Jump: The Fallen: Testament 1 (22 page)

I head down to snatch up Frank. Well, his rotten soul, anyway. I leave his wasted husk of a life where it should be, splattered on the street, washing away with the cleansing truth of the relentless rain.

And I clamp my talons down on Frank’s maggoty moth and fly up after the others.

“Sorry, sweetie,” I squawk it toward where I last saw the little gray dove. It’s the least I can say, I took her ticket back.

— XLII —

WHEN I CATCH up to the dove-angels transporting the souls I just served up, the father is holding on for dear life, probably scared shitless about where I told him we are headed.

Yeah, I told him. He didn’t believe me. But like I said, believing and seeing for yourself. . .

And the one carrying Mercedes. . . He’s in the lead and flying toward a huge bright hole in the star-studded black of space.

I hang back a little. Despite the saddled-up father, they don’t seem to notice that anything is wrong, but I’m not taking any chances. I zoom in and scan the bright hole ahead for any sign of that aggressive little angel, bursting out of there. But she doesn’t show herself and the other two angels cruise along like this is just a routine flight from Seattle to salvation. They’ve done it a million times.

The one in front doesn’t look back. He’s focused. The dark one packing the father glances back at me a couple times, but whether she’s afraid of me, or the father’s Rosary “bit and bridle” are working like I figured, she stays in formation.

And Frank’s soul is squirming around down there in my talons. He knows what’s coming. I squeeze tighter. I could say it’s so I don’t drop him, but that’s bullshit. Whatever vengeance I missed on him when he was alive, I figure I can get in a couple licks before I tuck him safely in at the hotel Hell.

It seems like it only takes a few minutes. Might be more, the whole time thing is messing me up. But there’s no time to wonder, because the leader is through the bright light and his wings are cupped up like a duck landing on his favorite pond, and then the other one cups her wings too—sets up to land beside him.

They circle together and I cup hard to catch up. I can feel the crisp cut of the snowflakes as my wing feathers slice through the falling white. And there’s the mountain and the roof of the huge temple on top of it rotates open slowly, and the leader dives down and so does his wing-woman. Then I set my wings and drop in hard beside them.

Get ready for the show
, I think, because, “Surprise, mom, I’m home,” seems a little bit too risky. So until I figure out exactly what I’m going to do next, I tuck in behind the tail feathers of the other two and flutter to a soft landing behind them.

I didn’t notice them when we landed, but the grandstands in the shadows of the huge arena are packed. Only these fans are all clucking and screeching, and squawking and cawing like . . . well, like tens of thousands of angels. Millions is probably a better guess, because the place is stuffed like a turkey. Light, white, black, dingy gray, and when I look, there’s even some golden angels perched on rows of railing that encircle the entire stadium.

I can barely look at the golden ones, because they are so bright. But every one of them is flapping their steel wings, cawing like they are prepping for . . . war.

And as fast as the roof opened it closes, and the whole place goes black. Then a huge cone of light blasts the entire arena and I see her float out to the center.

There you are
. I look over at the father and he’s hugged so tightly to the back of his ride that you can barely tell he’s there. In fact, with his black clothes and jacket on, he kinda blends right in with her dark back feathers.

He looks at me and I smile and wink back at him. Then I lean over and whisper, “Careful what you wish for.”

And he squeezes his eyes shut, preparing for the worst. Freshly landed in the middle of the Hallowed Hall of the Word . . . safely tucked atop the Great Mountain of the Eternities . . . on the back of an angel in the Arena of Reckoning—I memorized all that shit— I bet he’s probably second-guessing how badly he wanted to know.

And I recite the passage in my head:
And high on the Great Mountain of the Eternities, in the Hallowed Hall of the Word: the Destiny of Souls, the Bread of Life and the Dark Angel of Light did know of their loins.

I must have read it ten times while Father Benito slept, before I figured it out.

I guess I got it right, because here we are, right at the beginning of his little red book, slipped in the back door to Heaven with the words he wrote. Well, not quite Heaven, but Purgatory is close enough.

