Thomas Sniegoski - A Hundred Words for Hate

Jon made it to the exit, passing through the doorway with one final push, jumping onto the stretcher, feeling the body of his friend beneath him as Hell opened its awful mouth to consume them all.

The airplane shuddered.

Remy casually glanced out his window expecting to see the beginnings of a storm, but saw only cottony white clouds, so inviting that he was tempted to lay his weary head upon them.

The jet shook again, harder this time, and now he could hear the alarms going off in the cockpit up front. His hand was reaching to unbuckle his seat belt when the plane trembled yet again, so violently that the overhead storage bins flapped open.

“Is everything all right?” Remy called out, holding on to his seat as he made his way up the short aisle toward the cockpit.

The alarms continued on the other side of the door as he rapped on it with his knuckle.

“Is everything . . .”

There was an explosion of air that could only have been the roar of decompression, followed by the shriek of the jet’s fuselage as it tried to maintain its integrity.

The plane began to fall.

Remy was about to kick open the cockpit door when part of the wall to his right was ripped away with the whine of twisting metal, and the screech of the wind as it rushed in to fill the void.

Remy attempted to hold on to something—anything—as his body was wrenched toward the yawning hole.

And through that hole he caught a glimpse—a glimpse of something large and terrible, something that had done this on purpose. Something that had willfully attacked the plane.

Then a rush of air tore at Remy’s clothing as he lost his grip and was sucked into the void. Spinning through the clouds, he caught sight of the plane—one engine and part of a wing gone, the other engine engulfed by orange flame and leaking black, oily smoke. The cockpit was gone, shorn away, along with the pilot.

Over the deafening roar of free fall, he could just about make out a sound, and craned his neck to face the Cherubim Zophiel, large and powerful, and as filled with rage as the last time Remy had seen him.

The Cherubim flew past with the speed of a jet fighter, then banked around to match the speed of Remy’s descent, a trinity of faces—eagle, lion, and man—studying his form as he plummeted to Earth. Malachi had warned of this—of the hatred Eden’s sentry had for the Sons of Adam and their mission.

The ground loomed closer, and Remy knew what he had to do, although it enraged him. He would have to call upon his other side—the side of Heaven.

The Seraphim.

Let’s get this over with , Remy thought. He dug deep within his psyche to where his other half waited. He was there, as he always was, sitting impatiently behind the mental barriers Remy had erected. He reached for the divine spirit, calling him forth, and the Seraphim surged forward, ferociously wild and eager to be free.

The Cherubim flew toward Remy, all three of his mouths shrieking a cry of doom. The renegade angel was almost on Remy, reaching out to snatch him from the air, but just as his metal claws were to close about him, the Seraphim manifested in a flash of Heavenly fire.

Zophiel wailed, rearing back from the hungry flame as Remy spread his wings, slowing his descent to face his adversary.

“Let’s end this the way we should have a very long time ago,” the Seraphim cried over the howling winds.

The Cherubim roared his response, moving with the speed of a lightning strike, slashing out with multihued wings as sharp and deadly as the finest blades forged in the fires of Heaven.

Remy glided back, but he wasn’t fast enough and the tip of one of Zophiel’s wings cut a bloody line across the middle of his chest. The Seraphim was angry now. If he hadn’t been sequestered away, and had been allowed to roam free, nothing could have caused him harm.

Coming around again, the Cherubim came at him with murder in his eyes. Let it come , the Seraphim thought, wings holding him aloft, watching as the sentry flew closer, and closer still.

Just as he and Zophiel were about to collide—a runaway freight train about to hit a Volkswagen Beetle—Remy flew up and turned, landing on the back of his attacker.

The Cherubim screamed, his wings flapping wildly as he attempted to dislodge the bothersome insect that had attached itself, but the Seraphim held tight, angling his body to avoid the knifelike feathers of the Cherubim’s wings.

Remy reached out and grabbed hold of the Cherubim’s long black hair. He channeled his inner fire, igniting the sentry’s hair like a fuse, the divine power burning down its oily black length until it engulfed all three visages. The Cherubim screamed wildly as he thrashed and spun his armored body around before plunging earthward in an attempt to extinguish the flames.

Spreading his wings, Remy released his grip, attempting to avoid a collision with the quickly approaching desert floor, but Zophiel had decided otherwise. The Cherubim grabbed the Seraphim’s ankle with a gauntleted hand, dragging his prey down with him.

Remy struggled, but it was useless; the Cherubim’s grip was too powerful, and the pair struck the ground at full velocity—a mushroom cloud of sand and rock blossoming from the desert floor.

The Seraphim crawled up from the crater, burning with rage and the desire to see his enemy vanquished, but the Cherubim was nowhere to be found. The angel fluttered his golden wings, shedding a thick layer of dust and some slivers of rock that clung to them. He was about to take to the air again, when the humanity that had been momentarily forgotten attempted to reassert its control.

The Seraphim did not care for this, fighting the attempts to again force him down to the darkness. But the humanity was still stronger, wrestling with the warlike nature of the angel, pulling it down and forcing it to heel.

Remy was again in control. It took a moment for his head to clear, a warrior’s rage still burning in his every muscle.

He did not put his angelic form away entirely, still needing the ability to fly. There was part of him that would have loved to chase after his attacker, but also a part that thought of the biodome, and the safety of the Sons of Adam. What if Zophiel had come for him after first attacking the dome?

The Seraphim had no care for the Sons or their cause. All that concerned him was to see his enemy destroyed, and he argued to be free again against Remy’s mental restraints.

But Remy was stronger, and he kept the warrior nature at bay. Fearing for the lives of the biodome’s residents, he unfurled his wings and took flight, soaring just above the desert surface, on his way back from where he had come.

Unnoticed, the tiny lizard emerged from beneath the sand, watching as the Seraphim took flight. It waited there patiently, watching with large, dark eyes filled with intelligence, until the angel was just a dwindling speck on the horizon.

Waiting until it felt confident that it could abandon the reptilian form it currently wore for something far more efficient.

To proceed with the plans that it had set in motion.

Remy hoped that he was wrong, that Zophiel had come after him, not bothering with the innocents inside the dome, but something told him otherwise . . . something and the roiling black clouds that his superior eyesight saw reaching up into the sky way off in the distance.

To get there all the faster, Remy allowed his wings to enfold his body, his mind thinking about where he needed to be at that very moment—where he had been—and when his wings opened again, he had reached that very destination, dropping down to the earth in front of the chain-link gates leading up to what remained of the biodome.