Jump: The Fallen: Testament 1 (13 page)

Nothing ever is.

Whatever I think about the sons-a-bitches running things back in life, this guy is a devious bastard. Working for him. . .? Come to think of it, I guess I’ve had worse bosses. I grind the idea in my mind, while we stare at each other. First guy who blinks. . . I guess being a soldier in Hell is probably better than being ripped apart by one of them.

But then I remember something. Maybe he
can’t
take me yet. Something he said, slithering the truth in with the lies. He’s just like a State politician, licking a baby—he couldn’t care less about the shutter op, what he wants is the vote. Something about “tempting.”

Then I figure it out. I look up and ask her, “And what are
you
offering?”

When I look back at him, he seems a little dejected. Like his mommy just told him they aren’t stopping for ice-cake at the mike after all. “Smart monkey,” he says. “Verrry smart.”

And then he’s gone.

— XXVI —

EVERYTHING TURNS BRIGHT, as the darkness opens up, and the sun shines down in my eyes. And a radiant circle of light descends from above me. Then she appears again, right where he was.

I can barely look at her, she’s so blinding, a circle of light with wings on each side of it. Then the bright subsides a bit. “Hello, Jake,” her voice is still warm, but there is a touch of annoyance on her face now, a slight curl of disgust in her lips.

But I’m starting to feel one of my moods coming, and “hostage negotiation” is getting old. “Well . . . that was a—”

“I apologize for his . . . behavior,” she says. “I fear he is disappointed with me . . . to a certain extent.”

I can’t help it. She’s a woman and I’m staring again. But like I said, the worst that can happen is—

“It is not the worst thing,” she says.

The words are angelic, as if I even know what that means. With him it felt like fire and searing flesh when he spoke, but with her—kinda like that calm about two minutes after you have an orgasm. I know it shouldn’t be, but that is what’s in my head. I try to get my filter put back on, but that’s not the feeling I have. This feeling is—

“I gave you this same feeling in the garden,” she says. “Comfort and confidence, and love without fear. You lived as I meant for you to. Without shame and without guilt.”

“But. . .” I’m trying hard to bring this to a more intellectual conversation. Though I have no idea why. Maybe it’s the feeling that no matter what he can do to me, whatever wrath she rains down on me from Heaven will be worse. “So why all the shame and guilt . . . and insecurity? And the assholes—the murderers and the rapists? How did we get this messed up?”

The shiny, black orbs she has for eyes glow a little and I find myself staring into them. It’s kinda like I could get sucked right into them. They take getting used to, but I’m thankful they’re giving me something else to stare at besides her breasts. Damnation for gawking at God—add it to the list.

She catches the thoughts, because a touch of annoyance flashes across her face. “Free will,” she says. “After the garden, I realized I was not able to protect you. You would have to fend for yourselves. Of all my creations, you have been the most . . . difficult.”

That’s more politician-speak for, “You little shits are driving me nuts down there.”

But I wanna get right to it. “So . . . we’re just a zoo?”

She pauses before she answers. Then she says, “That is an oversimplification. One, I fear, that he does not represent very accurately.”

The banter with him was about all I can take. My mind is twisted up enough right now. Swapping semantics with God is only going to make things worse. “That’s not denial,” I say. “So we
are
a zoo.”

She pauses in silence and continues to flutter and hover in front of me. Looks like she’s trying to figure out how to explain where babies come from to a five-year-old. At least it feels more pleasant. I can smell the molasses and baking cookies again.

“I am love and I am joy and I am happiness,” she says. “And those can only exist when they are shared with another. I created you to do just that.”

The thoughts just fly out,
But how does the baby get out of your belly, momma? And whose belly were you in, for that matter?
And I wince a little. I’m sure she heard that.

She smiles. It’s what all parents do when they are stalling for time. Time to figure out how to educate without damaging their children’s innocence. In the end, they all opt for some version of the truth involving a gap in the story and a fairy.

“And Cain knew his wife, and she conceived?” I ask. Sure, I read the
Bible
. What else are you gonna do in church while the guy guilt-fucks you to death? But I could never make head nor tails of it. And I know, but I ask anyway, “So where did Cain’s wife come from?”

