A Deafening Silence In Heaven

  But here he was, looking the worse for wear, but alive nonetheless.

  At least for now.

  Michael had believed his angels had slipped even further into madness when they’d told him they had found another of their kind in the ruins of the city as they’d searched for a sinner who had escaped their clutches. They’d told him that this angel was different, his body covered in sigils of magickal power.

  Fascinated, Michael had gone so far as to leave his throne made from the bones of the unworthy, his domicile, to see with his own eyes—

  Eye.

  Who it was that his soldiers had found out there in the wasteland.

  Never could he have imagined this. If God weren’t dead, he would have believed that this was a reward for what he’d gone through since the fall of everything.

  The darkness within his missing eye started acting up again, and the angel violently shook his head, attempting to rattle the imagery that had once more started to play in the theatre of his mind.

  Michael leaned forward and reached a trembling hand down to the slumbering Remy, pulling at the collar of his shirt to see the markings etched upon his flesh.

  Sigils. Sigils of power. He had seen such markings before, inscribed upon the flesh of angels who had sided neither with the Lord God Almighty, nor the Morningstar, during the great war. He’d called them cowards, but they referred to themselves as Nomads—angels who had no real place, wandering amongst the realms of Heaven, Hell, and Earth.

  Had Remy fallen in with that craven angel sect? An all-too-familiar rage welled up inside Michael at the thought of those angels and how the Almighty would have forgiven them their indiscretions as well, allowing them back into the bosom of Heaven, if Unification had happened.

  But it hadn’t, and the Nomads remained unforgiven as they should have. If Michael had had his way, they would have been hunted down and put to death long ago. For if there was one thing the archangel could not stomach, it was cowardice.

  That was the one thing he never would have ascribed to the angel before him; insolence and naïveté, yes, but never cowardice.

  The darkness in the socket of his missing eye started to fill with memory again, and this time he let it play out, watching the angel who lay prostrate before him now, as he had been when the Lord God summoned him—when the Lord God had summoned them all. How beautiful they had been; how wondrous it was supposed to be.

  Michael snarled. He’d known something bad was going to happen, had felt it tingling in the very fabric of his being, but how could he tell his Creator—his Lord of Lords—that what He was doing would lead to nothing but despair?

  The archangel had wanted to be wrong; he really had.

  But he wasn’t, and it all went to—Hell.

  The angel smiled sadly as the memory played out. He saw the Lord in all His magnificence as He was about to reunify all that had once been and raise humanity to its next level.

  A new Heaven to define them all.

  Michael had never experienced such bliss as he had at that moment, touched by the power of He who had made it all. And a single thought had run through his mind.

  Maybe I was wrong.

  Michael twitched violently as if stabbed, crying out with the sudden savagery of his memory.

  It always made him scream, no matter how many times he relived it.

  One moment God was alive—one with everything as He brought together that which had been sundered—and the next . . .

  There came a sound like something harkening back to the creation of it all, when the Almighty wished something from nothing . . . but this time it had nothing to do with the beginning . . . with life.

  It was about the end of it all . . . death.

  The sight of his Lord God falling dead on the steps of the Golden City brought steaming tears to Michael’s eye.

  The memory was as overwhelming as it always was.

  He remembered crying out as he’d turned to the gathered multitude, remembered the horror-filled expressions of those who had come to participate in an event of celestial magnitude, but instead bore witness to an atrocity of cosmic proportions.

  He saw them all, their faces frozen in the darkness of his memory.

  Had any of them been responsible?

  It was a question he believed would never be answered, for he’d thought those whose faces haunted his memories to be as dead as the God who’d created them.

  Or were they?

  Michael looked down upon the angel Remiel.

  “Time to wake up, Remiel,” the archangel said, willing what little divine fire he could muster into his hand as he grasped the angel’s throat.

  And the air was filled with the hiss and stink of burning flesh.

  • • •

  He remembered the feeling. There was nothing quite like it.

  It aroused every sense; he could smell it in the air, feel it beneath his feet and through everything he touched, hear it with sounds like the planet’s largest symphony tuning its instruments, and see it—

  One only had to look into the sky to see it.

  Remy saw through the eyes of someone else’s memory, but that someone just happened to be another version of himself.

  The realization caused an increasing wave of discomfort, a horrible burning sensation that threatened to draw him from the wonderful memory of how it had been when Heaven had made its presence known to the world.

  He remembered how he’d left his home on Beacon Hill, going out into the streets as nearly everybody else on the Hill had done. They were all just standing there, looking up into the sky above them. It was still blue, with gorgeous, puffy white clouds that looked as though they’d been torn from bales of cotton, but there was something else.

  Something else behind the sky.

  Remy had known what it was, and he’d suspected that many others who gazed upon it knew as well. Perhaps they knew it by a different name: the Hereafter, Utopia, Providence, Elysium, Canaan, Zion . . .

  But all were the same place.

  The place in which the Creator dwelled.

  Heaven.

  Remy recalled people crying as they looked upon it, some dropping to their knees and praying. Others just laughed, and smiled, and hugged one another, sensing that this was a special time.

