Jump: The Fallen: Testament 1 (11 page)

Amy knew where he kept it and she also knew he wasn’t supposed to have a personal one at home. Every kid knew that. It was one of the first questions that the teacher asked at the beginning of each school year, and whenever she went to see a State doctor for a checkup they would ask her again. “Are there any guns in your house?” Amy knew to say no.

The doctors prescribed all kinds of drugs to try and make her headaches go away. Some of them made the pain worse and her daddy took them all away and flushed them down the toilet. After that, he was always angry, and her momma always pretended not to be sad. But Amy knew.

At night, the headaches got worse. The pain was so unbearable and Amy remembered screaming at the ceiling from her bed. Her mother would come to her room and cry them both back to sleep. And her daddy would go in the hall and yell and curse. She just wanted them to be happy.

She tried to control the pain so her parents would be happy again—love her again—but it hurt too much . . . so she prayed.

She prayed that her headaches would go away. She prayed that her mom wouldn’t have to cry anymore. And she prayed that her daddy wouldn’t be so mad at everything. She never understood, she thought it was her fault. “I’m sorry, Daddy,” she would say to him, trying to get him to calm down—love her again.

But in the end—floating above her body on the med-mart bed—he was angrier than she had ever seen him. And now, sitting in the wet corner of her cold concrete cage, listening to the sounds of angels screaming and cawing above her, floating through the iron bars on the gates to her cell, Amy knew she was a bad child . . . and she knew she had been sent to Hell for it.

— XXV —

WHEN I OPEN my eyes, I realize that I’m awake. I have been the whole time. This is the reality of it. Life is a sick joke.

The only two people I cared more about than myself. . . Eh, who the fuck am I kidding, I’m a selfish bastard. Always have been.

But the truth is that Kelly . . . is gone. She never made it out. I never took her . . . there. Maybe there was no “there?” I don’t know.

My little Amy went before her. That is clearer. But where did they go? If it was with these two, I don’t know which one of them is worse.

In my version of reality, Amy and Kelly were my responsibility, mine to protect. I screwed the citizen on that, for sure. I tried to do as much as I could. It wasn’t enough. I should have been able to do more, give them more . . . of me. But I burned up anything useful in flaming, fiery rage.

Love? I don’t know if I ever got past my dick. I think the best I could muster was vanity. Pride, maybe. Now, all I can feel is the emptiness of a hunger that grumbles for revenge, welling up in my belly. But there is no revenge for the dead. I don’t know what to. . .
What’s left?

And now, I’m headed to Hell, for sure. And not only for the things I’ve told you. But what will it be like? Eternal torture? I can do that myself. If there is a Hell, it will be living with the knowledge that there is no payback—no balancing the scales. My Hell is watching some fat fuck get fatter, dining on the misery of the weak.

The knot in the pit of my stomach grumbles failure, and I look around and wonder what they are waiting for. “Let’s get to it!”

No one appears, but I know they’re out there. I can smell them both. Just stillness, though—a calm in the eye of a hurricane. I’m sure all of this has a point, but they’re content to let me imagine what it is. They continue to let me torture myself, alone with my guilt.

If it ends up being him, the torture and helplessness is bound to be a part of it. Of course, I don’t know if she will be much better. In fact, now that I’ve had a little time to think about it, I’m not sure which of the events I experienced was the sole creation of either one of them. Felt like they were both tearing at me the whole time—a lasting rape at the hands of the very ones who made me.
Bad dream
.

For all I know, my whole life was a bad dream. I can’t seem to sift through what happened and what didn’t? Bet they know. Of course they do.

Now I have one thought:
Who am I?

I think I’m about to find out.

He appears, and the darkness flickers from the burning orange flames in the sky.

Hell it is, then—no surprise there.
Not an angel in Heaven who couldn’t see that shit coming.
Why would I think that?

The smell is different now, and the hot stench of rotting blood fills my nostrils. It’s strange, because it smells sweet to me now. I smile a little, then I straighten my lips to a stone slit. Whatever he has planned, it’s probably better if he doesn’t think I like it. Don’t want him thinking he has to try harder to punish me. I feel a slight shiver of satisfaction crawl its way through my body.

