Jump: The Fallen: Testament 1 (7 page)

“Daddy,” my little Amy cries and screams, “I can’t make it stop!”

Before the shots, Amy was the sweetest little vanilla-frosted cupcake you ever saw. She used to kiss me on the cheek and say, “Daddy, it’s gonna be a great day!” I never had the heart to tell her any different.

After the second injection, the blinding headaches started and her eyes sunk in from the insomnia. She tried to keep her smile, but I could tell that there was always pain behind it.

I know there’s nothing I can do. The State doctors were clear on that. As helpful as a canker sore on my dick. “Ride it out.” I should call the bastards at home right now and let them listen. Better yet, pay them a little oh-three-hundred visit. And the rage is back—always there when I need it.

“Mom?” Amy says. She’s in pain, but somehow she’s figured out how to bring it down and endure it. I’ve seen that tactic before, but if it was me, I’d be shooting at the walls or some other ridiculous shit.

And Kelly scoots around me and sits down on the bed next to Amy. Poor kid—thirteen, just starting Second Ed Compliance. Now, this shit.

“Butchers,” I say.

“That won’t help,” says Kelly. “And now’s not the time, just . . . let me handle it.”

And I’m back out the door and in the hall, pacing, searching for someone to choke. But there isn’t anyone. Just a hidden system of lies and money. I found that out later.

“Cancer shot,” the school nurse told my baby. As if that existed. You don’t think if there was such a thing we wouldn’t all be lining up at the nearest State Med-Mart to get it. Never mind that she was marked as non-participating exempt. They fucked up and put her on trial anyway. Gave her judgment she should have never had.

Damn company didn’t even have to get our permission to give it to her. Twelve-year-old little girl and they shot her up with drugs that she didn’t need. But that was the law, that’s how they liked to work it. If the people are too smart to swallow your lies, cram the pills down their throats with the law.

You can bet your ass that the drug company’s prime officer wasn’t shooting his own daughter up with that crap. And you can bet she doesn’t have blinding headaches every night either. She’s probably on the beach in Cancun, partying it up with her friends like a teenage girl should do with her daddy’s money. Only his money was made by bribing State politicians to pass laws to stick needles in everyone else’s kids.

The ranting anger is back—I don’t think it’ll ever die—eating away at my soul like real cancer. I guess they’re still working on a shot for that. And the rage wants to go somewhere, do something. Shove a gun in someone’s mouth and watch them cry and beg to be saved. Like my baby’s crying and begging behind that door.

Guns. . . That’s what they are good for. In case you were wondering. That’s what they’ve always been good for. Level the playing field. Touch the untouchable. Drag the people responsible out in the shit-streaming street with the rest of us . . . and blow their brains out.

“Whoever you are,” I say, “I’m done with this, because unless you got some way to bring her back, this is old news. She’s. . .”

I can’t even say the word. Couldn’t say it to the compliance therapist either. Neither could anyone else in that pointless pity-party they called grief relief. “Passed away” . . . “moved on” . . . “better place,” my ass. Growing up, having friends, falling in love—that’s a better place! Body in a garbage bin and then burned to ashes is no place for a kid.

— XVII —

“HE’S RIGHT, YOU know,” Dal said to Life. Then he smiled at the gallery. “Doing that to children, it is shameful.”

“You cannot believe this,” Life said. “You think she would fare better in the lake of fire?”

Dal cawed a little, chuckling. “How is she faring?”

“She is fine,” said Life. “She’s . . . special. And she is loved.” She left her response at that.

“Are we not all special?” said Dal. “Ah, to have lived life and loved.” He said it that way on purpose. “Well, how marvelous for her. It is a wonderful warmth, I know. However,
he
loves her. What consideration does that warrant?”

“He can choose to be with her again.”

Dal frowned. “He has chosen.”

“I give unto him eternal life,” she said. “Should he choose, he shall never perish.”

“Yet, no man shall pluck himself from under your hand,” Dal said. “Unless they have rewritten it again, I believe that is still forbidden, correct? So many rules. There really is no way for them to obey all of them, you know.”

“They must simply pursue the path laid before them.”

