Jump: The Fallen: Testament 1 (15 page)

Somehow I manage to stand up without stumbling this time. The wings will take some getting used to. And I laugh, more at myself than anything else. It’s strange, because something embarrassing like. . .? In front of a street packed with strangers? That would have sent me into a self-loathing rage before.
Before what?
. . . I can hardly remember. That’s my dead body down there, but who am I? There’s only bits and pieces and flashes in my mind.

I look around at the total chaos and commotion that’s only growing now. No one seems to have a clue what to do, because I’ve never seen so many panicked faces in my life. Everyone looks like a politician who just got a news camera shoved in his face full of coke.
Coke?
That’s pretty old-school, but like I said. . . But I guess it’s not every day you see a man crash down from a building and then stand up and sprout wings, because the citizens are crapping themselves.

And I smile and look down at myself.
Or one that’s buck-ass naked
, I think. I try to get a good look at my new body, but controlling my wings and standing seem to go together about as well as blood and pancakes. Wish there was a mirror.

Then I remember something—the whole damn city is one big mirror. Scrapers—powerful pillars of the privileged—every five feet, all made of reflective glass. I look across the street and the first thing I see in the reflection is my wings. They are huge—
ten feet wide?
That’s a guess, because they’re probably more like fifteen. And the reflection is the first time I can see my whole body and I walk toward it.

As I cross the street, my wings open and close, slowly back and forth, and then I tuck them onto my back—fold the feathers together. And I hear them clank like a steel door shutting behind me. I think I’m figuring them out, or they’re figuring themselves out—feels like they have a mind of their own.

I can see in the reflection that the fold sticks up above my head a couple of feet, and I can hear the steel feathers on the tips, scraping the concrete behind me as I walk. I’m not made for pounding the pavement with my feet anymore.

The street is gathering Protection agents faster than it’s taking for me to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to be doing with my new wings. And the onlookers—hundreds of citizens. . . A mermaid would get less attention. But I’m oblivious.

It’s the wrong word, because I know they are there, I just don’t give a shit. Right now, I wanna see if they left me with my. . .?

When I look closer at the reflection, I can tell that this body is not mine. Not one I recognize from this morning, anyway. That forty-eight-year-old, sagging. . . How I made it up that many flights of stairs is beyond me. But this body in the reflection . . . twenty-seven at most, and rippling, long, sinewy muscles—hard meat. And maybe the best news of the day—I got to keep my dick. Looks a little weird, though.
Lucky for them
, I think. Someone would pay for that, for sure. Anyway, the thought of them doesn’t scare me as much now.

As much as what? Doesn’t feel like I’ve ever been scared. In fact, after this, I might have to put them on my list.
Bastards
. . .

As soon as that warning flashes in my mind, armored steel feathers spring out of almost every pore on my body. They cover everything but my face and the palms of my hands. Then my skin tingles, as I feel every breeze, every swirl of air and every drop of rain that falls on me. But steel and rain? Do I rust? The thoughts are just popping into my head.

I shiver and shake and the water flies off in all directions, like a wet retriever, shaking off pond water after he just fetched his master’s dead duck. And then I’m completely dry. When I rub one of my arms, a thin film of waxy oil slips across my fingertips and then the patch on my arm fills right back in.
Waterproof
. . .

Believe me, I’m aware. If this is a dream, then I’ve got some serious issues to work out. My subconscious has finally snapped, trying to deal with the amount of anger and resentment toward authority that I’m harboring. But what if it isn’t?

Then something flashes in my mind—I remember . . . something . . .
the ones I left on the roof!
And before I know it, I’m in the air and my wings are flapping wildly—the sound of steel scraping on itself echoes down the block. And I hear screaming on the street, and then I’m flying straight up.

I guess I wouldn’t really call it flying, because I kinda suck at it. It’s more like crashing off of the surrounding buildings as I flail my new appendages in an attempt to go up. I slam buildings in horrendous bursts of steel and shattering glass. And sharp shards rain down on the onlookers and the agents below and the screams waft up at me again—music to my ears—and I smile. I can smell the blood.