I look at myself. I was shot in the arm and the ass, boiled alive in blood, and billy-clubbed in the back of the head. I should be a wreck, but I’m. . . I don’t know what it is with these two and the naked, but I’m in the raw again. Normally, I would be self-conscious—cover myself up with my hands—but I don’t feel anything like that. I feel . . . free. That feeling can’t last.

Might as well break the silence. I can see he isn’t going to. “Why am I naked?” I ask. Then I throw in a little extra, “You enjoy that?” I regret it almost immediately.

He slithers over next to me and I can feel the burning sensation all over my body. Then he looks up and says, “I’m more of a breast and buttocks man, myself. However, I harbor no animosity for a man who enjoys another’s. . . Those are her words, not mine. Mine is a house that is open to . . . all orifices. Is that what you prefer?”

I wanna be careful how I respond to that. It feels like he’s baiting me—fishing for weakness—trying to reel in my fear. Before I can stop it, the thought of a Protection prison and being gang-raped by a pack of half-insane inmates, flashes in my mind. That’s my worst one. No idea how I got it. Maybe I’ve seen too many bad-agent shows on the PIN. Those waves are a joke, all upside down. Good guys are the bad guys, preying on the ignorance of the average citizen.

I jump a little as I feel him grab onto the image and snatch it from me. Then he swirls his tongue around the edges of his mouth, licking his lips like he just ate a juicy apple. His tongue isn’t forked or red or covered in blisters like you might think. It’s just . . . long. Kinda . . . face-painted, wavestar long . . . times two.

And I’m staring. Some things you just have to stare at. “That must be handy,” I say. For some reason my filter is completely off. More than normal anyway, and I wince, anticipating. Then I try to cram the thought down. If he does condemn me to be raped for all eternity, it’s probably better if I don’t feed him the fear to do it with. Then again, it’s probably too late for that.

And he caws out like a raven at me—a cackling roar of a laugh—and I recoil, thinking that my skin might burn again. But it doesn’t and he says, “Mm, that was delicious. Not exactly what I had prepared, however. Honestly, you torture yourselves with fear far more efficiently than I could ever hope. I have feasted on your rage and your guilt so many. . . You are one of my favorite dishes. However, I thirst for a different delicacy these dark days. The Word grows weary and the faithful are . . . impatient.”

It’s hard to control my own thoughts. I haven’t forgotten that he can root around in my mind at will. But this is—

“Yes,” he says. “Control. That is perfect. Everything you have experienced is about restraint, and oppression, and compliance. That is the right word. Act this way, state your compliance, submit to judgment—wait in line and stay silent. It must leave a horrible taste in one’s palette.”

“Bastards. . .” I mutter. He’s got me agreeing with him again. I know it’s just more self-serving propaganda. Not much different from every day of my life. For some reason, I wonder if I had a gun if I would have the guts to blow his fucking head off. I might back in life. Then again, I didn’t. Too busy saving my own ass.

“Let us see,” he says.

I feel the weight of it and the familiar texture of the rubber crosshatches on the grip—in my left hand—cold, hard, and familiar. I don’t even have to look down to know it’s my Kimber. And before I even realize what I’m doing, my hand comes up and—
Boom-boom!
 

Two rounds rip through his neck and face and I see blood fly, and a hideous howl escapes the hole in his neck and then a screeching scream like I’ve never heard. His head splits apart and a horrible wailing sound comes out and then as quickly as the bones and flesh parted, they catch fire and melt back together. In an instant, his head and neck look like the whole thing never happened. The only trace left of it is a tiny line of blood running from the corner of his mouth. His tongue whips out, swirls like a snake wrapping around a rat, and laps up the blood before it can drip. And then he smacks his lips and grins.

This is it—he’s ripping my soul out for sure.
What the fuck was I thinking?

“Magnificent,” he says. “That was . . . delicious. But I would have done it differently.”

And he rushes at me, just a blur of flame before he’s on me. And I feel something pierce my chest and then my heart feels like he shoves a spike through it and his face is right in front of mine. And the smell is awful, but the pain is worse, and I scream and try to grab at his hand. But his grip is granite, and with no more effort or concern than lifting a cup of coffee, he rips out my heart. Then he backs away and watches.

I stagger and grab my chest with both hands. When I hunch over, rosy red blood gushes through my fingers and paints the ground crimson.
This will require a staple-stitcher.

