The Maze - The Lost Labyrinth Part 8

Darrell Gene tried to sort out the truth in his head and heart.

"I'll let you know."

Chapter 17.

Angels and demons faced each other on Darrell Gene's kitchen table, and the tension was as thick as a blanket. Sabers were held high, and wings were aflutter as both armies prepared for battle. Darrell Gene surveyed his handiwork as he used a whetstone to sharpen his pocket knife. He ran the blade along the rough surface until he was satisfied that it was ready. He had done this very thing a hundred times or more when he was preparing to cut something, and although the task was menial, he found it calming in a mundane sort of way. The rhythm of the steel sc.r.a.ping against the rock, the steady motion of his arm pus.h.i.+ng the knife along and then pulling it back toward him soothed him. The process was almost as calming as actually using the knife to create shape and semblance where there was none.

As a test, he ran the blade along one forearm and watched in satisfaction as the knife shaved the hair without so much as a snag. "Perfect."

He carefully selected a fresh block of wood and began to carve.

He had never been much of a churchgoer, but all the recent talk about G.o.d and redemption had roused a certain curiosity in him. He remembered his grandmother telling him stories from the Bible. He forgot most of them as quickly as he heard them, but a few fascinated him and were with him even now. The writing on the wall, the burning bush, and Saul and the Witch of Endor were exciting stories, but none intrigued him so much as the account of the war in Heaven. Angel fighting against angel in a battle that saw one-third of the Heavenly Host cast out. There was just something about the idea of a celestial war of good versus evil that made him continually question which side he was on. Deep down, he wanted to be good and do the right thing. Unfortunately, it never seemed to work out that way.

Every time he thought about war in Heaven, he envisioned the way the skies must have looked, stained with the blood of seraphim and full of falling stars. In that ever-playing movie in his mind, the air was rife with lazy, floating feathers and the screams of the d.a.m.ned. Somewhere in the distance, a war trumpet sounded and G.o.d's faithful armies rallied to defend the Eternal City. Had there been any witnesses to this event, it might have looked like a meteor shower as the rebels were thrown out and hurled toward the Earth. The thought gave him chills.

Years ago when the voices started, he began carving a collection of angels out of blocks of oak to depict the event. He had wooden likenesses of Michael and Lucifer, of course, along with dozens of other angels with names like Uriel, Nathaniel, Azazel, and Ashtoth. Some of them waved swords. Other brandished morning stars. Some bore an uncanny likeness to various birds of prey as their talons were bared and ready to rip the enemy to shreds.

He thought about eventually using the carvings as chess pieces even though he had no idea how to play the game. For now, however, he was content to set them up in opposition and let his mind fill in the blanks. Darrell Gene had a very b.l.o.o.d.y imagination, and soon he discovered that he didn't have enough carvings for all of the destruction he had in mind.

The one he worked on now was a wingless angel, a rebel who had been deplumed and cast out of Heaven because of his disobedience and allegiance to Lucifer. A misfit just like him. As Darrell Gene let the knife do its work, he found himself empathizing with the wooden figure, imagining the way it must have felt to be part of a group one moment and then painfully alone the next. It wasn't such a difficult thing to envision. He had gone through it time and time again, moving from job to job, trying to fit in but failing miserably. In the end, he was a lot like this wingless angel, robbed of his true purpose, his true calling. The angel, unable to fly anymore, wasn't even an angel in the truest sense of the word. Darrell Gene, likewise, scarcely felt human.

He wanted to fly, to be free of the constraints of this earth, but there was a deadly soul-condemning price for that kind of freedom. Lucifer's army had been thrown of out Heaven for that kind of freedom. Of course, Darrell Gene already felt like an outcast and would have gladly paid any price to feel differently. If only he had half of the power that the fallen had...

Darrell Gene was confused. He'd never really had to make any hard decisions in life; doing bad things had always been an easy way out. He wasn't good at this sort of thing and wished it would just all go away, but he knew it wasn't that simple. Hoping to clear his mind, Darrell Gene positioned all of his wooden angels on the chess board and moved them around in formation as he mulled his options over in his mind.

