Dead Nolte (21 page)

“Don’t even try! Tell me you at least hit him!”

“Nope, as soon as he saw the gun, he was bobbing and weaving
like Sugar Ray Shitstain.”

“I didn’t see any bobbing and weaving in the mirror. I think
I’m lucky the gun got past my head, before you squeezed one off, Deputy Fife.”

“Nope, he was bobbing and weaving.”

“Let’s not shoot at Nolte anymore.”

“You gave me the gun.”

“Yeah, it’s my fault my car is shot to shit.”

Ron pulled the car back onto the road and headed south, the
sounds of tinkling glass dancing on the trunk made him grit his teeth and
cringe. If he absolutely had to shoot someone, absolutely had to, he would
choose to shoot Charlie.

“We need some more shells,” Charlie said as he cracked the
small pistol open and removed the two empty cartridges. “This would come in
handy in case that Tom Thumb character shows up again.”

“You just put one center mass in the Mad Hatter and it
didn’t do any good. What makes you think you’d do any better putting down a
Canaanite god, who broker’s soul deals for Satan?”

“Hey, it’s better to have a gun and not need it, than need a
---
”

“Shut the fuck up, redneck. You owe me a window.” Ron turned
the radio up and pressed on the gas. A chunk of glass from the rear window fell
and shattered on the trunk, it sounded like sand. The car shot away down the
empty highway with a naked man in a diaper sitting crossed legged on the roof.

The wind whistled in Nolte’s ears and blew the short wisp of
hair he had, straight back. The sunglasses kept his eyes from watering but made
it damn near impossible to read the road signs in the dark. He knew they were
in Texas, but he had been too busy trying to stir up shit with the cupcakes to
pay attention to exactly where. Only steers and queers come from Texas, Nolte
chuckled into the wind, he had always liked that joke; he would keep an eye out
for an opportunity to use it while they were in the great state.

Tomorrow was his big day; he would be completely alive
again. Tomorrow they would plant his ass in the ground and the spell would be
complete. The condition he was in wasn’t bad; it would do in a pinch if push
came to shove. He really liked zipping from place to place, just by thinking
about it, but until the spell was complete and he had truly cheated death, he
would forever be looking over his shoulder for some evil cocksucker to pop up
and drag his ass off to Hell. Another drawback was not being able to fuck. Only
three humans could see his sorry ass and two of them were men. He could kick
himself in the ass for not putting more thought into this shit. He really
should have come up with a plan B before he died.

It really didn’t matter, he was going to get his hands on
his nest egg tomorrow and he was going to live forever. Fuck the demons, once
he was fully alive again, they couldn’t touch him. The first thing he was going
to do was get the fuck out of his diaper.

Up ahead a sign came into view. Nolte pulled down his shades
to get a better read. It had a light shining on it, so it was probably a
Holiday Inn sign.

You Are Now Leaving Texas, Y’all Come Back.

Welcome to Louisiana.

Motherfucker! The idiots were taking the fucking coin back
to the witch! Why would the twinks be taking the coin back to that coon assed
cunt? A thought filled his mind with a dread, which was almost as shitty as his
experience in Hell. The bitch was probably going to use the coin to make him
into some kind of a zombie love slave.

***

“W
hat
will you do, Messenger?” Isaiah asked, trying to get a feel for the mood of the
archangel. Michael had stood at the wall for three days without moving. The
camp of Sennacherib stretched away from the wall as far as Isaiah could see. He
offered Michael wine and a small piece of bread, which he took. Michael knew
that no one else had bread, yet he also knew he was supposed to eat it.

The smell from either side of the
wall mingled at the top in the breeze, the smell of cooking meat from the side
of the Assyrians and death and starvation on the side of the Hebrews.

No one on the wall knew who or what the angel was, but all
thought he was insane and more than likely dangerous, so they stayed away from
him. He didn’t sleep and drank only what water the prophet brought him.

