A Deafening Silence In Heaven (31 page)

T
he Filthies found the Nomads and Samson’s children not long after Remy disappeared behind the door.

They came at the group from the shadows of the city, fluttering upon broken and stunted wings, clutching crude weapons of iron adorned with mere tufts of fire in their pathetic hands.

Azza reached down deep within himself to find the pity. Here were the once divine beings that had ostracized his Nomad brethren and him, called them cowards for not choosing sides during the Great War. Now those who had rejected them suffered the rigors of the future that the Nomads had foreseen, beings of purity and light reduced to twisted perversions of their once divine selves.

The Nomads and Samson’s children stood together as the Filthies drew nearer.

“Shouldn’t we be leaving now?” the one called the Fossil suggested.

“There will be no more running,” Azza replied, staring into the darkness of the ruined city, remembering.

The Nomads had been invited to the Unification of Heaven and Hell, the welcoming of the Morningstar back into the holy fold. They had not accepted Heaven’s invitation, choosing instead to watch from the cities of man.

And as they had awaited the great change, Azza could not help but wonder if this was the end of their brotherhood. With everything unified, a wholeness brought to what was once in disarray, the Nomads would no longer be necessary.

They, too, would be welcomed back to the fold.

They, too, would be unified.

Azza had to admit that something deep inside of him welcomed the change, for he, too, remembered how it had once been, before the war.

The Filthies swarmed, but they did not attack, stopping yards away, shrieking and shaking their weapons.

“So are they going to fight, or what?” the child Leila asked, clenching and unclenching her fists, ready to charge. Her brothers were ready as well, just waiting for the call to battle.

Azza did not answer. Silently he watched as the gathering of Filthies parted in the middle, allowing their Lord and Master to come forth.

The past moving toward inevitable change.

“Where is he?” Michael asked, his scars all the more prominent as he stood there. “Where is the Seraphim Remiel?”

When Heaven fell, it was no surprise.

The Nomads had known that something would occur, but not exactly what. They had been awaiting change, and there it was in all its devastating glory.

And as Heaven and Hell collided, falling in upon themselves and raining down upon the world of man, the Nomads did as they always had. They watched, and they waited.

Searching for a sign that told them what change would be the last.

And from the wreckage of the world, they saw him emerge—Remiel, an agent of change himself. Was it not the Seraphim warrior that had abandoned Heaven after the Great War, choosing instead to live amongst humanity? And wasn’t it Remiel who had inadvertently helped Lucifer Morningstar return to his former glory, leading to Unification and the horrors that followed?

Yes, Remiel—this Remy Chandler—in him the Nomads found what was to be the last agent of change.

Azza considered Michael’s question for a moment before answering. “He’s gone for now.”

“Gone?” Michael questioned. “Gone where?”

Azza recalled the broken creature that had crawled from the wreckage of Unification, a shadow of the glory that had once been. He had lost everything, the façade of humanity that he had worn so proudly, his glorious divinity—his connection to the Lord God, which had always been his right, the fire that was in all the Creator’s winged children, driven to madness by the loss. He remembered how they had approached the Seraphim and offered him a chance to join with them.

And the Seraphim had agreed, for he’d had much to atone for.

That there must come an end, before there can be a beginning.

“There are things that must be put in order before . . . ,” Azza started to explain, but was interrupted by the wailing creak of rusty hinges from somewhere behind him.

“Before what?” Michael demanded impatiently.

Azza and all the others turned away from Michael to look upon the figure of Remy standing just outside the open door. He held in his hand a pistol that glistened as if reflecting the full glory of the noonday sun, but the sun had not shone in this sky for so very long.

“Before he brings it all to an end,” Azza finished, but he doubted that Michael was listening.

“So, what did I miss?” Remy asked.

The Archangel Michael cried out, and the Filthies swarmed, with murder in their soulless eyes.

•   •   •

Just seeing Remiel standing there with his cocksure insolence was enough to fill Michael with a rage that could scour the world.

Deep down Michael had always blamed Remiel for what had transpired, the Seraphim soldier’s defection from Heaven, the catalyst for what Heaven and the world had become.

If it hadn’t been for Remiel—for Remy Chandler—Lucifer Morningstar would have remained a prisoner in his own mind, never to remember who he had once been, never to rise and pose the kind of threat that would cause the Almighty to consider his forgiveness.

Unification never to be attempted.

Remy Chandler.

Michael had felt in the very fiber of his being that something was not right, that the Almighty’s decision had not been thought out, but who was going to argue with the Creator of all things?