He could always let things remain like they were, but that wasn't a desirable prospect because he hated his life. That led to choice number two which involved giving Carl Beckett's suggestion a try. Yet, he didn't trust Christians of any kind.

How was he supposed to make any decisions when the messages were so mixed?

"Why don't you let us decide for you?" The wingless angel startled Darrell Gene. "Let us battle it out on the playing field and see who wins. See which idea feels stronger."

It seemed like a strange way to choose which path to take on the road of life. He'd never tried to plot the course of his future with the help of a board game.

"I suppose you and the other rebels are going to represent the choice you've offered me. You'll want me to continue down this path."

The wingless angel nodded.

"And the others, the faithful angels, will represent a return to the church. They'll advocate giving G.o.d one more opportunity to change my life."

"They will," the rebel said. "But I think you'll find that they don't stand much of a chance."

"Why should I let you decide my fate? Why can't I make up my own mind?"

The wingless angel smiled. "You've done a bang up job so far with your life. Or am I overlooking the obvious?"

Darrell Gene resisted the urge to smash the sarcastic little wood carving into splinters. He didn't like hearing the truth, at least not when it was coming from a wingless fallen angel.

"You obviously made wise choices yourself. Getting thrown out of Heaven is no easy feat."

"Easier than you might imagine," the angel said. "And remember, I'm not here to focus on me. I'm here to help you."

"Fine," Darrell Gene said. "We'll do it your way."

The wingless angel nodded, bowed humbly, then raised his sword. All of the rebels raised their swords in unison too. Darrell Gene watched as the wooden angels rallied and prepared to fight. This felt like something right out of the Book of Revelation, and he couldn't help thinking of the verse that described the war in Heaven. He whispered it as the opposing forces faced off: "And there was war in heaven: Michael and his angels fought against the dragon; and the dragon fought and his angels---."

This was the battle Darrell Gene had dreamed of watching his entire life. It was one he'd been fighting his entire life, ever since the day that his father had stopped believing in G.o.d. Somewhere, deep inside, had always been the urge to do good, to follow the truth. But he'd always repressed it, opting instead for the easy way out. He'd chosen the same path his father had chosen after his mother left them for Jasper Simmons.

He'd listened to voices all his life and followed them. What he didn't realize was that sometimes the loudest voice wasn't always the one he should heed.

Darrell Gene tried to block out all the voices temporarily until the impending battle was finished. He didn't want to be biased. He didn't want to influence the outcome of the fight. Still, it was difficult. He thought of all the things he had done to the family across the street. In response, the rebel angels strained and pulled against an unseen tether, eager to wage war.

He thought of his father, and the church, and the life he had he had until his mother ruined it. He thought of all the Sundays they had attended services together, the nights of prayer meeting, the fellows.h.i.+p dinners. That life seemed so far away; it felt like someone else's life. In some ways, it was. Darrell Gene was a different person now, but he knew it didn't have to be that way.

He thought of Carl Beckett and the warmth and gentleness that radiated from the man. He thought of the promises of love and friends.h.i.+p. He thought of the possibility of a new life and a new way of looking at things.

It couldn't be that easy, could it?

In response to those thoughts, Heaven's faithful on the opposite side of the chess board prayed and meditated with their eyes closed as they readied themselves to fight.

This wasn't just some medieval board game that was about to take place. This wasn't a battle for supremacy of Heaven, either-that had happened millennia ago. The war that was about to wage on Darrell Gene Rankin's kitchen table was a war of the soul. It was one that would decide his fate and cement his future, and Darrell Gene was scared to death.

His palms were sweaty and his brow was beaded with perspiration. He chewed his thumbnail nervously as his life hung in the balance. It was time to let the battle begin.

With firm resolve, Darrell Gene released all of the holds in his mind, and watched as the two opposing wills clashed. The chess board was messy with sawdust and wood splinters. The rebels and the saints fought for Darrell's life. Sabers clashed. Talons ripped through angelic flesh. Wings were ripped away. Battle axes mowed down opponents as if they were little more than blades of dead gra.s.s.