She is not amused, and I can tell that I’ve struck a chord, the wrong one. And her hair turns gray again and, all merciful or not, that just pissed her off. But she does a good job of turning her locks back to a shimmering white. I know how I do it too, but I wonder what anger management techniques God must use. Controlling wrath, bet that’s a royal bitch.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “It was—I’m just. . . Ya know, it’s been a crazy day . . . I’m a little edgy . . . the Hell thing.” I’m stumbling on myself now—over-apologizing. Better to ask forgiveness, I always say. Sometimes it is.

“For us all,” she says.

And that’s it, she’s telling me not to do it again without actually saying it. Less is more. Okay, I got it. “So. . .”

“My offer is this,” she says. She’s done explaining, now it’s the gory truth. Any interest she had in shooting the shit with one of her children went out the door when I questioned her authority. “You may reunite with Amy in my bosom and join the angels in Heaven. I ask that you repent for your sins and the sins you have caused. And swear faith to defend. . .”

She goes on for a little more, but to be honest she lost me at seeing Amy. And then there was the “bosom” thing, and I had to tune out for fear that I might piss her off again. Something tells me that splayed out for him is nothing compared to the wrath I’ve only read about from her. One thing I do notice—she never says a word about Kelly. Why is she so willing to forgive me—give me a second chance—and not Kelly? That doesn’t make sense.

I think I interrupt her, “And Kelly?”

Sadness falls across her face and whatever anger she might have harbored has turned to a kind of empathy. At least that’s what I imagine it to look like, because it’s like she’s examining a broken leg on her kid’s pony, wondering how to explain that she’s going to have to shoot it.

“Nothing you can do, huh?” I ask. “I . . . I just don’t get it.”

She thinks about it, hovering and staring at me. “Her fate is written. Kelly has already been judged. Once it is written, only he can change it.”

“But . . . you are God?”

“What you believe to be is not the entire truth,” she says. As if that clears things up. “I am The Chosen One of this eternity and I have created all. Yet the Word is the word, and it shall not be unwritten.”

Yep, just like the
Bible
—gobbledygook. “Eye for an eye” and “turn the other cheek,” contradictory bullshit. And now I’m snapped back to pissed. It doesn’t take much—there’s no meds in Purgatory . . . or wherever we are. “So you’re saying that you created everything, but you can’t save one angel from Hell? . . . And the Devil can?”

It’s a mistake, a bad one. And before I even finish the thought, I know I’ve chosen.

FEAR

— XXVII —

THAT PROTECTION AGENT—the PAIC on the roof with his big .60 caliber. . . He had another team waiting down on the street. Not the only thing I didn’t see coming today, I guess. Damn sure not the worst.

They are idling and crouching in a black van, double-parked in the middle of the street. And another team of six—three agents at each end—are diverting traffic around the whole block.
Six—always six
, I think.

The ones in the van are the same ones that followed me. They’re locked and loaded in case I somehow fluttered my way out of the claws of the team in the building. They’re sitting there, shooting the shit and waiting for orders, when I slam into the roof of the van.
Surprise!

I think the driver shits himself when the top of the van caves in on him, because there’s a nasty ass-smell assaulting my nostrils. But he doesn’t have time to worry about it—he’s dead an instant later. Come to think of it, maybe the smell is me, my body anyway. I had to be doing about a hundred miles an hour—terminal velocity or something.

Apparently, though you might not have a cardiac on the way down, you could very well shit your pants. Just a little FYI for the next time. And I tuck the thought away and get back to it.

There’s screaming and yelling from the van, and the rest of them pile out the back doors, cussing, barking orders, and firing their MP-7’s at anything they think might be a threat.

Couple of unlucky citizens get riddled with bullets in the process and they are flailing around in the crosswalk, screaming for help, bleeding the last ounces of their “freedom” onto the street. No salvation for the slaves today. And then the agents take up positions on the sidewalk and try to figure out what the hell just hit them.

Feels like I can see and smell and . . . feel them all at once. Five little black rats now, scurrying around, looking for a reason to shoot someone else. Feels like I’m floating above it, because I can see my body, too—guts and brains splattered all over the place, like someone threw a pizza at a speeding med-mart evacuation vehicle. And blood is dripping out of the driver’s door. At least I got one of them.