A pile of seventy or maybe a hundred arrows lay at Michael’s
feet. The arrows were the original source of suspicion concerning the man’s
sanity. The archers along the wall would watch him draw the Assyrians’ fire
throughout the day; he stood without flinching as Assyrian soldiers loosed the
arrows at him. The arrows that soared near to him, he would snatch out of the
air and drop them at his feet. The soldiers fumed and wasted arrows. Each night
Isaiah sent a boy up to collect them, the number increased on every collection,
most likely due to wagers among the Assyrian archers.

About one hundred cubits behind and below Michael, someone
had scattered chalk on the ground, in the neighborhood where most of the arrows
that were out of Michael’s reach would land. The lighter dust created a warning
for those who had to travel through the area.

Several arrows hissed past the two. Though Isaiah fought off
the urge to duck, the angel paid them no mind. Michael chewed his bread and
smiled at the prophet. “I saw you flinch.”

“Perhaps it was you who flinched.” Isaiah smiled. Michael
had told him that until God was finished with him on earth, he had nothing to
fear. The problem Isaiah had with that was, God had never given him an exact
day when he would be finished with him. Despite the fact that all his trust was
with God, the arrows still unnerved him. He was always reassured that Michael
stopped paying attention to the arrows, whenever Isaiah was near.

On a small rise, several hundred cubits into the camp, one of
Sennacherib’s generals shouted. “Do not wager your lives on Hezekiah’s stupid
God. He cannot save you.”

Michael took another bite of bread and chewed hard. Three
times a day the goat would climb his little hill and spew the same goatshit.

Isaiah saw the tension in the angel. He knew what the angel
could do and that he had the authority to do as he wished. Isaiah admired his
restraint.

Michael coughed as he tried to wash down the bread with the
soured wine in the cup. Isaiah handed him some water to wash down the wine.
Michael also choked on the water. “Thank you for putting some water in the mud,
this time.”

Isaiah smiled. “You want to know a secret, Messenger?” He
asked.

“I love secrets.” Michael stared out at the general with a
look of pure hatred. An emotion he rarely experienced. “But I must warn you.
I’m not very good with secrets.”

“Gabriel is coming tonight.” Isaiah watched a smile spread
across Michael’s face. In the distance, the goat was once again calling God’s
abilities into question.

“I’ve been told that you no longer have to listen to that
foul dog,” Isaiah said.

The angel stepped over his collection of arrows and picked
up a bow left by the soldier that held this part of the wall before him. The
soldier hadn’t had much luck catching arrows. He had only caught one, using his
neck. Michael tested the tension with a pluck.

The archangel smoothed the fletching on one of the longer
arrows and nocked it. He winked at the prophet. “Would you care to make a
wager?”

“You ate your bread; you have nothing to wager.”

 
The goat had fallen
silent but was still standing atop his hill. The angel loosed the arrow in a
high arch. A moment later, the goat grabbed at his crotch with both hands and
dropped to his knees. The howl he let loose was far louder than all of his
previous boasting combined.

Isaiah bent and took another arrow from the pile. “He still lives;
I should have wagered.” He said, handing it to Michael.

The angel waved the arrow away. “I didn’t miss; I’ve been
thinking about that target for three days. Now I want to listen to the music.”
In the distance, the goat yipped like a scalded dog.

***

S
everal hours before sunrise, quiet
footsteps approached Michael on the wall. The goat was in the midst of one of
his howls that had punctuated the night.

“Is that your, doing?” Gabriel asked. Michael recognized the
voice.

“You should have heard him when they removed the arrow.”

Gabriel chuckled. “I’ll wager you can’t hit the other one in
the dark.”

“I’ll go one better. I’ll pin his root to his thigh.”
Michael boasted. He looked down; he had forgotten the boy had come for the
arrows earlier.

“Here, take mine.” Gabriel held a single arrow in his hand.
“Isaiah gave it to me; he doesn’t think you can do it twice.”

Taking the arrow, Michael held it out before him. Before he
could pray, Gabriel nudged him. “In the dark, was my wager. No outside
assistance.”

Nocking the arrow and drawing on the rise, Michael loosed it
the moment the bowstring brushed his ear. A moment later a piercing scream came
from the camp, followed by shouting and the clatter of shields.

“You hit something,” Gabriel smiled. “Did you eat the bread
and the wine?” he asked.

