Apocalypse Rising (9 page)

“As you wish,” Haden said before opening the door and leaving.

The door closed, and Kassaah threw Haden's gift against the wall, shattering it, and spilling the contents on the floor. “Bastard thinks he can threaten me? I will feed his entrails to the h’ssmaj worms, and feast on his screams.”

The Orphean walked to a hidden panel in the wall, and pulled out a telephone. He dialed a number he had called many times before, taking pleasure in the sound and feel of the old-fashioned rotary dialer.

“Yes?” The voice on the other end was distorted intentionally as would Kassaah’s when heard on the other end of the line.

“Summon the council. We have much to discuss.”

I step into the light of day, brilliant, when compared to the muted light inside the church. It is the sort of light that lays all bare before it, exposing truths that are better left hidden. I enjoy the warmth, but I am not quite ready to face that sort of judgment.

Father Gabriel gave me forty dollars, from his own pocket, before I left. He said he could not send me off with nothing but his prayers, even when I insisted it was unnecessary. I reached into my pocket and felt the worn, old bills resting there. He did not have to do it, but I was certainly glad he did.

I walk down the street, heading in the direction of downtown, my pace casual and unassuming. I want to run, to get as far away from the church, and Lilly, as fast as I can. I would love to stay, safe in the arms of the holy place, but mortal man does not always recognize sacred boundaries, so I needed to leave.

A cab drives by and I flag him down, thankful for the good fortune and the forty dollars. I direct the cabby downtown to the Hitaratsu headquarters, and settle back into the cracked vinyl seat while he navigates the early morning traffic.

I slouch down low in the back seat, not wanting to risk being seen by the wrong person, even in passing. The cabby looks back at me and shakes his head, disgust evident in his face. Honestly, I am a little surprised he even stopped to pick me up. I looked like nothing but trouble. I am dirty, unkempt, and my clothes are stained with sweat and blood. Any smart man would have driven right on by, but he stopped.

"Thank you for picking me up," I say to the reflection in the rearview.

"Eh, a fare's a fare. Just make sure you pay."

We pass car after car, making good time as we head closer to Hitaratsu. I really do not know what Albert wants with them, but my presence should gather plenty of attention, and buy Lilly enough time to get home.

I envy her in a way. Though she left it long ago, she always has a place to return to. Things will be different for her, but home is home, and in her case it is considerably better than living on the street. Choosing to fall is forever, and for someone who lives for eternity, that can be a very long time.

The cabby drops me off in front of the building Hitaratsu is located in. It is a skyscraper of immense size, with a broad facade of black granite, and tinted glass that reaches toward the heavens. Rumor has it that the building also plunges into the depths of the earth, but everyone, including the government, denies it. Hitaratsu owns the building and occupies the majority of it. On the street it is well known that the company is dirtier than even their black image suggests. They are blamed for everything from human trafficking, to prostitution, and drugs, but they have very deep pockets that hold more than their share of officials.

I look at the front doors, and consider going in, but the trip here was quick. I want to give my presence some time to percolate. I am hungry, and I have a few dollars left after paying the cab fare, so I cross the street to a little diner for a coffee and some toast. I do not think I can afford anything more substantial. One of the mixed blessings of falling is hunger. For the first time ever you feel it, which is awful, but you appreciate those first bites of food like few others ever will.

The diner is dark, and the lingering smell of cigarette smoke permeates every corner of the place, though smoking has been banned from restaurants for four years now. I slide into a booth, and pretend to look at a menu. A chubby, young waitress steps up to my table and asks what I would like to eat. I tell her and she stand there waiting for more. When I say nothing else, she sighs and walks away. I trace my finger through the thin layer of grease on the table. The same grease has probably been pushed around by a filthy rag every day for years.

The people in the diner are only a step above the very ones I had been working so hard to help. They work hard, have their vices, and are most likely stuck right where they are. It is a hard climb to get above one’s station in this world, but one little slip and you can fall so far down the ladder that you never stop.

A short, swarthy little man is staring at me. I think he wants me to lock gazes with him, but I am not in the mood. I know who he is, not personally, but I have seen the look. He stands and walks out of the diner, curiously ignoring me now. He will place a call once he is outside. Albert, or one of his associates, will know I am here.

The same waitress brings my toast and cup of burnt coffee. I try to ask for cream, but she walks away before the plate stops rattling. A couple of packets of sugar, and some tasteless, dry creamer are added to the cup before I choke down my first sip of the day. The coffee scalds my throat and stomach. It sets off an internal need. I have not eaten since we started running, and I realize that I am starving. I devour the soggy toast after spreading a thin layer of grape jelly on it, and choke down the rest of the coffee. It is a poor final meal if things go bad.

I look at the clock on the wall, and note that Albert's informer has been gone fifteen minutes. I should get going, but as bad as the coffee is, I need a second cup. I wave the waitress over and ask for a refill from the dirty pot she carries. She gives it to me with a tired sigh, and manages to only spill a little. It does not taste any better than the first cup, but it satisfies my need for the touch of reality it offers. I place the rest of my money on the table, the tip is more than the bill, and walk out the front door in time to see a grey sedan with black windows pull up across the street.

I keep my head down, and walk across the street, nice and casual, like I do not see the four, gun toting, thugs in their bad suits, and movie-villain sunglasses. I am two paces from the sidewalk in front of Hitaratsu's front door, when one of them yells, "you! Stop right there!" I do the opposite, and bolt for the revolving doors in front of me. The quiet hiss of guns with silencers discharging fills the air moments before the screams. I get through the door, and look back through the half-inch, bullet proof, glass. People are running and screaming, at least those who have not been shot.