As fast as I finish patting myself on the back, six golden angels scream from the sides of the hall and snatch the three souls at our feet and head back to the edge of the arena, into the shadows. I barely catch a glimpse of them as two golden angels each—one for each arm—shuttle the souls out little holes at the bottoms of each one of the grandstands. This place is like a huge football stadium—tunnels out to . . . somewhere.

And God—I know Life when I see her now—shines the cone of light in the center of the big arena—brighter than before. She’s definitely running the show. And she holds up both of her hands toward the crowd and then she speaks, “And I saw the dead, great and small, standing before the throne, and books were opened. Then another book was opened, which is the
Book of Life
. And the dead were judged by what was written in the books, according to what they had done.”

It’s easy to recognize scripture—incoherent babble—but the father is better at interpreting this crap than I am. I lean over toward him, as nonchalantly as I can. I really don’t give a fuck, though, because I’ve been here before. Or at least I dreamed I was here. Regardless, I whisper at him, “Father, open your eyes and get off that thing.”

I pry his trembling hands off his dove-angel steed, and then I tuck him and his beads under one of my wings. I need him close—that’s why he is here. Because if you are going to send a snag-and-bag team on an overseas mission, somehow I know you gotta have a linguist. More shit I gotta reconcile later.

I tilt my head down a little and whisper under my wing, “What’s she saying?”

He’s too terrified to talk or he doesn’t know. It takes a couple seconds before he whispers back—I can barely hear him, “Revelation, twenty-twelve—judgment.”

And when I look back up, two golden angels have dragged blonde-mommy’s soul back out from the tunnel, and they are holding her by the armpits and she’s wriggling and writhing, standing tall in front of “the man” . . . or woman, as the case may be. And I smile at her.
Sucks for you.

Then. . . I have no idea what to call her now. There’s a million names to choose from. While I’m finding one I like—

“No whoremonger. . .” she says. Then she hovers toward blonde-mommy.

And a murmur of clucking starts slowly building in the hall. They know what’s coming. Who doesn’t?

Life slowly continues, “. . .hath an inheritance in the kingdom of the Word.”

Now I find a name that makes me smile and seems pretty pertinent. I whisper under my wing to the father, “Then the Queen of Hearts said, ‘Off with her head.’ ”

I can feel him freaking out under there and an urgent whisper comes back from under my wing, “Stop doing that,” he says. “We are in deep—that’s Ephesians, five-five, adultery.”

“Then what are
you
worried about?”

He could be right, but if they’re dinging us all for adultery, half of humanity is fucked. So to speak.

And then there he is. The long-licker himself—the Dark Angel of Light—comes to the center of the arena, and then he growls at blonde-mommy’s soul.

She struggles in the two golden angels’ arms, but it is mouse against the mighty and she might as well settle in, because it’s going to be a long assfuck for her.

Then the Dark Angel says, “By the law of the Word, we of the second Heaven claim this soul for the kingdom of The Lion.”

And, fuck me running, if I didn’t see it myself I would call myself a liar, but blonde-mommy sprouts deep rusted-orange colored wings. They rip apart her back and she’s screaming and moaning and the crowd goes apeshit. And a roar of cawing and clucking rumbles the arena grandstands until it feels like it shakes the whole mountain. Then raw, rusty, steel feathers sprout from everywhere but her face. And quicker than she can get used to her new bondage outfit, a third golden angel flies in from the side of the arena with a— “Holy shit,” I try to whisper it under my wing to the father, but it comes out a little louder than I wanted.

And blonde-mommy’s soul screeches out a hideous cry, so loud that everyone in the grandstands gasps out a huge coo.

Now the father is like a prisoner with a hood over his head, more afraid because he has no clue what’s going on out here. “Wh—what was that?”

“They just branded the living shit out of her,” I tell him.

I watch molten steel feathers fall away from blonde-mommy’s lower back, and she’s got a new glowing-red, demonic tramp stamp. And in a flash, the two golden angels that were holding her up, flap her limp body away. I watch her glowing back and flopping wings as far as I can, then the three of them disappear into the dark shadows of the other end of the arena. And she’s gone—out the exit—probably prepping for a little fun with her two new pimps.