By the time I make it to the roof, I’m getting better at it. Not much, but enough to make a difference. And I flap a few times, gaining some altitude above the rooftop. Then I struggle to hover while I look for them.

From a hundred feet up, I can see every crack in every crevice on the scraper’s roof. And every one of them has taken cover, hiding behind anything they can. They must have watched from above, gaping at the impossible like the rest of them. The black uniforms and helmets look less intimidating now, less threatening and more like a bunch of pathetic followers.

I focus on one of them. He’s quivering like a field mouse behind the HVAC unit I cut my hand on. And I can see where my blood spilled and my Kimber lying next to it. The sight of my own blood excites me for some reason, and I smile. Then the guy steps in it and I frown.

His boot on my blood enrages me and before I know it, I’m in a dive—wings folded slightly, slicing through the air like an eagle—flying right at him. I read his name tag—“Daniels”—right before I slam into him at full speed. And sparks fly as my wing slices through the big metal AC unit, and then I’m flapping and I’m hopping around him and—
Brrrt, brrrt
! A couple of bursts of 9mm spit out of his little MP-7.

I feel every one of the bullets hit me and ricochet off my feathers, buzzing like bees across the roof as they find something else to sting. And I’m clawing and pulling at his flesh, and it sounds like I’m squawking and cawing as I rip into him.

My fingers and feet work like—
holy shit, they’ve turned to talons!
And I pull and peck at him. And blood is spraying and he’s screaming, but that doesn’t last long. I keep going—drunk on the power of it. And the images flash in my head again—remembering who I was—but it feels like forever ago since I ran like a scared rabbit from this little rat and his black-booted agent buddies.

I go at him too long, because when I’m done there’s not much to recognize as a man—chunks of meat and a shredded black uniform. His citizen-raping days are over—“Daniels” . . . is done. I smile at my own wit—a little payback goes a long way.

Then I stand up and scream out above my head. What comes out, is a sound like none I’ve ever heard. A vile screeching twang that reminds me more of an overloaded electric guitar than an eagle or hawk. And I hear some shattering glass across on the adjacent scraper. Then, there’s rats everywhere, and I count and catalogue in my head,
Six in the stairwell, six in the elevator, less Daniels and. . . Eight-nine . . . ten.

Little scurrying black figures burst out from their hiding places, and a hail of hot lead rains across the rooftop—a sideways stream of death droplets, bent on washing me off this roof and back to hell. I’m not ready for that. Hell? I just got back.

And I squat down—the reactions are coming faster now—and my wings surround the rest of my body like a steel curtain. I can only imagine that, from the outside, I must look like a big metal egg of gray feathers, squatting in the middle of the roof.

Inside, I feel the pelting from the bullets and I hear the buzzing as they ricochet like the rest. The rats spray the shit out of me, but it’s no more dangerous than waiting out a heavy downpour under an umbrella. I can smell some of it from the fear—the putrid piss smell mixed with cordite gunsmoke—but there’s another smell, too. The sweet cooking onion smell of revenge.

And they keep firing. Can’t blame them, really. I did drop Daniels, not to mention shooting one of their buddies in the stairwell. Good for them—get some for Charlie, or Hank or whoever.

They’ll have to reload soon, so I wait. When the bullets stop, I let them swap magazines, and I can tell they move a little closer, because the pelting gets harder, like hail on my bare back this time. Nothing that concerns me, though. And then their machine guns are empty and I hear the familiar scrapes of pistols, clearing plastic holsters and the hot rain starts again—less this time—they’re running out of lead.

When it’s over, I stand up and shake my wings and little 9mm and .45 caliber lead raindrops pour out from between my feathers—they fall and bounce on the rooftop.

The faces tell me they know they’re fucked, but they are trained warriors too, and a couple of them pull their knives, eyes wide open to the inevitability of their end.

When I spin, I have no idea what I’m doing, but I twirl in a circle anyway. And I feel my wings slice air and then some flight feathers release and then pinfeathers cut loose and shoot like tiny daggers at all of them at once. And the bigger quills streak orange fire across the rooftop and cut off arms and legs, and the smaller pinfeathers simply zip right through body armor and flesh and bone, or they pierce guts and internal organs and keep going out the other side.