All he could do was what he was told, and watch as it all played out, hoping that his blessed Creator was right . . . that he would be wrong . . . and a new and glorious phase, on a par with creation itself, was about to begin.

Michael still could not remember exactly what had happened. He saw it all in jagged fragments, terrible flashes that left deep and painful scars upon the flesh of his memory. One moment the Lord of Lords thrived, drawing the pieces of a dismembered Heaven together, and then there were the shrieks of war—an attack upon the most sacred of ceremonies. Foul winged beasts filled the air.

He remembered the glint of something golden, the flash of a weapon—a pistol molded from the very essence of the Morningstar. He could not see who wielded it, but God fell as a result of it, with Heaven right behind, and the world of man shattered below.

Michael had believed for the briefest of moments that that was the end, but then he convinced himself that it was a test, that somehow God still lived and was testing those who had survived the failings of Unification.

Those who managed to thrive in this new and twisted wasteland would be ushered into a new Heaven. That was how it
had
to be.

For why else was he here?

With the sight of Remiel, Michael’s anger flared, and he decided to do what should have been done a long time ago. There was no room for one such as Remiel in God’s new Heaven.

But then he saw what the Seraphim was holding—a golden gun.

And suddenly, Michael believed he knew the answer to the mystery that had haunted him since Heaven’s fall.

•   •   •

The Filthies came at them in a wave of shrieking ferocity, and Samson’s children charged ahead to their attack head-on, screaming at the top of their lungs.

Remy raised the Pitiless pistol to fire but hesitated as Azza and his Nomad brothers stood in front of him.

“We will handle them,” Azza said, as crackling black energy began leaking from their bodies.

Tendrils of jagged, living darkness leapt from their bodies to ensnare the Filthies as they dropped down from the air upon them. A savage roar temporarily silenced the sounds of battle, and Remy looked over to see Baarabus leaping catlike from a perch on a nearby building’s ledge, to pounce upon multiple Filthies, dragging them from the sky to the rubble-strewn streets below.

Remy stood at the center of the maelstrom, the God-killing pistol still clutched in his hand, and through the madness he saw Michael.

The archangel stood in the distance, a battle between them. Once he had been one of the most handsome and stalwart of God’s creations, but now he was a twisted thing that served only to remind everyone of what they had lost.

A time that had been murdered.

But it also served to remind Remy of the seemingly impossible burden he had accepted—to somehow right this world.

Their eyes locked from across the bloody expanse, and Remy saw a hate that was like a living thing. He was drawn to it, pulled across the combat-filled city street toward the twisted mockery of what had once been a thing of awesome beauty.

The Filthies tried to stop him, but Remy was on a mission, firing the Pitiless pistol and dispatching his attackers with robotic efficiency as he methodically made his way toward their leader. Michael did not flee, damning Remy with his one good eye, the hate leaking from his body like lethal radiation from a reactor breach. But Remy would not be deterred.

A thick gathering of Filthies collected on either side of their master, desperate to protect him. But Remy moved closer, the Pitiless pistol buzzing happily in his hand, glad that it was again serving its purpose.

The Filithies looked to be about to attack when the archangel spoke.

“Join the others,” he ordered. “Die in my name elsewhere,” he added, waving away his protectors.

The Filthies hesitated, staring at their leader in disbelief, but then reluctantly carried out its bidding, hopping and flying off to fight alongside the others of their ilk.

“Is this what you wanted?” Michael asked Remy, the poison of his hate all the more intense.

“I could ask you the very same question,” Remy replied.

“You could,” Michael said, turning his white and damaged eye toward him. “But I wonder if we want the same.”

“I can’t imagine that we’re too far off.”

Michael considered that for a moment. “I want the nightmare to end. I want all of this to fade away like the mists over the fields of grass just outside the Golden City. Do you remember the fields, Remiel?”

Remy could see them, a vision of the past just behind his eyes. “I do. But I also remember them stained with the blood of our brothers.”

It was as if Michael had been slapped, a sneer appearing upon his wan features.

“You remember a time long gone, brother,” Remy continued. “Those idyllic fields, that memory of perfection . . . The War changed all that.”

“It did,” Michael agreed. “But we fought to get them back . . . to make it how it once had been.”

“And no matter how much we fought, how much blood was spilled, it was never the same.”

A rage seemed to descend upon the archangel, the scars on his pale skin growing more pronounced. “He was to blame for that,” he spat. “The perfect child . . . the Son of the Morning. He was always His favorite, no matter how much pain he caused.”

There was some truth to the words, but Remy saw no point in stoking Michael’s simmering fury.