And I can’t help thinking to myself, if they just put this stuff on the PIN, we’d probably all stand up straight and start spouting the party line. It’s damn sure beating back the flames of my overblown thirst for revenge.

And I’m involuntarily bobbing my head, waiting for Frank’s turn. But little Mercedes is next and they drag her to center arena. The gold-winged jailers—doesn’t take much to recognize the lapdogs of authority—tug at her arms as she squirms, waiting for her judgment. And, judging by the clucks and caws coming from the flocks on both sides of the grandstands, it feels like it could go either way for her.

I can’t help thinking that at this pace, the place could never keep up with the flow of dead souls being flown in from the garden. It’s like a meatpacking plant with only one butcher. And then I remember my own experience, my own fall. In and out of time—speeding up, slowing down, and back and forth from dream to reality. Time is relative. Gotta be, only way they could keep up.

“For if you forgive others,” the “Queen” says to the crowd, “your heavenly mother will also forgive you.”

And a murmur of cooing in agreement grumbles forth from both sides of the grandstands, before it dies back down to low clucking, and then to silence. They all know that chapter and verse.

And I hear a whisper from under my wing. No idea what the father says. When I don’t reply, he says it louder, “It’s heavenly
Father.
Book of Matthew. They can’t just change—”

“Don’t lose your head,” I whisper back to him, “our turn’s coming.”

He never even thought of that. And now he’s dead silent. I hope he can keep it together for the main event.
I’m gonna have to reread the Bible
, I think,
so I can figure this shit out myself.

Trouble with bringing along a linguist, when the shooting starts, there’s not much use for them.

When two of the golden guardian angels. . . They give a whole new meaning to that one—guess we interpreted that shit wrong, too.

The gold-feathered jailers drag Frank’s soul out in front of her, I can tell what Mercedes has to do to save herself. But forgiveness must be a tough order, because she gets enraged when she sees him and starts thrashing and fighting the two guardians that are holding her up. And I wonder. I mean, it’s a little too much protesting over an asshole dad. It has to be something else. And sure, the guy is an evil fuck, and I’m more than ready to watch him burn. . .

And the whole stadium can smell it on him and the cawing and screeching starts like a wave through the gallery. The cawing is the loudest and I figure out that most of that is coming from the dark angels, maybe some of the gray ones, too. The screeching is the white and gray angels, screaming for judgment.

And the Queen of Hearts’ hands come up and the roaring caws and screeches die down and then they stop, and a low scraping and squeaking sound of metal feathers bristling, replaces it.

The father peeks his head out from under my wing . . . ever so gently. Probably curious about what caused the silence. I don’t think he can see anything, though, because I’m a couple of feet taller as an angel and there’s a crowd in front of us.

I can smell the fear on him—the smell of piss wafts into my nostrils. And I notice that a couple of other angels start jerking their heads around and putting their noses to the air. They smell him, too.

Too early
. Oh, what the fuck, I could go at any time, but I wanna watch Frank’s face when they judge him.

Throwing a bastard’s bimbo out a window—pretty good. Sending her little coke-head brat after her—better. Watching the look on your daughter’s tormentor when he realizes he can’t buy his way out of Hell—priceless.

And I smile toward the center of the arena—at him and her. However I came to be what I am, right now, I’m pretty proud of myself. And I can’t help chuckling—hell, I don’t want to—this shit is just fun. Like I said, savor the small moments.

Then the Queen of Hearts speaks again, “None of you shall approach to any that is near of kin to him . . . to uncover their nakedness.”

And there it is.
His own daughter?
Guess I had that father thing figured wrong, but the trouble with ultimate power and wealth, you get bored with everything. Pretty soon, they “do” anything . . . and anyone for entertainment. And I’m giddy thinking of what they are going to do to him now, because if that doesn’t buy some blood, I don’t know what does.

And the father mutters, “Hypocrite.”

This is no time for
Bible
camp, but it’s hard to ignore that one. “Whoa, calm down,” I whisper down to him. “What are you talking about? That’s incest, he’s toast.”

As far as I know, the rules are pretty clear on that. Then again, what exactly do I know, and I remember her reaction to me questioning her authority.