  And it was. It was a time that Remy had believed he would never see.

  “What is it, Remy?” asked a familiar voice from behind him.

  He’d felt Marlowe’s cold snout nuzzling his hand, as he’d turned to look upon the visage of . . .

  Madeline, his wife. Alive.

  The memory became suddenly . . . wrong, reminding him that this wasn’t his memory, but the memory of another . . . him.

  Although he had to admit she’d never looked more beautiful as she’d stood there upon the steps of their home, the ravages of old age and cancer not evident in any way whatsoever.

  The sight of her was better than . . . better than Heaven in the sky above.

  And he knew suddenly that it was because of him.

  Because of something he had done.

  He had broken the rules to keep her with him.

  “Isn’t it wonderful!” she’d exclaimed, gazing up at the Kingdom of Glory, tears in her beautiful brown eyes, clear of cataracts and the dullness of sickness.

  And he’d had to say, “Yes,” as he looked upon his living wife. It was the most wonderful thing he had ever seen.

  There was that painful burning again—like a flaming rope around his throat, distracting him for just a moment.

  Until he remembered hearing above the sounds of Heaven, a siren of sorts that spoke directly to him—to all creatures of a divine nature. A siren that called to them, telling them to come, telling them they must bear witness to something of great importance.

  Come to Heaven . . . for Unification is upon us.

  He remembered how he’d turned to her, his lovely Madeline, to tell her that he must leave her, but promised that he would return.

&nbs
p; “And things will never be the same,” she had said wistfully as he’d petted Marlowe’s head.

  And she was right.

  The memory—his memory—turned to fire and chaos, the cries of a dying world deafening, his own screams joining the cacophony of the end.

  Through the fire he turned to see her standing where he’d left her, in front of their Pinckney Street brownstone, her body engulfed in flames, a grinning skeleton all that remained to remind him of what had been lost.

  “And things will never be the same,” the skeleton of his true love reminded him.

  He’d held his hand out and seen that he, too, was in flames, which crawled up the length of his body to consume his human guise and expose his angelic nature to the nightmarish devastation that had changed the world.

  Wings covered in fire exploded from his back, stirring the air and scattering the bones of his wife, to be lost amongst the countless dead claimed by the fall of Heaven.

  Rising up above the conflagration, he looked down upon the apocalyptic sight in horror. His guise of humanity gone, the unnatural fire began its consumption of his divinity, his angelic flesh slowly eaten away, drifting ash adding to the blackness that now blotted out the sun.

  And the angel Remiel began to scream.

  Screaming for the loss of all he loved.

  Screaming as the world below him died.

  • • •

  Remy opened his eyes and found himself looking up into the scarred visage of the Archangel Michael.

  The archangel’s hand was locked tightly about Remy’s throat, and his skin was burning.

  “There you are,” Michael hissed, his single eye bulging with twisted glee. “I didn’t think you were ever coming back to me.”

  Remy squirmed in the angel’s grasp, but his hands were bound behind his back. “I like the new look, Michael,” he wheezed as the grip grew tighter and the flames danced upon his flesh. “It suits you.”

  The archangel growled like an animal, hoisting Remy up from the ground and giving him a savage shake.

  “You can’t even begin to imagine how hard it is for me to restrain myself,” Michael said. “To feel your neck snap beneath my fingers would be like a kiss from God.”

  For a moment Remy believed that his neck would indeed break, the pressure on his throat causing the blood to pound in his ears, but just before the vertebrae were pulverized, the archangel threw his body to the ground.

  “But I must remind myself,” Michael said, flexing his long, spidery fingers. “This isn’t all about me.”

  Dots of color danced before Remy’s eyes and he coughed, the taste of pennies flooding his mouth. He managed to sit up, spitting out a wad of bloody phlegm to be absorbed by the ash collected on the ground.

  Looking about his surroundings, he felt that sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. The Filthies stood around him, their bodies covered in horrible black scars, and as he looked upon each of them, he saw only madness in their expressions, the spark of the divine that should have been there long ago extinguished. These were merely shells of creatures once holy, seemingly unaware that what had made them what they were had died.

  But across from him, bound as he was, were two familiar beings.

  “Nice to see you’re still with us,” the Fossil said, lying on his side, his face a mass of blood.

  One of the Filthies did not approve of the old man’s talking and jabbed the point of a filthy sword into his side. He cried out and then went limp, the pain driving him to unconsciousness.

  Baarabus roared his displeasure, struggling against his bindings. “You fuckers are going to pay for that!” he bellowed.

  The Filthies jumped upon him as well, jabbing at his muscular body with their spears and drawing blood.

  “Enough!” Remy’s voice echoed throughout ruins.

  The Filthies stopped their torture of the hellhound and stared at him with those awful eyes, most assuredly debating whether to attack him now.

  “Ah, a voice of authority,” Michael said.

  Remy looked toward the archangel, who was now sitting on a throne made from bones that appeared blackened by fire.

  “What happened to you?” Remy found the words leaving his mouth before he could stop them.

