Thomas Sniegoski: Walking In the Midst of Fire

The children began to panic, pushing against the magickal bands that kept them captive. The spell of containment bit back, painfully repelling those who tested the strength of the bonds.

“They should not be,” Michael proclaimed. “They are freaks of nature . . . abominations, and a harsh reminder that we were not ever meant to be part of this mortal world.”

Michael looked directly at Remy, and the Seraphim stared back defiantly.

“So, because of your weakness, innocent lives will be taken,” Remy said.

Michael did not respond, but Remy was sure that he’d heard him. The Archangel looked to the children again, cowering behind a fence of magickal force.

“Nobody likes to be reminded of their imperfections,” the Archangel spoke. “And every time I look at them . . .”

Michael quickly turned away, his mind made up.

“Put them down,” he commanded, striding toward his soldiers. As he walked he looked toward Lucifer’s men. “Feel free to join us if you care; they could be as much your problem as ours.”

Remy watched helplessly as the nightmare continued.

Angels of Heaven and Hell setting themselves upon the captive children. The Keepers dropped the magickal barriers to let the slaughterers in.

It was more than Remy could stand to see, but he felt compelled to watch, to see it all in every grisly detail.

To remember every horrible thing.

The children tried to fight back, to use their newly given abilities, but against the combined armies of Heaven and Hell, there was very little they could do.

It was bad enough that he felt compelled to watch, but to hear their cries was even worse. Again Remy fought against the magick that restrained him, but only managed to cause himself more pain.

Maybe it was some sort of safety mechanism: If he caused himself enough pain he would be rendered unconscious, and then he would no longer see them dying, or hear their pitiful cries.

But oblivion chose not to come for him, and he was forced to witness the atrocities as they unfolded.

Remy managed to rip his gaze away momentarily to see that Malatesta had turned his back to the carnage.

“Don’t you dare look away,” he cried, reaching up to yank upon the tendril of magickal energy entwined around his neck.

The sorcerer stumbled forward. “Please, Remy,” he begged. “It’s for the better.”

“Turn around,” Remy screamed, his anger beyond measure. “Turn around and see what’s happening . . . then tell me it’s for the better.”

He suddenly realized that the screaming had stopped, and found this even more disturbing, for it meant the act was done. There was nothing more he could do.

He watched the shapes of angels flying in circles above the mound of dead, like carrion birds. The bodies were burning, thick oily smoke snaking up to collect against the magickal barrier that still covered the old playground. The storm had subsided, the patter of rain and the faint roll of thunder now a ways off in the distance.

“Release him,” Remy heard Michael command, and turned toward the Archangel who now stood before him.

“Is there something you wish to say, angel?” Michael asked.

Remy’s thoughts raced, but he could not find the words. There had always been a part of him that believed someday he would return to where he had begun, that the deep psychological wounds he’d received during the Great War would eventually fade, and that he would be able to go back to the joy he remembered in the presence of God.

But now he saw that the poison he’d first recognized during the war had continued to flow through the veins of Paradise, killing what he had known, and making it impossible for him to ever return.

“It’s a sad day,” Remy managed, something suddenly missing inside of him.

The Archangel looked toward the smoking pyre. “Think of it as an act of mercy,” he said. “Something released from its suffering.”

Remy could only stare in horror at the being from Heaven.

“Come now, Remiel,” the Archangel spoke. “Do you seriously believe there was a place for creatures such as they?”

Remy’s gaze fell upon the pyre. He could just about make out the shapes of things that had once been alive, now reduced to smoke, charred bone, and ash.

“I used to think there was,” he said, remembering a time that was gone now, never to return. “But now . . .”

He walked away from the angel, not wanting to be in the presence of something so foul. He watched as two of Hell’s soldiers swooped down from the sky, each grabbing one of Gareth’s ankles, hauling his corpse toward the still-burning mound comprised of his brothers and sisters.

“I had no idea,” said a familiar voice.

Remy didn’t want to talk to him, but Francis forced the issue.

“I didn’t even know where we were going, and suddenly I’m here and being told that I’m representing.”

“I promised them that they’d be safe,” Remy said, trying to keep his anger in check.

“I had no idea what I would be doing,” Francis said again.

Remy turned to stare at his friend.

“But you did it,” he said, eyes dropping to the golden pistol shoved in the waist of his pants.

“Didn’t have a choice,” Francis said. “Part of the deal I made. He says jump, and I ask how high.”

“Exactly how high can you jump, Francis?” Remy asked.

Francis touched the butt of his weapon.

“Guess we’ll just have to wait and see,” the former Guardian angel said, walking away, heading back into the abandoned mining city of Gunkanjima.

The roar of the transport Chinook’s engines filled the air, and Remy watched as Malatesta walked behind the old Keeper and the other sorcerers, up into the belly of the craft, as the loading platform began to rise behind them.

Their work here is done, Remy thought, wondering what the next atrocity they would preside over would be.

He watched as the helicopter lifted off from the ground, but he was distracted by the angels who still flew above the island city now that the magickal barrier had fallen.

One by one Remy watched as they disappeared, not sure if they were legions of Heaven, or Hell.

And finding that he didn’t really care. They were all the same to him now.

The Archangel Michael remained, standing beside the still-blazing pyre. Spreading his wings, he pushed off from the ground to hover aloft, above the site of the massacre.

“You might consider leaving now,” the angel Montagin said, walking past Remy.

Squire, Heath, and the mothers of the slain children were with him. Remy could feel the pain of the mothers as they passed, and wanted to tell them how sorry he was, but knew that if the shoe were on the other foot, he wouldn’t have wanted to hear another word from the likes of him.

He looked back to the sky, and to the Archangel that still hung there. There seemed to be something forming around him, a whirlwind of flame.

“What’s he doing?” Remy asked Montagin.

“He needs to be sure,” the angel said.

“Sure of what?”

“That there isn’t any trace of them remaining. That they’re all dead.”

The flames around the Archangel were growing, swirling, creating a vortex of divine fire that had begun to reach down to the island below.

“Are you coming?” Montagin asked.

Remy looked over to see that the angel and the women were waiting, Squire having opened a passage in the shadow thrown by the shell of a concrete storage shed.

“C’mon, Remy,” Squire said. “Ain’t nothing good gonna come from you sticking around here.”

Remy looked back to the sky. An enormous tail of writhing fire snaked down from the body of the whirlpool to spear the ground where the bodies of the children smoldered.