Jump: The Fallen: Testament 1 (19 page)

“It . . .” And now he’s reaching for the flask in his shirt again, shaking as he fumbles it out. “It doesn’t.” And he takes a good-sized pull.

“No
shit
,” I say slowly.

“But you are—”

I watch him screw the lid back on his little pacifier. “Boozing and bullets,” I say. “Tsh, tsh, tsh—you should know better.”

I let him pick the gun up this time and he puts it back in his desk drawer, then slides the drawer shut. It’s a good move for him, because I don’t have time for this shit. It won’t be long before that bright bitch is back. No idea why she left me leaking in the church instead of finishing the job. That was a mistake. And if this little boozehound did write this book, then I want some answers.

I reach over and touch the page that’s open and a faint screech and cussing comes out when I run my finger over the parchment, “Rain. . .”
it says.

And his eyes are wide when I ask him, “How do I kill her?”

It takes a few minutes for him to stop acting like a rabbit trapped in a cage with an eagle. Not sure if it’s the five minutes or if it’s his flask talking, but he finally settles down and makes peace with the understanding that he’s helping me . . . and I’m not going to slice his head off with one of my wings.

I look out the window. “Okay,” I say, “let’s start simple.” The sun is even brighter now. And from the angle of the “Jesus” rays, shining down into his office, filling the room with a foggy cone of light, I can tell it is afternoon. “Why is it sunny . . . in March?” At least I think it’s March.

The father looks at the stained glass window above the big bookcase and he puts his hand on his forehead to shade his eyes. It’s a common reaction on a winter day in the Northwest Quarter—seeing the sun is about like seeing God—it’s hard to believe it exists behind all that gray.

And he mutters up at the window, from memory this time, “The rain went with her.”

“That’s pretty literal,” I say to him. “I thought all this
Bible
and brimstone shit was an analogy or a metaphor, or whatever. That’s what you preach, right?”

When he looks back down, I can see he’s ready to get down to business. Self-preservation or not, it isn’t every day that you get to live scripture. And he’s excited now. “It’s all interpretation,” he says. “Some teach literally and others morph and meld the Word to their purposes. But faith”—he holds up an old finger and shakes it at me—“Faith is the key . . . and the testing of it. We all . . . every religion teaches this.”

And he flips the book back to the end and “choirs” out the last few lines. I wince the whole time. Then he thumbs back a few pages and reads some more.

When he’s finished rereading a book I’m sure he’s read a thousand times, I say, “So, you wrote that . . . in blood, no less. Armageddon and God and the Devil? I still don’t believe that shit. So tell me . . .” I really don’t want to know the answer, because that means this old man has been off his State meds for a long, long time. “Where did ya get the blood?”

By now, he’s coming to the realization that he is the author of this abomination. I’m sure it is confusing at best, especially given that he’s sworn, or compelled by Christ, or some other horseshit, to only infect his congregation with the one “true” Word. But what he tells me next, neither of us knows how to react to it.

“It’s . . . my own,” he says. Then he holds up his hand. And I never noticed it before. . . For some reason I think I shoulda smelled it. He’s got an ancient scar—crazy geezer had an IV line in a vein on the back of his hand.

— XXXV —

SO THERE IT is. The reality of it is simple enough. The believing? No wonder they call it faith. This crazy old priest wrote an unholy book in his own blood, and then the shit got real . . . and I’m living it. But how in the. . .? “Hey, Father . . . if you can still be called that.” And I smile at him. “You’re a sick bastard, you know that, right?”

He pauses at the statement, staring into space or judgment or some other daydream.

“Hey,” I say a little louder, so I’m sure he snaps out of it, “how do you know how to. . .?” I point to the book. “What the hell language is that?”

He jerks his head a little and then stares past me. Through me really, because his face is glazed over—dumbstruck. “It’s not only Hell,” he says. “I did my graduate thesis on angelic script—the language of the faithful defenders of Heaven . . . and the fallen in Hell.”

And that explains a lot. Spend enough time cramming your head full of these stories and pretty soon there’s only one thing a guy like him wants—proof. And when you never get it. . . I guess it might be easier to conjure up a story of your own. So now we’re all living inside his nightmare of a hallucination. And now he knows.

“I never thought it would. . .” he says. “It’s just a book.”

