Sundaloi: Fallen

Sundaloi: Fallen

Chapter 1

            Let go of all preconceived notions of death. Everything ever taught, dreamed, or believed about death holds only a candle light to the elusive truth. The complexity is even a mystery to Kurios’ left hand, the slave bound to Death.

            Death stands, alone, a ghost amongst men, on the corner of a New York City street. The buildings around him are the city’s organs and the streets are its arteries. A skyscraper is its lung and a club its mind. The flow of people and traffic are its blood. The honking horns, human voices, occasional siren, combine to form a heart beat. This city is brimming with life and only Death knows exactly how much.

            Light glistens off the streets. Yellow cabs, headlights, and the green and red of traffic lights reflect off pools of water. To Death, these colors, the very nature of life, are muted almost gray. The gentle beat of the Cities heart is distant and muffled. He is present but not on a material world in which this City thrives on.

            A black hoodie is pulled over his face so only his chin shows. His hands are buried deep into his blue jeans. Death dreads that he will have to leave the safety of the immaterial soon. The water will soak his jeans. And though his canvas shoes are surrounded with thick white rubber that covers his toes, they will not keep the water out.

            Noise echoes off the walls of an alley behind him. It pulls his focus from his shoes. The night does its best to shroud the narrow path in darkness. It’s not anxiousness that causes him to look, but more curiosity. There is something familiar about it.

            A taxi slows to a stop, just feet from him. Rain freckles the back seat window and prevents Death from seeing inside. He doesn’t need to see the passenger. The man’s beat of life gives him away. Life and it’s soon to be end sell the man out.

            The rain water trails down the window as the door swings open. A thick man of average height climbs out. He looks through the shadow of Death and into the black alley. Anxiety grips the man’s left eye with a twitch. He nervously tugs his pants up around his wide waste. Death knows this man. Derek Murkland is his name. He has been chosen by Kurios to die.

            The ring of a cell phone breaks Derek’s concentration. He shifts his weight so reach into his pocket after it. After a short search, he finds the phone, taps his finger on the face, and then holds it to his ear, “Hello.” His voice is deep.

            Derek scans around him as the voice on the other line mumbles. “I told you to send everything you’ve got and pack up for the night. There should be nothing left behind, nothing.”

           The mumble grows louder in obvious protest.

           “Henry, this was supposed to be your project.” Derek sighs, “Okay…okay…okay…I’m at the garage. Give me a half hour and I’ll be there.”

           Gratification rings from the cell then crackles and dies away. Derek’s face scrunches. He pulls the dead phone off his ear and holds it in front of his face. A few shakes fail to bring it to life. Derek bangs on it to no avail.

           Hades is about to spill over onto this man. The living breathing city around Derek has forgotten about him. He has become a dead cell to it and this is Death’s sign. He clears his throat, “Derek Murkland, it’s your time.”

           Derek’s eyes widen and he takes a step back. His hands wave to find something to brace. “Who? Who’s there?”

          “Death.” Reactions are everything but none of them surprise Death. Derek’s reaction is to run. His bulbous body disappears into the alley. This man does not understand what’s in store from him and never will in this life. Faster than a blink of an eye, Death is on the man’s heels.

          Derek’s lurches to the end and slams his weight against a steel door. Adrenaline and testosterone fills his head. It takes him a second or two to realize he needs his keycard to gain access. He reaches for his wallet and swipes it over a black box with a red light. A tiny bell rings and the door swings open. Derek barrels inside and slams it shut just before Death can follow him.

          The physical door would otherwise pose no threat to Death. However, he is a creature of theatrics. Giant white wings, of a celestial kind, spread out from his back. It only takes one powerful beat and he is in the air.

          High above the end of the alley, Death can see Derek’s destination. It’s the top of a parking garage. White lines stripe the gray concrete marking parking spots across the lot. There is only one car out at this time of night and it’s surprisingly yards away from the elevator door. Derek must have arrived too late for a good parking spot.

           Death touches down just a foot or two away from the beige town car. White wings retract into his back and like a cat playing with its food, he waits. He’s sure that Derek’s elevator is climbing upwards closer to the roof. Impatiently and in vain, Derek will struggle with his phone in hopes of calling for help.

            With a sigh, Death reaches behind his back and finds a short cylinder. He holds it at arm length and squeezes the side. The object of whips and clicks as it unfolds into a jagged stick. There is a half a second delay before a blade folds out and locks at the end turning the staff into a scythe.

           Pride courses through his chest. He remembers a time when all he had was a dagger. Though, in those times, he liked to be allusive. Now, there was a hunger to see people, talk to them, before he reaped them.

           The elevator rings and its doors slide open. A slumped over Derek grips his chest and tries to catch his breath. Death wonders if the poor man has spent this entire time struggling for air. Then, as if responding to a starter pistol, Derek rushes towards his car.

           Carefully, Death aligns himself with Derek. Step by step the barreling giant grows closer and at the very last second Death materializes. Derek slams into Death’s ridged body. The impact knocks him onto his rear but Death stands firm.

            All the red from Derek’s overheated run flushes from his face. His eyes grow even wider and his jaw rattles. Words can’t seem to escape his gawking mouth.

            Death grins, “You know Derek…you really shouldn’t run, at least not in your present condition. It’s not good for your heart.”