And I’ll be a son of a bitch,
I think,
I did shit my pants.
For some reason I think that’s funny and I’m laughing. Maybe there is some humor in the middle of all this crap. No pun intended, mind you, because this is just a shitty mess. Guess I'll find out soon enough, because this is death. The real deal this time—blood and screaming and confusion and pain. And then . . . I’m over.

And I’m back with him. But he doesn’t seem too happy to see me. That smug, soul-eating grin is a little more tentative now. And I don’t feel the fear I had during our last little chat. Now it kinda feels the other way around. He looks like I did—a little worried he might say the wrong thing and I’ll tear out
his
heart. And I’m curious, but he isn’t saying shit or interrupting my thoughts like he was before—answering my questions before I ask them, annoying the shit out of me.

“Damn, that was. . .” I try to look back to wherever I just was, but we are in the nothingness again. “I splattered all over the street. You should have seen that shit. Literally . . . I think I shit myself.” I’m spouting excitement now and I feel pretty good, considering. Let’s see if we can get the ball rolling. “What in the hell happened?”

He’s less confident—not trying to intimidate me this time, and it is like he’s trying to avoid eye contact. When he tips his head down ever so slightly, it kinda freaks me out.

“Another goddamn dream,” I mutter, and then I look around. No fire or clouds or anything this time. It’s just misty, wet, gray fog—Seattle in . . . well, every damn season but summer. I chuckle a little. “Where are we, back in Seattle? . . . All this gray. . .”

He doesn’t answer. Now it’s getting awkward, but I swear he looks confused.

And I look up . . . and then back down at him. “So, she was no help. Told her to take a flying fuck,” I say. “Uh, yeah. . . What does your little red book say about that?”

He raises his eyebrows like I just told him the combination to his own safe. When they come back down, he says, “Who . . . are you?”

What new game is this? He knows damn well who I am—evil bastard ripped out my heart. I can’t figure his angle, but he has a good bluff on his face—looks like he’s never seen me before.

“Forgive me,” he says. “I know who you are, but we. . . I have never met you. And how do you know about the
Book of
—”

“
Blood
,” I say. “Forgive you?” As weird as this day has been, watching the looks of confusion and hesitation on his face is funny.
Funny?
Not sure I should think of it that way, but . . . funny, it is. “What’s next?” I ask him. “Yeah, my wife. We still have to deal with that.” And I motion with my thumb upstairs—gotta be where Heaven is. “Cough her up. You said—”

“Pardon my interruption,” he says. “Your wife?”

“Pardon your
what?
” I say. “What are you talking about? My wife, Kelly. Stop fucking around and send her up to Heaven.”

“And your word is the will,” he says. “However—”

“That’s enough,” I say. A deal is a deal, even in Hell. That much I’m sure of. “My word is the what? This is taking way too long. If you’re trying to go back on it, then. . .” I have no idea what I can do about it. Treacherous bastard is gonna renege on the deal. Double-dealing. . . “Even in hell, huh? I shoulda known. You two are perfect for each other.”

His confusion is only getting worse. Leave it to me to arrive in Hell on the day that the Devil gets Alzheimer's.

He seems to ponder for a moment, slowly opening and closing his great red wings, head bobbing and jerking like a. . . He looks like a damn pigeon or something. He thinks for a couple seconds, and then he says, “According to my records, Kelly—pardon me, your wife—is safely secured in her judgment in Heaven. It has always been so. Her soul was beyond my collection. My apologies.”

I think I forgot my cockiness on the last trip. Looks like I packed it for this flight. “Damn straight,” I say. Hope that doesn’t get me into trouble. But I’m also more curious than afraid on this. . . I can’t remember if it’s my second or third time with him.
If he was hot, I’d probably
. . . And that thought is just nasty.

He cocks his head to the side a little and looks up out of the corner of his eye, then back at me.

“Okay, then I’m ready,” I tell him. “So what does the book say happens next? You both tempted me. Pretty shitty options if you ask me. She was rude about ending her attempt, too. What department do I see about that?”