“So’s the
Bible
,” I say. “And look at all the shit that little fairytale has caused.”

We both think about that for a couple seconds—him wondering and me knowing. But wanting something to be true and believing it is doesn’t prepare you for when it actually happens. I kinda wonder, if the real
Bible
started happening, would everyone
really
want it to be true? Throw a frog-plague down on the average citizen, today. . .? Yeah, not so eager to flip the switch on the blender when you’re in it, I bet. “Well, you wrote this Armageddon son of a bitch, so how does it end?”

He thinks about it for a couple of seconds. Then he says, “First, don’t call it that.”

“What?” I ask. “Armageddon—end of humanity.”

“It’s not—”

“Why?” I ask. “Everyone knows the damn story. God sends angry angel down—that’s me—wipe out the sinners. Badabing—reboot humanity. Judgment Day—simple shit. You should know that.”

“It is simple,” he says, “however. . .”

“However” again. I wish they would just start with the truth.

“We’re already judged,” he says. “And you,” He looks at me with knowing eyes. He’s a different little boozing bloodhound now, calmer, a little maniacal-looking, if you ask me. “You are the judgment, ‘Jump.’ Clever. He sent you to—”

“Who did?”

“God, of course,” he says. “You are the wrath of God. Only in my book, there is no redemption, only vengeance. Because when I really thought about it—studied it and experienced man’s true nature for myself—we are beyond redemption. And the picture that the true
Bible
—the original unaltered version—paints of God is not an understanding one. He is judgment and wrath.”

Regret’s an easy thing to smell when you are packing a ton of it yourself. But he’s dead on. We’ve been at each other’s throats so long. . . Our cages are so full of shit, I wouldn’t wish that cleanup on the nastiest demon in hell. But I don’t know how to break it to him—his foundation has been rocked quite a bit. Forget who I think actually sent me or not, probably both of them, but he’s got to know. “About that,” I say. “God is actually. . .” And there’s just no way around it. “She’s a woman.”

That little tidbit is something the father never considered—who does, right? Not
even
women. But he takes the news in a different way than I think he should. And he whips open his book and turns to the first page. And he runs his finger and the choir sings—that’s his translator. Screaming obscenities—I like mine better. By the nodding and grunting, it looks like he understands what he’s reading, but he’s not happy about it.

“That’s not how I meant it,” he says.

And I laugh out loud. What else can I do? “Lost in translation, huh. Go figure that shit. What’s the matter, Father, someone misinterpret the Word?” And now I’m “bunny-earing” just like the Devil. I can see the appeal.

“Don’t. . .” And he stands up and grabs a big, navy blue, hardbound book from his bookcase, and then he whips it open. “God is
not
. . .” He roughs up the crepe paper-thin pages until he crackles his way to what he’s looking for. When he gets there, he pounds his scrawny finger on the page. “Right here.”

Then he sits back down, turns the book toward my side of the desk, and taps his finger on the page a couple times. Underneath it is a symbol and a description written below the symbol in big bold letters:

BREAD OF LIFE

“Bread of life?” I ask. “Since when was. . .? I never heard God called that.”

“John, six-thirty-five,” he says it like he’s saying his own name—not a thought to it. I guess you memorize the whole thing at God academy. But just to make sure, he’s headed to his bookcase again and this time . . . it
is
the
Bible.
And he’s obviously flipping to check and see if John was full of shit or not. “Here . . . right here.”

And he hands the book to me and I read it to myself—run my finger along the words. The
Bible
doesn’t screech:

And Jesus said unto them, I am the bread of life. . .

I frown and look at him out of the corner of my eye. “I don’t mean to interrupt your delusion, but this says Jesus.”

“There are those who believe that he
was
God.”

“And you’re one of ’em?”

“But he isn’t a woman.”

“Listen,” I say, “before we turn this into a
Bible
lesson and that bitch comes back to finish me off, here’s what happened: Jesus—‘Bread of Life. . .’ Why can’t you fuckers just stick with one name? No, you gotta get all fancy, spouting ‘shalls’ and ‘untos’ and ‘thous’ all over the place . . . give everyone twelve different names to remember for one person . . . confuse the living shit out of anyone who bothers to read the whole story. Gets to the point that you are even confusing yourselves.” And now I’m annoyed, because even I can figure out how this got fucked up. “Who gives the bread of life?”