The revolving door stops moving with an audible click. A half-dozen, heavily armed, men rush up to the entrance, and stare down my would-be assassins. My heart breaks for the people bleeding on the sidewalk, but I cannot help them, so I hold it inside.

"Give me a good reason why I shouldn't shove you out that door, and let those men fill you full of holes." The words are accompanied by the press of cold steel against the back of my head. "Don't make me start counting." The voice is deep, but crisp, like the speaker had studied diction in college.

I raise my hand, and say, “because the men outside work for Albert, and I am more useful to you alive in here, than I am dead outside.”

The gun eases away from my head and the voice says, “Turn around, slowly.”

I do as he says, and find the barrel of an oversized revolver pointed straight between my eyes, about six inches from my face. “I don’t suppose you would put that down would you?” I ask, not really expecting him to lower it, but I am reaching for something to say that backs up my claims of usefulness.

“You’re a funny kid,” says the man holding the gun, “but there is not a chance in hell that the gun goes down.” He stares at me, gauging me, and what I have said. I can see the thoughts rolling through his mind, not literally, though that would make things a lot easier. “Parker, take the funny boy here back to the holding room, while I make sure everything here is copacetic.” Another one of the heavily armed men places a pair of cuffs on me, and drags me back to whatever passes as a prison cell for them.

Parker marches me back through a metal detector, which the handcuffs set off, so he has to stop and wand me. Finding nothing else, he pushes me through a non-descript door off to the side. The room beyond is bright, and reminds me of the antiseptic feel of a hospital. The walls are white and slick looking, the floor is seamless white linoleum, and the ceiling is like the walls, except for the inset, fluorescent, lights. It makes me think the place could be easily cleaned in case of a mess, like someone accidentally bleeding all over the floor.

We get to a non-descript door, which Parker opens, then unceremoniously pushes me into the room. The walls and lighting match the hall, but there is an imperfection in the gleaming white hell they have created: a partial globe of shiny black glass tucked into one of the corners. As if on cue, Parker says, “it’s a camera. I’ll be watching, so don’t try anything stupid.”

“Don’t worry, Parker, I’ve used up my quota of stupid for the day.” Not my wittiest retort, but I am starting to think that coming in here was dumber than facing Albert’s goons.

I sit at the table which was bolted to the floor, and I wait. To most people, a room like this would be extremely disconcerting, but I see it as a blessing, a quiet, well-lit place in which I can gather my thoughts. I think of things I know or can make up that might be useful to Hitaratsu, but I cannot think of anything beyond some fodder for petty blackmail. There is the event that set us on the run in the first place, but that is something I want to keep very close to my chest. Besides, most people would never believe it anyway.

It is tempting to slip into a meditative state, but I do not know how long they will leave me here alone. Simple, low level meditation would be fine, and might help me think of some ideas, but I know that deep meditation is where I need to go. I need to unlock my strength before I approach Neville, assuming he is still downtown, because there is a chance Neville will try to take me back into the fold, by force if he isn't able to talk me into going peacefully. Neville can be very persuasive, but now is not the time, and there is nothing he could say that will change my mind.

The door opens, and a man walks in. It is not the man in charge when I entered the building, but a man in a light grey suit. He is shorter than me, oriental, and very well kept. I get the impression that he wants for little, but that he earned everything he has.

"There will be no need for the camera," he says, looking up at the black ball in the corner. A small red light winks out and he looks at me, a hint of a smile touching the corner of his eyes.

He walks around the table and his eyes never leave mine. He smiles like he knows a secret, something I should want to know, but he will keep it from me until he can use it to his advantage. I do not know what it could possibly be, but I feign interest. “And you are?” I ask, letting the question hang in the air between us.

“Oh come now,” he says, his tone mocking. “You don’t really expect me to tell you anything do you? You’re the one held in an interrogation room. The questions are mine to ask.” The smile never leaves his face and it grates on my nerves.

“I suppose you are right,” I say as he sits down across from me.”

“Yes, I suppose I am.” He pulls a small pad from a coat pocket. “Why don’t we start with your name?”

“Justin.”

“Justin…”

“Just, Justin. I don’t have a last name,” I say. Most would consider the answer impertinent, and I can tell by my interrogator’s scowl that he does as well, but it is the truth. I never considered taking one after I fell; it felt dishonest. An Angel has one name, and is known by it alone. Only one of us ever tried to carry a surname, and he burned for it.

"Okay, Justin," the man says, "we'll come back to your last name later. Before you leave this room you'll tell me everything I want to know, so the sooner you stop playing games, and start talking, the sooner I can let you go."

I laugh and slap the table.

"What is so funny?" he asks.

"Nothing," I say while wiping away my tears. "It has been a long, couple of days, and I'm a little slap happy, you know?" I do not mention that staying inside the building is the best thing for me, at least at the moment.

"All right, Justin, if that's the way you want to play this." The man stands up, and walks toward the door.

"Wait," I say. "I'm sorry. I'll take it seriously. It really has been a rough couple of days."

"Very well," he says as he returns to his seat. "Let's start with a few questions, shall we?"

"I'll do my best to answer your questions."

"Excellent." He looks at his pad, pretending to read something that is not there. "Justin, are you on drugs?"

"No, not even aspirin."

He makes a little mark in his book, and asks, "Where do you live?"

"I had an apartment in Abavvon," I said. I could not go back there now. Even if I sorted out all of this mess, and Albert no longer wanted me dead, there would be nothing left intact after his people went through it.