“Your path is rife with quicksand,” said Dal. “You realize, they forged their own kingdoms with the iron of your words. Words so complicated and rules so vast that no man can hope to understand them, much less obey their covenants. They enact laws and enforcement exactly as you do. And when they break them—stumble as men do—they suffer, many times greatly. But you . . . you offer them the severest punishment of all. You give them to me. How are you able to. . .? Had I not lived to see it. . .”

Life’s silence conveyed the truth. And before she could find a convenient explanation—

“Yes, I suspected as much,” said Dal. “Shall we proceed, then? This one should not be overly difficult.”

— XVIII —

IF THERE IS someone watching, they aren’t listening, because I endure Amy’s screaming until it stops. But when I open her door, I’m sucked through and then I’m falling again. This time, face down, watching the ground rocket up at me.

I try to close my eyes, but I can’t. Apparently, I have to watch myself splatter. Whoever it is, they’ve got a sick sense of humor. This fast . . . won’t be pretty. It won’t last long either. I imagine everything going black.

What did you think this would look like?

By now, I know that’s not a voice in my head. Well, it is . . . but it’s not mine.

“Show yourself,” I say, “coward son of a bitch!”

Then I smell it. A putrid, coppery scent of decay, but also a hint of . . . syrup? And baking cookies? But for some reason both of them smell like the overpowering aroma of . . . death.

Then everything gets dark, and the rain is coming down hotter now, and there is fire in the sky. And I close my eyes, because the heat is oppressive, but really, it’s because I’m afraid to look. If this is who I think, it’s just . . . not possible. Everything else is gonna feel like lube. This will be the final ass-raping in a world that is truly fucked.

Then everything stops. No more fall and no more rain. Just darkness and flames in the sky. And then he’s just . . . there.

“Bitch,” he says. “Very colorful . . . however, my mother. . . Hmm, let’s just say. . . There really is no way to prepare you for it, is there? Ah, spoiling the surprise, like telling your children about Santa Claus, I imagine. Makes me positively . . . giddy.”

His voice sounds like a grandfather. But the sound is loud and feels like it’s coming from inside my head, infecting my brain. If it wasn’t for the red wings and dark red feathers covering everything but his face, I’d say he looked like a State politician. And when he smiles, he looks
just
like one. Little, baby-harp-seal-colored teeth that look like he just ate an infant for the cameras. Not how I pictured him at all.

I blurt it out without thinking. “Where’s your tail?” I ask. Then I feel a shiver go through my whole body, but he should have a tail, right? And horns? He is red, I guess, so at least the God-dogs got that right. If it is. . .? That’s just crazy—I’m hallucinating. I hope Kelly wipes the carrots off my chin, because this . . . this is just a ghost story they tell to try and keep us compliant. Most people have stopped listening. But deep in the back of our minds . . . when we think about death, it's hard not to be afraid of judgment and damnation.

“I had it cropped,” he says, and his smile makes me think he’s only half-joking.

I think I lean to see behind him, but I’m feeling . . . fuzzy, so maybe it's something else. “Nice . . . wings.” I say it, but it feels like I’m talking in slow motion, watching someone else speak for me. Hope he doesn’t get me killed. The wings are . . . beautiful, is the only way I can describe them, but I never imagined him as. . . I mean, the guy looks like a dark red angel.

His laugh echoes through the emptiness. It’s maniacal and goosebumps prickle my whole body. My nostrils burn a little when I smell his breath. It’s confident and . . . final, a bit like the smoke after the last fireworks on a Fourth of Freedom barbecue. He’s definitely not where the molasses and cookie smell came from.

“Ah,” he says, “the stories they tell you.”
 

It’s weird, because it feels kinda like meeting the Prime Officer of the huge corporation you work for—I’m just trying not to make a mistake and he’s wondering how many credits I cost him, or why the hell I'm on the revenue-rolls at all.

And he’s smiling like he just figured out a joke he was working on. I don’t think I wanna know the punchline.

I should be afraid, but all I feel is . . . anger. “Apparently, they aren’t stories,” I say.

“Yes . . . however,” he says. Then he stops, cocks his head to the side a little and sniffs in a blast of air.

For a second the heat subsides, but when he breathes out through his mouth, I smell the warmth of . . . souls? The sound of wailing women, chained in agony, rushes past my face and I can smell the torment on his breath. Believe me, I know what misery smells like. But there’s something else, too . . . understanding. I can see it in his eyes.