I wait for him to say it, but he’s not going to.

At this point, I’m beyond blasphemy, so I do his dirty work for him. “Bread of Life . . . breast of life—woman? So you go getting creative with your little angel scribbles and guess what, you got the same thing back—someone interpreted your little word in a way you never intended.
Shocker
, I know, but now . . . well,
now
there’s a mother up there who gave birth to her precious little children of humanity and she’s pretty pissed off that we didn’t all turn out to be doctors and lawyers.”

He’s staring at me now—I’m telling him a story he doesn’t want to hear.

“And you think the Devil is an evil son of a bitch? You have no idea.”

And he slumps back in his chair, staring into the confusion of his broken-up faith, and then he reaches for his shirt pocket.

“Knock it off,” I say, and I thrust my hand across faster than he can comprehend it, snatch the flask from him before either of us realizes I did it—I tear his shirt pocket in the process. And I unscrew the lid on his little “medicine cabinet” and pour it out on the floor. “There’s nothing in here that’s gonna help.”

On another day, I might have disagreed with myself—emptied it down my own throat. I drank plenty after Amy. Anymore . . . it’ll dull the pain, but the cut . . . booze just makes it bleed worse. And right now, not even sad to say it, I’m thirsting for that very thing—blood.

“It’s not Armageddon,” he mutters. At least his brain’s still working. I can tell by the blank look on his face that he’s wrapping it around the realization that he has penned us all into Purgatory.

“What is it, then?” I ask.

“Extinction.”

FAILURE

— XXXVI —

WHILE THE FATHER sleeps off his morning booze and blasphemy binge, I finger my way through his book a few more times, ferreting in and out of the “dids” and “shalls,” as I screech-curse my way to some semblance of understanding.

I’m slowly figuring out that the only thing worse than being a Protection lapdog for the State, is being God and the Devil’s personal attack puppy. Cleansing humanity or not. . . I could really give a shit. From what I remember it’s a tragic waste of blood anyway. But after damn near memorizing the father’s unholy book, and figuring out what my new job is . . . well, let’s just say I’m nobody’s bitch.

“Father,” I try to wake him up out of the cold stupor I let him slip into. Poor bastard fell asleep in his chair and now he’s drooling all over himself. Boozin’ and blasphemy, it’ll wear you out. And he is out—not even a sleep jerk out of him. So I give him a loud screech to snap him back from whatever new blood book he’s brewing up in there. “Wake up! We got work to do.”

He’s got a little bathroom off the side of his office—ah, the perks of power—and after he slowly trickles himself rid of whatever State swill he had in his little flask, he sways his way back and flops into his big leather chair.

I sit on the leather couch across from his desk. I can tell by the stiffness, there’s one of those back-cracking, pullout beds inside it. “Fine example you are.”

He mumbles something back. Might be a curse. Right now, it’s the least of my worries. Not that I’m afraid. I’m more worried that I won’t get a chance to balance out the scales. But the father cursing?

“So I went through your—”

And he’s snoring already, snorting in his sleep.

Shit
. . . I brush at him with my healed wing. “Goddammit,” I say, “pay attention.” I’m a little too wild though, and my wing slices up his shirt and . . . shit, he’s bleeding, I can smell the copper. Well, at least now he’s awake, because he’s squawking like a plucked pigeon.

But he was probably in the middle of some dream because he starts squawking nonsense, “Don’t! You can’t kill her. Take mine, but—”

Killing him’s not even worth being disappointed over. “Get a grip. I’m not killing you. But you better get your ass sober or I might just cut you up so you can stay awake. And no more of your tin friend either. You really wanna sleep through your own story?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “Humanity. . . We are all going to die.”

“You’re not dead yet,” I tell him. “And trust me, you’re gonna want to avoid it for as long as possible.” Then I turn back to the book. “Boiling blood motherfuckers,” I mutter. Seven days. . . They want me to burn the garden in seven days. Then I get an idea.

Once the father stops whining, I patch
him
up this time. Using normal human supplies—couple a bandages, antibacterial ointment, and a good dose of rubbing alcohol I found in the church medicine kit. Nothing like some burning antiseptic in an open cut to wince you out of an alcoholic daze. Shoulda poured some molasses on the top of the little pancake pussy, too.