And there is that sound again—another memory from the staircase, but something else, too—deer, maybe. The meat-smacking sounds come, and in a couple of grunts and a little bit of moaning, it is over faster than the guy I plucked apart at the seams.
A better death than Daniels
, I think.

I look, and my steel feathers are embedded in the concrete of the buildings behind them, and the windows are shattered and the glass rains down on the onlookers below.

Sucks for them.

The first thought I have is,
How do I get new feathers?
Compared to the hot and steaming bloody mess surrounding me, it could be a cold question. But no sooner do I think it, than I feel replacements sprout from the empty holes of my expended plumage—problem solved.

Jesus, who thinks this shit up? I mean, is there a guy down at the Army of Angels Surplus store, saying, “And then we’re going to need regenerative, ballistic feathers and. . .” Seriously, that guy is messed up.

I shake the thought. Kelly wouldn’t approve. That’s what I think, but . . . who is Kelly?

That thought doesn’t last long, because I have to tell you, I’m more than enjoying turning the tables on the very scum that took. . . Someone took her from me—that’s who she is, but. . . I know what has to be done about that. One thing I am sure of, no one takes shit from me. But when I look around—guts and blood of people I know I should hate—revenge and killing feel a bit too . . . easy.

I think to myself for a second,
There should be a little more to this
.

A conscience? If you’re asking, there’s not a twinge of—

The voice is more serious this time,
Rain is coming. . .

Now I remember those two—the bitches who sent me. Whichever one of them. . . I kinda thought that they would have given up whispering in my ear by now—just come out and say what’s on their mind. . . . Maybe not? It’s more than a little annoying, though, and then I think,
It’s probably only him—haven’t heard from her in a while?

I look. . . Hell, I don’t know which way to look for him. Down, up—nothing seems to be like I think it should be. So I look up—it’s as good a direction as any—and somehow I tell my body feathers to retract and I’m standing on the roof, naked with the rain splattering on my skin and wings, and I close my eyes and feel the wetness and drink in the sweet smell of spilled blood.
Sweet onions
, I think.
Could use some garlic.

— XXVIII —

WILD SCREECHING ABOVE me—like feedback from a microphone—makes me open my eyes and sends my hands to my ears. Then a blinding white light blasts me in the face and I manage to flip one wing up just as the sound hammers into me.

And the spikes stab into my chest and arms and I buck backwards—I’m lifted off the roof of this scraper with no more effort than I used on the rats. And then whatever it is lets go and I’m falling from the roof . . . again. And I flap and flail, and I think I screech a couple of times on the way down.

The holes in me seem to hammer a bunch of images in my mind, and rapid flashes of understanding hit me—the roof, the flashbacks, meeting the two of them, and deciding. But there’s no flashbacks, no philosophical debates, and no angels or devils on this fall.

And I plummet down through the confusing anger of my life, and past my hopelessness and regret at the loss of Amy, right by my rage at them for doing that to Kelly—all the way down to the street . . . and then I crash with a resounding, smashing sound right in the middle of my barely quenched thirst for vengeance.

Lesson one—pain, it’s a good teacher.

The murmur in the grandstands turned to squeaking and squawking, and then to muffled cries and caws that echoed down to the arena below. And The Great Mountain of the Eternities rumbled.

Dal spun and looked at the gallery of the faithful. And then he looked at her. “What was. . .?” he asked. “What angel is this? I—I do not recognize. . .?”

“Angel?” Life said. Then she smiled and the
Book of Blood
appeared in her hands. She opened it slowly and ran her finger across the text. Yet when
she
spoke, the sounds of babies bawling and women crying wafted from its parchment: “ ‘And the angel’s name fell from the heavens as rain. And the blinding light of the truth followed.’ ” Then she looked up at Dal. “You see, there it is. Written quite plainly—rain.”

And flames shot from the tips of Dal’s red wings and the great hall shook the tremors of an angry earthquake and he grabbed the book from Life with both hands. Then he read the same passage as he flamed in rage-red anger, and the moaning from the pages was louder when he did. When he was finished, he slammed it shut and said, “That is—you—you are interpreting it. It is . . . a metaphor!”