  Michael stiffened and then slid forward.

  “What happened to me?” he repeated. “What happened?” The archangel looked about at the remains of Heaven, cobbled together to remind them of what had once been and what had been lost. “One would think you were new to the world, Remiel.”

  Remy remained silent, staring defiantly at the creature that had once stood at the right hand of God.

  “We were once a reflection of our God and the kingdom in which He lived,” Michael said. He stood, grimacing as if the movement caused him pain. “But that God is gone now,” he said, moving closer to Remy.

  “And His kingdom?” The archangel lifted his arms, as if presenting the environment. “Take a good look, and I think you’ll understand.”

  Remy did, and he was repulsed by what he saw. “It’s sad” was all he could manage.

  Michael’s single wing unfurled with a whiplike snap. “Exactly!” The archangel bounded over to where Remy knelt upon the ground. “We are but shadows of our former glory.”

  He walked past Remy toward the Filthies. “Look at you!” he screamed. “You should be ashamed!”

  The Filthies cowered before the angel’s verbal assault.

  Michael looked back to Remy. “But how else could they be, after surviving what they have?”

  “This isn’t what God intended,” Remy said.

  Michael turned his good eye upon the tribe.

  “They’re monsters,” Remy told him.

  Michael looked back, and Remy caught a spark in the archangel’s single, bloodshot orb.

  “Would you expect anything less for what we have done?” Michael asked. “It’s well deserved. . . . It’s what we are supposed to be for now.”

  “For now?”

  “Don’t you know, Remiel?” Michael strode back toward him. “This is our punishment. . . . We are to live in this . . . this . . . wasteland until the Lord God sees fit to forgive us our sins and . . .”

  “He’s dead, Michael,” Remy said flatly. “Murdered. There’s no one to forgive you except yourselves.”

  The archangel smiled; where once there were teeth that glistened whitely like stars in the sky, there were now only jagged protrusions rotting in bloody gums.

  “And that is where you’re wrong,” he said, shaking a finger at Remy. “He’s still here. . . . The Lord God is still here. . . .” The archangel looked about, his single eye widening. “And He’s watching!”

  “You’re insane,” Remy said.

  “He’s watching to see what we’ll do with this new and twisted world, filled with the damned . . . overrun with sinners.”

  Remy struggled to stand, and the Filthies immediately bounded toward him, burned and blackened wings flapping pathetically.

  “Hold!” Michael ordered, and they reluctantly backed away.

  “Sinners?” Remy asked. “Who determined this? You?” He laughed. “There aren’t any sinners left in the world, Michael. Only survivors.”

  Michael looked at him smugly and shook his scarred head. “You’re so blind, Remiel. Those taken when things went horribly awry—they were the blessed. Those who remain . . .”

  “The sinners,” Remy finished, and Michael nodded. “You actually believe that, Michael?”

  The archangel gradually straightened, the lone wing upon his back swishing back and forth like the tail of an agitated cat. “Why else would He have left us here? He needs to be sure we’re ready . . . ready to make the tough choices now that this world is winding down to its final days.”

  “And once you’re done, and all the sinners are gone?” Remy asked. “What then? Do you think He’s coming back for you? To take you all to some new Paradise? . . . Is that what you think?”

  “It’s what I know,
” Michael said. “It’s what I see inside my head. It’s what keeps me from ending my own existence . . . from driving a sword up through my chin and into my skull. It is what keeps me, and in turn, my legions, sane.”

  Remy looked to the Filthies again, remembering what they once had been. He shook his head sadly. “I hate to be the one to break it to you, Michael, but He’s gone.”

  Michael’s deformed face became even more monstrous as Remy continued.

  “This is it for us . . . for the world. We had our chance, and it ended badly. The Lord has been removed from the picture. . . . We’re lost now, cast adrift. It’s over, unless . . .”

  Remy stopped, the pain inside his head suddenly excruciating. There was something in there—something trying to get out. Something from another’s memory that wanted to be recognized.

  Michael was before him, the archangel’s hand once again wrapped around Remy’s throat.

  “Unless what?” the angel demanded. “What do you know? Has He communicated with you? Has He shared something?”

  “I have to go into the city . . . to what’s left of the Golden City,” Remy managed to get out.

  Michael pushed him back to the ground, looking at him in utter amazement. “Why on earth would you need to do that?” He let go of Remy’s throat, backing quickly away as he considered Remy’s words.

  “It’s something I need to do,” Remy gasped, catching his breath.

  “Why?” Michael demanded. He held his hand out again and it began to spark, and then smolder, and then burn. “Did God tell you to go to the city?”

  The picture of an elderly gentleman in a dark suit standing with a tidal wave frozen behind him suddenly flashed through Remy’s mind.

  “I . . . I don’t know. . . . I just know what I have to do.”

  “As do I,” Michael said. “For the true voice tells me so.”

  The archangel turned and stomped to his throne of bones, and just as he reached it, just as he was about to sit down, he spoke.

  “The Almighty has whispered to me His wants,” he proclaimed as the Filthies eagerly listened.