“You ever tell stories, Jake?” he asks.

He knows my name. Santa Claus? Shit, I’m on the naughty list. We’re off to a bad start on that. I’m sure he knows I’ve told my fair share of stories. What else is there to do in a Protection smoke . . . other than drink shitty coffee?

“Yes,” he says. Then he smiles so I can see all of his teeth. “I am sure you have.”

His teeth are perfectly aligned, but they are . . . unnatural. Like an old cinewave star who’s had too much dental work. How he keeps them from being bloodstained red from all the— “Why are your teeth so white?” The questions are coming out too easy. I guess I’m curious. Anyway, I’m not going anywhere, so I might as well get some answers. Sure, the fear and the fog in my mind are fucking with me, but there must be a reason he hasn’t just eaten my soul by now. If that’s what they do.

He rolls his eyes around a little. Kinda like he’s trying not to be impatient. His sockets are deep, but the eyes . . .
light blue?
“I like that about you,” he says.

“What?”

He folds his hands together, slowly weaving his long fingers, alternating one then another like he’s wrapping them around a bat. He grips them together like he’s done it a billion times, threatening me without saying anything. Silence is the best way to scare the shit out of someone. The results are better than yelling.

Maybe it
is
just for effect . . . or maybe he wants to bash out my brains. Whatever he’s thinking, he keeps smiling, letting me imagine all the things he could do to me.

“You are smart,” he says. “You are terrified, but you realize it is better to appear calm—a good contrivance, poker face. No, I’m not eating souls and ripping flesh apart any longer. I have no need for that. You are being tortured enough by life.” And he looks up into the air briefly and when he looks back down he’s got a grin like . . . I don’t even know what. “You are far more efficient than I ever was. Those are tales, nothing more. Remember?”

“Well. . .” I struggle for the words. I know where this game ends. He’s toying with me—cat playing with his meal. “This must get . . . boring.”

“You have no idea,” he says. “But my time is limited. Lots of work to do, you know . . . so, stories.”

There’s a ray of truth in his words. What does he want? “Stories about the Dev—” I say it without thinking, but he cuts me off, then his face turns angry.

“There’s no call to be vulgar!” he roars. Then he calms himself back down.

Interrogation 101. Shit.

He has a scowl on his face. “That word,” his voice is down to a low growl now, “so . . . negative.” He fakes a shiver on purpose. “Like saying . . . ‘guns,’ I imagine. No need to call someone evil, just say that they have an affinity for firearms. Then they
are
evil. Hah, ignorance, my favorite. Yet, I like them. One of your better inventions, actually.”

Him, liking guns? I can imagine the Protection PR campaign on the PIN now: “Guns—Hell’s Christday present.” But, I never thought about the language part of it. I guess you say “Jew” in the wrong tone long enough, pretty soon . . .

“Yes, exactly,” he says, “language, how I love it! Distorting, inflammatory . . . eviscerating. It is all language. That’s how you pervert the truth. Nothing is inherently good or evil. The line dividing them cuts through the hearts of every being. You know this is true. You can use a weapon to protect or you can use it to blow an innocent baby’s brains out. But the weapon isn’t evil, it’s the fist that wields it.” He pauses for a second, letting the truth of it sink in, I guess. But I think he likes the sound of his own voice, because that doesn’t last long. “In the same way, my name means what you’ve been told it does—evil, treachery, defiance. But . . . what if that’s
not
the truth.”

“Preaching to the choir,” I say. I know he’s playing me, telling me what I want to hear. Trouble is, it’s working. It
is
what I want to hear. I want to talk to someone who hasn’t lost their ability to think. Too bad I have to go this far to find him. “Is this where you make me the offer I can’t refuse?” I ask. “Because I’ve had a rough day and I’m in no mood.” I wince the tiniest bit after I say—no idea who I’m messing with.

He ignores me. “You’ve played the game,” he says. “With spirits and flame and lust in the air.”

I know what he’s referring to. We were all animals. “What of it?”

“That’s how it happens,” he says. “The truth, the lie . . . the Word. Someone—many of them in this case, actually. They whisper a little story in someone’s ear. Then that person whispers it to the next person. Then they decide to write books about it. And then—”