“And look,” Michael continued his rant. “Look at what has happened. . . . Look at what Lucifer has caused.”

“God wanted things to be whole again,” Remy said. “Like you wanted the perfection of the fields outside the Golden City. He wanted it to be that way again, and Unification was to give us that.”

Michael’s face twisted as if he’d been given poison. “Unification killed us all.”

“But it wasn’t supposed to. Something . . . someone . . .”

There were images in Remy’s mind again, flashes of recollection that had no place—no meaning. He saw a man, a pale-skinned man with hair as black as ravens’ feathers.

And on each hand he wore a ring.

“Yes, someone was responsible,” Michael said, dragging Remy from the strange vision.

Michael was eyeing the weapon in Remy’s hand, and he slowly raised it, as if to show him.

“Godkiller,” Michael said.

Remy did not understand.

“Godkiller,” the archangel said again. “All weapons of power should have a name, and that should be its name.”

“Fitting,” Remy said, suddenly no longer thinking of it as Pitiless.

“Is that how you’re going to do it?” Michael asked.

“Do what?”

“Fix things,” Michael replied with a condescending sneer. “Isn’t that what the great Remy Chandler does? Makes things right again?”

“I’m going to try,” Remy said after a moment’s contemplation.

“Will you give me back my fields of gold, Remiel?” Michael asked.

Remy looked at him, remembering what he had once been, and did not answer.

“I had it in my mind that I was going to kill you,” Michael said. “That with you dead, things could move on, that a new Heaven would be given to us—the survivors . . . the faithful.”

“And now?”

Michael looked at him, the hate no longer radiating from his eyes—there was something else coming from them now.

Was it pity?

“It’s not up to me,” the archangel said. He looked past Remy and tossed back his head, emitting a horrible, groaning cry.

The Filthies ceased their fighting and gathered round Michael once more.

“Do you think He could forgive you?” Michael asked Remy as he turned away.

“For failing Him?” Remy was confused.

Michael’s shoulders shook as if he was laughing. Without a reply, he continued to walk into the corpse of the city, his surviving legions at his side.

E
very time he found himself in the middle of shit like this, Squire promised himself it would be the last time.

At the foot of the stairs leading up to Remy’s bedroom, he turned to see that Mulvehill had stopped to fire his weapon, managing to take out pale-skinned demonic assassins that had made it past the badass angel who was in the kitchen cleaning their fucking clocks.

Squire’s gaze lingered on the cop a bit too long. He was a complete stranger half a day ago, but now . . .

That fucking friend thing always got him. He got attached way too easily; it had been that way with all the others, too. So what if he wasn’t from this world? In this reality, it had provided him with more of a home than he’d had for many a year.

Seeing his own world crumble . . . watching his friends die even as they fought valiantly to turn the tide of darkness: It had almost finished him off. It had become survival of the fittest, and he’d hit the Shadow Paths, trying to lose himself in the dimension of shadows that existed amongst the multitude of realities. Honestly, he’d believed he would live out his lifetime alone, existing in the shadows, but no matter how hard he tried to resist, the various realities—variations of the world he’d loved and lost—always seemed to draw him back.

And there was always heartbreak, and more swearing that he’d never do it again.

And, of course, here he was again.

Squire aimed his pistol, squinted down the end of the barrel, and fired. A demon went down with a head shot, but there were more behind him, and not enough bullets to truly matter.

“C’mon,” Mulvehill said as he reached the hobgoblin, grabbing his arm and pulling him up the stairs.

Now would be the time to bail,
Squire thought, seeing only ugliness and more sadness to cope with if he were to stick around. There were plenty of shadows to use for escape. Dive right in and leave the sorrow behind—that way he wouldn’t have to see what happened; it would remain a mystery, like missing the season finale of a favorite show.

It sucked, but sometimes it was better not knowing.

“What the fuck are you waiting for?” Mulvehill shouted, noticing his hesitation.

Squire really liked this reality, liked Remy Chandler and all the craziness that seemed to circle him. And this Mulvehill guy: Even though they’d just met, there was something about the guy he hadn’t felt since . . .

Pangs of sadness pulsed through him as he again remembered those he had called friends—family, really.

Did he really want to go through that again?

A Bone Master was suddenly in front of him, a more conventional weapon, one that fired bullets instead of poisoned teeth, aimed at his face. He knew he could stop it, but . . .

Squire suddenly felt himself violently shoved aside, a body driving the demon to the living room floor. It took him a second to realize what had happened, and he watched as Mulvehill laid into the Bone Master, burying the blade of a medieval battle-axe in the demon’s face before it could even get a shot off.