“Yes. The wine was soured.” Michael replied flatly.

“It’s for blood not yet shed.”

Without speaking, the angels leaped from the wall, landing
on their feet on the Assyrian side. Silently, they strode into the camp.
Gabriel stopped and leaned in close to Michael. “Let’s go take a look at your
goat, before we start. He might be hit in battle and I don’t want you taking
credit for a coincidence.”

Michael smiled in the dark. He figured Isaiah had probably
told Gabe about more than the arrow in the testicle. Gabriel’s curiosity
probably had more to do with the general’s ritualistic speeches against the
Almighty, than to check on the accuracy of, what Michael believed to be, a
magnificent shot.

Despite the wails of the goat, and other than a few soldiers
on watch, most of the men in camp were sound asleep. As they moved through the
tents, here and there, a soldier would notice them, much too late to sound any
kind of alarm. One of the angels would quickly and silently dispatch the
soldier them with a sword thrust under the chin.

“Wait here,” Gabriel said as they approached the goat’s
tent. The archangel circled it at a blistering speed, silently killing every
man, in every tent within fifty-cubit swath of the general’s. He slowed and
walked toward Michael, his expression changed from serious to sadness.

 
“None of this would
be necessary. The prayers of these men would be heard, also.”

“How many are we to kill?” Michael asked.

“One-seventh, but that task is mine. You watch for Azazel;
she has Sennacherib’s ear. She wants the Watchers back. She says men are
incapable of making the correct choices without them and she doesn't feel she
had a fair chance at proving it.” Gabriel’s expression was once again serious.
“If I didn’t know, what I know, I would say she has a point. It seems all men
have turned their faces away. Even the Jews have killed every prophet they have
ever been given. One isn’t supposed to shit in his own storehouse. I wonder
what Isaiah’s fate is?”

Gabriel turned and walked to the front of the general’s
tent. Jerking back the flap, he peeked in. The goat groaned. A large grin flooded
Gabriel’s face, “Good shot. You pinned it right to his leg. I think you cheated
somehow.” He said, looking to Michael. “Watch for Azazel, hurt her as much as
you desire, just don’t kill her. Now, the dog and I are going to wake the camp,
it wouldn’t be sporting to kill them all in their sleep.” A moment later the
wails and screams of the general became almost inhuman. The camp came to life.

Michael slipped into the fifth dimension, where he could not
be seen by men. A crowd of silhouettes began to gather on the west wall of
Jerusalem, drawn by the screams of battle and death erupting from the Assyrian
camp.

Gabriel was seen as a blur among the fires. At a speed
incomprehensible to human sight, he killed the stunned and confused soldiers,
who were only able to get fleeting glimpses of the blood-soaked angel, whenever
he paused to take his attack in a new direction or stop to take their life.

Scanning the horizon, Michael watched for a dimensional jump
or a ripple in time, but Azazel was nowhere to be found. She never was, only
the evidence of her meddling was ever seen. Michael hadn’t seen her since
before the flood. She was pleasant in those days. She was the god of the
Watchers, a failed attempt at destroying the potential of man.

The Watchers were selfish and lustful abominations, Azazel
had disguised as advisors and helpers to lend direction to man’s otherwise
pointless existence. The Father knew her plan would fail, but to deny her, her
failure, would forever cast doubt among the Principalities.

The Father had nothing to prove, as far as Michael was
concerned. As he watched the slaughter unfold before him, he realized her
interference, in and of itself, had a way of making man’s existence, pointless.

Just before dawn and soaked in blood, Gabriel strode up to
Michael. One hundred and eighty-five thousand men lay dead behind him. The
remainder was probably drowning each other, trying to get across the Jordan. He
could not see any expression on the angel’s face; though Michael had a feeling
it was grim. The blood was thick and had matted Gabriel’s hair into a dark
helmet.

“I never saw Azazel,” Michael said.

“Neither did I,” Gabriel smiled crookedly and white teeth
broke through the red mask. “Well, we stand before the throne of God, Messenger.”
He said. “I will see you again. Perhaps the next time we will battle the true
enemy and not their manipulations.” He turned and walked east along the edge of
the camp.