            Finally, Derek’s voice box crackles and words take form on his lips, “Who are you?”

            What a horrible cliché question. After thousands of years of revealing himself before people die, Death was sure one would be able to identify with the hooded stranger wielding a scythe. “Me?” Death points to his chest and bends over Derek, “I’ve already told you, I’m Death.  If you want a name: some have named me, and I do prefer, Azrael. Others call me Santa Muerte, Angel of Death, Left Hand of God, the last of us, the Grim Reaper, but I’d prefer you to just stick with Azrael.”

           Derek shivers. His heart knows the truth but his mind is trying to rationalize it away, “You’re crazy…”

          “Oh, if only I were. Then it would be implied that this very dire situation has many possible endings. The truth is that there is one ending, only one, and it is your death. I wouldn’t be here if it were something else.”

          Derek does his best to slide himself away. With every scoot, Azrael takes a step closer. “I don’t believe this…this can’t be…”

            “You know,” Azrael swings his scythe in Derek’s direction. “It’s interesting how the people of these last few decades find the truth so hard to believe. I mean here truth is standing before you,” Azrael straightens, “In all its glory and you still can’t believe in it.” Azrael taps the blade gently on the side of Derek’s head. “You all just think too much about it. It’s so black and white. I’m death, you can see me, and so I’m here to reap your soul.”

            “See, I don’t believe in your premise.” Derek shakes his head, “There is no heaven, no hell, and no soul.”

            Azrael sighs, “You can try to have a philosophical debate with me. Just know that the winner is the one left standing.” The scythe’s blade drags across the floor. Sparks fly then the blade ignites into one plume of fire. Azrael holds it in Derek’s face. “Explain this, oh great scientist, oh wizened philosopher. Want to see how long the fire will last?”

            “So then,” Either Derek believed or he decided to play along, “it’s my time to go?”

            “Bingo! Thank goodness you caught on. I would have hated to whip out the wings and prance around the roof tops like a fairy.”

            Derek rolls onto his side and tries get up. He shivers in pain, grabs his heart and rolls back on his rear. “God…” He hisses through his teeth, “Not now, I’ll do anything. Please, please, I’ll do anything…”

            “There’s no use bargaining.” Azrael tries to stabilize the man with his right foot. “It’s way too late for that now. The good news is that I’ve been sent here to give you a last chance for repentance.” He sticks his index finger in Derek’s contorted face. “You are going to die. No matter what you say. I can see the truth of things. I will know your hearts intent and your soul’s destination.”

            Something in Derek twists. “I’ve lived a good life. I have no regrets.”

            “See that’s what I’m saying!” Azrael leans in on his heel. “Be honest with yourself and do not tell me what you think I want to hear.” Azrael lifts his foot off of Derek and takes a step back. “Sure, your life started off good, most people’s do. You were born 1964 in a peaceful Iowa town. At seventeen you killed your younger brother. Your mom blamed your dad for the murder and Dad blamed her. One night’s drunken rage killed your mom and locked your dad in jail.”

            “How…” Derek heaved, “How do you know these things?”

            Azrael bends down, “Don’t interrupt. Your grandparents took sympathy on you, included you in their will and a quick house fire landed you sizable wealth. You started out by pimping out girls, some of whom were underage, and later took over a large drug cartel. You are said to be the only man who can smuggle anything into the US.”

            A noise from the elevator distracts them. There is no ring, no rush of its motion. It’s an odd noise that Azrael recognizes as the same from the alley. “Well…I’ve rambled too long as it is.” Azrael clears his throat. “Your sins stretch from here to the moon and back. If Dickens was right, you’d have a laborious chain around your neck.”

            “Why me? Why now?” Derek locks his eyes on Azrael as if he can get any sympathy from Death.

            Azrael shrugs, “I don’t know. Kurios tells me to go, to wait, and to reap. I do as I’m told, no questions asked.” His lower lip lifts above his upper. “I don’t even know anything about you until I see you. Admittedly, all your sins make it easy to justify your death.”

            Derek winces in pain. “You don’t have to, can’t you chose for yourself?”

            The thought rocks Azrael. It had crossed his mind once a very long time ago. Then, as quickly as it came it was gone. Azrael nods his head yes, “I could just walk away. Kurios gives us that option with hell as our consequence if we should die. No offense, but I don’t want to go to hell for a scumbag like you.”

            “You can rot in hell.” Derek sneers, “I don’t care who you are you can…”

            Azrael looses his playfulness and raises his voice over Derek’s. “See, that’s the sad thing about it. I’m not the one going to rot in hell.” Azrael leans his body back. He readies his scythe with the blade still on fire. “You are.”

           Like a farmer harvesting wheat, Azrael swings the scythe horizontally into Derek’s chest. As the blade cuts, flames leap from its tip and rolls into Derek’s mouth and nostrils. The cut turns to ash and disappears from Derek’s chest.

            As Azrael towers over Derek’s lifeless body, one word echoes through his mind, “choice”. He does have a choice. All angels do. He has reaped the souls of many who where banished to this earth. For some reason, he had given it little thought. The last time he could remember even considering it was in Rome when Diana insisted on it.

            The noise returns and interrupts his train of thought. All of his attention turns to the elevator. Light, as if it were trying to pierce the heat of a flame, folds and bends around the elevator. Azrael knows what this means and he readies his scythe.