“What, did you doze off?” Mulvehill asked, his breathing coming in short gasps.

Squire looked at the guy and saw in him the kind of friendship that usually took years to cultivate, a bond that many would never even come close to having. Imagine how strong it could be if he stuck around and they managed to survive all this.

It would be fucking epic.

“I was thinking about trying to get into the kitchen,” Squire told his friend. “I think I saw a box of Cheez-Its in one of the cabinets. I’m fucking starving.”

“Jesus,” Mulvehill exclaimed as the two headed up the stairs. “Cheez-Its? Now? I’ll buy you a fucking case of Cheez-Its if we make it out of this alive.”

Squire smiled at the thought of the future with his friend.

“I’ll take you up on that,” he said as they made their way to the bedroom at the top of the stairs.

•   •   •

The darkness had become her existence.

In the embrace of the black, she had lived what felt like many lifetimes; the pulse, ebb, and flow of the inky shadows had become everything to her.

That and the memory of her love for Remy.

Linda folded herself around the flame of recollection, the flickering light of love her constant companion in the ocean of darkness.

She was content in this place of liquid shadow, as long as she had her love—her Remy.

It was when the fire seemed to be dwindling—dying—that she lost that sense of contentment and became increasingly concerned. The fire could not go out; she would do everything—anything—to keep it . . .
Remy
 . . . alive and with her.

Her emotions caused the waters of black to become more turbulent. No longer was she pulled along in a gentle flow. Now multiple currents tried to drag her in opposing directions.

Linda drew the fire to her, protecting it. She recalled things that she hadn’t thought of in . . .
years
? How long had she been here, part of the vast ocean of shadow? How long had she been away from her true home?

Home
.

Images flashed before her mind’s eye, new sparks of fire causing the flame of her love for Remy to grow stronger. She remembered more clearly why she was there, and the friends that she had left behind.

It was all about Remy. She was trying to save him . . . to bring him back to her and to those who loved him so.

And the fire grew, warming her inside and out, even as the currents of shadow tried to pull her apart, to scatter her pieces about this dark and terrible place.

But the protected flame kept her whole.

Her memories of Remy, and why she was there in this place, kept her whole.

Try as they might, the currents of shadow could not tear her apart, and she found herself actually fighting against the pull, swimming in the oily black as she clutched the fire to her breast.

And from somewhere in the distance, Linda heard a muffled sound like the roar of thunder, or . . .

The crashing of waves upon a beach.

She moved toward the sounds. And as she swam, flowing through the oily black, she found the world to which she had grown so accustomed becoming lighter, brighter. Linda moved toward the light, clutching the fire of her love closer to her with one hand while reaching up with the other.

She would escape this ocean if she could.

Linda drifted upward, a world of lighter tones above in stark juxtaposition to the universe that rushed below her.

It was like she had been struck in the face by the sun, an explosion of light as she broke the surface of the sea, gasping for breath. She had broken through to another world, but even in this one she saw the threat of darkness.

In the sky above, the sun shone, but barely; thick black clouds rolled about its glowing immensity, attempting to enshroud it, to suffocate its warmth and light. Linda started for the shore, pulling herself along with one arm and powerful kicks of her feet, while still holding on to the flame of her love.

She could hear the waves crashing upon the shore and kicked her legs all the harder, desperate to be anywhere but in the water. Finally, she was close enough that she could allow herself to be carried in upon a wave, her tired body tossed upon the sandy shore as if rejected by the sea of darkness.

Linda lay there, collecting herself, until she could once again feel the pull of the ocean on her legs. She sat up and looked at the fire in her hand. It still burned, but softer in its intensity. Legs trembling, she forced herself to her feet, not sure if they would even be strong enough to support her after all that time adrift in the sea of shadow. But the question was quickly forgotten when she saw that she wasn’t alone.

An old man and a woman watched her as she haltingly made her way from the surf toward them.

“Hello, Linda,” the old man said, his voice immediately filling her with a sense of serenity.

The woman beside him smiled, and Linda immediately recognized her from the photographs in Remy’s brownstone. She could feel the fire suddenly burn brighter—warmer—in her hand.

The kindly old man reached for her, to guide her closer. “We’re so glad you’re finally here.”

“Remy needs you more now than ever before,” added the woman.

Madeline.

Remy’s wife.

•   •   •

Lazarus nearly burst into tears as he watched an age spot blossom on the back of his hand.

Silently he thanked the Lord God for what He was doing but realized there was much he still had to do before accepting His ultimate reward.