And blood covered the table.

Angel blood.

Darrell Gene watched it all with rapt fascination and fear. Although this is the way he'd chosen to determine which road he would travel, it filled him with dread to see that the rebels were winning.

"You should have known it would end this way." The wingless angel brought his sword down on the head of a saint.

The comment filled Darrell Gene with an inexplicable anger, and without warning, he pushed away from the table in a rage and made a forceful swipe with his hand, clearing the kitchen table of figurines. The wooden characters clattered to the floor; most of them broke on impact.

The wingless angel had been splintered in half. His mouth, however, still worked.

"You'll always feel the pull of the flesh," the angel said. "It'll never go away. You're one of us. Stop denying that fact."

Darrell Gene silenced him with his foot and pressed down with all of his weight until there was little more than sawdust and splinters under his shoe.

He felt better.

But only a little.

Chapter 18.

The battle with Cerberus left me feeling drained, light-headed, and sick, and Midnight didn't fare much better. He had more than enough wounds to lick; Cerberus had bitten him in more places than I realized. The three-headed dog had injured me extensively too. Two of my ribs felt bruised, possibly even broken. My shoulder felt like it might have been dislocated, and my skin was on fire from the numerous bites. More than anything else, I wanted to lie down and rest, but there wasn't time for that.

"Your next test awaits up ahead." Asterion vanished into an open tunnel. "This is not a place of leisure."

I looked at Midnight and sighed. "I'm not sure I can go on."

I tried to lift my head off of the ground, but it felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. My eyelids felt heavy too.

Midnight barked and got to his feet, urging me to stop whining and stand up. With a considerable amount of effort and a lot of groaning, I did so.

"I guess we should see where this leads. After all, the minotaur says so. I wonder if it would make any difference if I pointed out that he didn't say Simon Says."

Midnight barked again and led the way into darkness. Although I would have felt better with a million-candle spotlight and an automatic weapon, I felt a certain amount of safety with Midnight at my side. He hadn't deserted me yet, and I can safely say that I wouldn't have defeated Cerberus without his help.

I just hoped he didn't decide to ditch me before I found the way out. I wasn't sure what I would do if forced to roam these dark hallways alone again.

We had only walked a mile or so when I felt something brush lightly against my face. I swatted it away only to have something else linger for just a second on my neck like an exhalation of breath. My immediate fear was that we were trapped in a room with insects. I could almost imagine the gossamer kiss of wings against my skin or the slight hairy touch of antennae. The thought gave me chills, and I would have given anything at that moment for a light. Instead, all I had was the residual glow of the numerals and symbols on the walls.

Without warning, a torch burst into flames at the end of a long pa.s.sageway, flooding the room with illumination. What the flames revealed, however, was not what I expected.

"A greenhouse?" Flowers of every imaginable color grew underfoot like a carpet woven from rainbows. Hanging vines draped down from the ceiling, adorning the hall with blooms and greenery. Plant species that were alien to me grew in six foot stalks, climbed the walls and intertwined with drooping ivy.

Every available square inch of this place was covered in lush, thick plant life. The air was redolent with the fragrances of a hundred different varieties of flower. I inhaled deeply and found that, despite the pain in my ribs, the familiar aroma of honeysuckle, jasmine, and hyacinth had a calming effect on me.

The peaceful feeling lasted until I took a step forward and felt something slice into my ankle. I cried out. Midnight moved toward me in response and was cut as well.

Without taking another step, I knelt carefully and touched the yellow petal of a daisy and yelped in surprise as the flower nicked my finger and drew blood.

"Don't move a muscle."

Midnight did as he was told. I touched another flower and then another, being careful not to run my finger along the foliage. They weren't pliable like normal plants, but rigid and sharp. It was like I was trapped in a field full of razor blades.