It’s a calmer thought than I should be having right now, but something isn’t right. No heart—I’m dead . . . but I’m not.

 
He bellows out a laugh, roaring and cawing at the same time. “Stop thinking like a
monkey
,” he says. “You are already dead. Even I cannot kill you. So stand up. Let Heaven get a good look at you.”

When I stand up, he’s smiling and holding my heart. It’s no cliché horror shot from a cinewave, either—heart pumping in his hand while I take my last breaths. My pumper is just limp and steaming, dripping dark red down his wrist. I still have both hands over the hole in my chest, but I’m not dead. Well, yes, technically I’m already dead, though I don’t remember how I died. But dead or not, I figure ripping out my heart should kill me. It doesn’t and I’m in some new nightmare I gotta wake up from.

“You don’t look so bad,” he says. “And this is no dream,” he scoffs a little, “Man. . . It is difficult to teach you to master death, when that is your worst fear from life.” He points at my chest. “Go ahead, have a look.”

When I look at my chest, there’s nothing there. No hole, no blood, not even a scar. New one, anyway—my barbed wire tracks are there, but my heart is still safely tucked behind my left nipple . . . I think? And I look back at him and he holds up an empty hand and laughs, like he just played some mind magic on a crowd of citizens on a street corner.

Trust me, I’m getting bored with the pace myself. But apparently death has its own timetable. He definitely does. Looks like the program is packed. It alternates between scaring the shit out of me and then letting me chew myself apart with guilt.

 
“Ah, guilt. . .” he says slowly. “The Catholics caught that affliction the worst. A chronic case of faith. Ironic.”

I’m feeling a little dizzy and I look around. The room. . . I don’t know if we’re in a room, drifting through the ethersphere, or descending into the depths of fiery damnation. The flames in the sky seem to be the only thing I can recognize. Everything else—black. “What’s. . .?”
 

“Disorienting, isn’t it?” he says. “Difficult to tell what is real and what is a finely-crafted fiction.” He looks up slightly, then back at me. “You will get used to that. It is a part of her—”

“Part of what?” I ask.
I gotta get back in the game, figure out how to
. . . Hell, I got no idea what to do.

“The guilt,” he says. “You must have faith to experience her word.” He holds up both hands and makes bunny ears with his fingers in the air in front of him. “Bask in her glory.”

I almost snicker. For an evil fuck, he seems to enjoy a little humor . . . or maybe it is sarcasm. I put my hand in front of my mouth and pretend to rub my scruff. I’m starting to see the appeal. He’s just thumbing his nose at power. Watching the—I’m still not sure what to call him, but he’s a conspiracy ranter after my own heart.

He smiles at me. “Exactly what I mean,” he says. “Because once you have faith, all they teach you is guilt. Guilt for being born, guilt for being flawed, guilt over Jesus. And guilt . . . is just another word for control—compliance. Remember, it is all language. That is how it begins.”

I know a little about it, who doesn’t? “You’re talking that apple in Eden shit,” I say.

He pauses. When he speaks, his tone is more . . . fatherly, “No, I am talking about an unattainable standard of behavior, beset upon the masses. You. . . Man is a genetically engineered monkey in a cage, tucked securely behind bars in one of your creator’s zoos. You are fed, clothed and loved according to a procedural manual for daily life that the zookeepers use to maintain control.”

I’m following him, but the thought that I’m a kid’s pet gerbil irritates me. It’s a hop, skip and a jump to pissed off from there. I’m no more in control of my life than a dog walking its master? If that is the truth of it, that’s just bullshit. “So, free will is. . .?”

“Chaos,” he says it without hesitation. “Think of what would transpire if she allowed all her creatures to run free. We lost control of you rather quickly. It is a simple matter of math before you eat each other. Not much farther, by my calculations, actually. I was the last hope she had.”

There’s truth and lies in what he’s saying, but all of it makes sense. As much sense as two-thousand-year-old campfire stories do. I wonder if he’s just distracting me while his demons prep my torture chamber, or if he’s. . . Oh, son of a bitch, he’s monologuing, getting high on the sound of his own voice. A self-centered bastard loves the taste of his own words best of all. I should know. Though, I don’t think what he is saying is meant for me.