Sitting in the small café, NPR droning in the background, Lazarus sipped a cappuccino and waited. He had taken a chair at a table across from the front window, where he could observe the comings and goings on Mass. Ave. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was waiting for, but the Lord God had been very specific about where he should be.

And he didn’t want to disappoint God, especially after all He’d done for him. Lazarus again recalled the stupidity of his actions, how he’d attempted to make a deal with a group of rogue angels who had wanted to bring about the Apocalypse and end the world of man. He hadn’t been thinking clearly then, driven to near madness with the desire to finally die. And that was what the rogues had promised him—betray God, humanity, and his friends, and he would at last be allowed to die. He was ashamed that he’d even considered such an offer, but at least—thank
God
—someone had stepped forward to stop the rogues and prevent the Horsemen from calling down the Apocalypse.

Remy Chandler,
Lazarus thought. His friend, or at least they had been friends before Lazarus had betrayed him.

A sudden blast of static distracted him, and he glanced at the front counter to see the young man who had waited on him fiddling with the stereo system.

“Sorry about that,” the young man said as public radio was replaced with music.

Lazarus nodded and turned his attentions back to the street outside, where he caught movement on the steps of a brownstone directly across from the coffee shop. There was a man climbing the steps to the front door. There didn’t seem to be anything particularly special about the man, but for some reason, Lazarus could not look away. He watched the man ring the buzzer on the side of the doorway, wait a few moments, and then push open the door to disappear inside the building.

And then Lazarus noticed the song that was playing on the radio, and things started to make a strange sort of sense. Mick Jagger was singing,
“Please allow me to introduce myself / I’m a man of wealth and taste. . . .”

Lazarus chuckled, raising the last of his cappuccino to his mouth and finishing it off. Then he wiped the foam from his lips and stood.

“Thanks, come again,” the young man said, as Lazarus headed for the door.

“No, thank
you
.” Lazarus smiled, leaving the coffee shop, closing the door on the strains of the Rolling Stones’ “Sympathy for the Devil.”

He crossed the street and stopped in front of the brownstone; like many old Boston buildings, it seemed to house a small business on the first floor and apartments above.

A UPS truck pulled up behind him with a chill-inducing screech of brakes, and Lazarus immediately climbed the steps to the front door of the building. The delivery driver, carrying a small package, joined him a few moments later, and Lazarus stepped aside politely, allowing him access to the buzzers.

“Yes?” answered a voice.

“UPS delivery,” the man said.

“Come on up,” said the cheerful voice, and the door buzzed loudly, the driver pushing open the door into the lobby.

Lazarus followed, all the while giving off a level of confidence that said he belonged. He lingered on the first floor while the driver headed up the stairs. From what he could see, the level belonged entirely to a small men’s clothing and tailor shop, and he perused a window display of some new shirt-and–silk tie combinations. Sauntering over to the door, he peered inside. It was quiet, and he wasn’t even sure if the establishment was open yet, when an older gentleman with a tape measure around his neck suddenly appeared from the back and approached. Lazarus quickly turned and began to walk away.

“The person you’re looking for is inside,” he heard the man call from behind him.

Lazarus slowly turned.

“He’s inside,” the man said, holding the door open and gesturing to the back of the store. “Right this way.” He left the door open and headed for the back of the store again, as if he expected Lazarus would follow.

Cautiously, Lazarus entered the store, carefully closing the door behind him. The man had already disappeared into the back, but Lazarus could hear voices in conversation and found himself drawn to them.

In the back of the small store, a series of three mirrors had been set up in front of a raised pedestal. On the pedestal stood the man Lazarus had seen enter the brownstone, his image reflected three times, from three positions, as the tailor prepared to take his measurements.

“Are you looking for me?” the man asked.

Lazarus wasn’t sure what he had been expecting from the man, but he was certain that it was something more . . . menacing. “I am,” he replied.

The man lifted his arms while keeping his eyes upon Lazarus’ reflection in the mirror directly in front of him. “So, what is it I can do for you, Lazarus?”

Lazarus was a bit taken aback. “You know who I am?”

“I do. I also know who you’ve been working for of late.”

Lazarus did not respond to that.

After the Apocalypse had been averted, he’d found himself washed out to sea, suffering death and resurrection multiple times before finally being pulled from the grip of the Atlantic Ocean by a fishing boat off of Newfoundland. Feeling truly lost, he’d attempted to drown himself in alcohol, but one night while asleep in a freezing alley in Nova Scotia, he was awakened by an old man who was so much more than that.

An old man who promised forgiveness and final death if Lazarus was to serve Him faithfully.

How do you say no to God?

“I’m guessing you have a message for me?” the man prompted.