I tried to lift my leg without brus.h.i.+ng up against any of the other potentially lethal flowers, but it was impossible to do. All I got for my efforts were several more lacerations on my ankles that bled more copiously than I expected. In fact, there wasn't a single way I could move a muscle without touching the leaves of these razor-plants and hurting myself.

"What kind of test is this?" I wondered if Asterion could hear me. "You put me in a hallway filled with razor-blade flowers and want to see how I'll get out without cutting myself to shreds? Is that it?"

I didn't really expect the minotaur to be nearby, but he answered me.

"You don't feel any real pain yet for the things you've done. You still haven't learned that there are consequences. That's what this room is for. You hurt your wife, and now you're going to endure some of her pain. "

"I never did anything to physically harm her!"

"Then you're getting off lightly. Flesh and blood injuries can be treated, but there isn't a medicine on the market designed to treat a broken heart."

"I didn't do anything! What am I going to have to do to prove it to you?"

"You're still lying to yourself too, it seems," Asterion said. "But you'll eventually realize the value in truth."

"So what happens if I fail this test?"

"You die," Asterion spoke as if that should have been plainly obvious. "And I expect you'll die painfully."

"And if I do happen to escape?"

"Let's not get carried away. You beat Cerberus, true enough, but this test will be much, much harder. Cerberus was an obstacle. This is a situation."

"Care to shed any light on this---situation?"

"Sometimes the most beautiful things are the things that will harm us the most."

"Anything else, Confucius?"

"These are your trials and tribulations. Not mine."

And with that he left.

Chapter 19.

The damage in the kitchen was extensive. In one fell swoop, Darrell Gene had destroyed what took him hours of work to complete. Both armies lay in disarray, little more than kindling for the fireplace now. Darrell Gene regretted what he'd done and wondered if he hadn't been a little bit hasty.

It wasn't so much what the wingless angel had said to him as is it was the possibility that the angel might have been telling the truth.

He'd been afraid of seeing the rebels win the war, but maybe in his life, that's what they were destined to do. For a moment, he'd held on to the possibility of fitting in, of finding a group of people that loved him. But the longer he thought about it, the longer he realized that wasn't likely. He could carve saints out of birch wood from now until the end of time, and they would never be strong enough to defeat the dismal feelings in his soul. They would never be strong enough to overcome the darkness.

In some subconscious part of his mind, Darrell Gene knew he was likening the outcome of his life to a board game. Somehow it seemed fitting. The desires of the flesh and that small seed representing the purpose of G.o.d that had never germinated in his heart were the two warring ideologies in his soul. Like angels and demons, they were at odds and would always be at odds until he chose a side and s.h.i.+fted the balance.

Tears rolled down Darrell Gene's cheeks. "Who am I really?"

Darrell Gene didn't need a response from anyone to know the answer. He had done some truly terrible things. He was a monster, and the Burroughs family was right to be frightened of him. No need in pretending otherwise. He didn't want to be another Carl Beckett, roaming the streets of town with a smile on his face and a mouthful of lies.

Above the sink in his bathroom was a mirror. Darrell Gene stood there for several minutes looking at himself, seeing for the first time what other people must see. He wasn't tall or thin, but short and heavyset. His hair was a greasy black, and the wet look wasn't something he did intentionally. A thin, p.u.b.escent moustache clung precipitously to his upper lip, and his cheeks were marked by acne scars. Most days, he wore jeans, some sort of rock and roll T-s.h.i.+rt, and a ragged, sleeveless denim jacket. He didn't even bother trying to hide the tattoos.

The artwork was a Technicolor testament to the skeletal. A malevolent looking skull with wings marked one forearm while a Grim Reaper with a wicked looking scythe stood watch on the other. His flabby biceps were wrapped in prison-inked barbed wire, and his elbows were done up in spider webs. A heavily-scaled serpent with eyes like rubies spiraled up his left arm, going from his wrist to the bend of his elbow and further up where it ended just below the barbed wire. The right arm was decorated with multi-colored stars which provided a sinister background for the Reaper to do his worst.