling way to reveal white flesh tattooed with sigils very much like the ones that now adorned Remy’s own body. Tendrils of black, ethereal energy flowed from the tips of the Nomad’s fingers, snagging the attacking hellhound in a net of dark magick. This was the magick that he had sensed, that had torn the Filthies from the sky.

Baarabus hung in the ebony webbing, biting at the tangible shadow, ripping and tearing with tooth and claw, but it did him little good, for the other Nomads joined their magicks to that of their leader.

“Now, is that any way to treat those who saved your life?” Azza asked, moving his hand in such a way that the struggling Baarabus floated closer.

“You should have let me die!” the dog roared, thrashing within the net, but finally fixing his burning gaze on Remy. “
You
should have let me die!”

“We did only what was asked of us,” Azza consoled. “A request made in an emotional moment.”

Remy watched Baarabus continue to struggle against the magick holding him, his movements growing weaker as his strength began to ebb.