Chapter 14 #3
The beautiful one didn’t hesitate, reaching for the handle, turning it, pushing open the door, and stepping out elegantly.
He raised his hands to the back of his head, stepping away from the vehicle, toward the migrants they’d brought with them, standing off the road, off the sidewalk, over the grass.
Behind them, there was the decline of a hill that led down to the river that the border bridge loomed above.
Each of the migrants was cowering, some hunching, hands over their head.
The woman with the infant was low to the ground, curled over her now screeching child, while the father was holding his daughter behind himself.
As Satan stepped toward them, he also saw — across the river — horses, four horsemen patrolling the border. All they did was watch.
“To the river,” shouted the soldier who was shoving the good priest toward the group.
“All of you.” Now, there was begging, one of the women crying, pleading, shaking her head and putting her hands together, but another one of the soldiers shot at the sky with a horrible, curt boom that made nearly everyone scream, lower their bodies more, begin shuffling back and toward the bank, feet unequally sinking into the mud so that they all staggered.
Satan followed, eyes maintained on the horsemen.
There was another figure, high over the bridge to Babylon, hovering over the river in a blinding shine of divine armor.
Great wings were spread behind him the color of the Earth, and a bulky sword was over his back, handle by his helmet.
And as the devil priest followed the people into the cold rush of the river, first dampening his socks, then his exposed ankles, then seeping through his pants — he saw that this figure was dressed in a reddened cloak.
It was quite ridiculous, almost anachronistic — but as was the glow over his head, as were the wings spreading out from his back.
Yet, no one was reacting. Couldn’t they see him?
“What do we do, Father?” whispered a young woman, one of the migrants, who was cowering against the beautiful priest’s side.
Behind them, the soldiers were still barking orders, telling them to sink deeper into the river, lifting and pointing their guns again.
Satan didn’t look at them, instead touching the woman gently at her upper arms, whispering for her to be careful as they trudged through the river water.
Then, he murmured: “Do as the soldiers say. Do not be afraid.” The angel in the sky fluttered his wings, approached, watching, but his gaze seemed fixated on the beautiful priest. Suspicious, curious.
They could never quite hide from each other — Michael and Satan — whether behind a helmet or behind a painted face.
They would always feel one another — nearby.
“What’s going to happen?”
Releasing her, Satan moved past the migrants, who called after him, heading toward the bank again, where the good priest was holding up his hands, still demanding answers. “You!” called one of the armed men. “Get back in the river!”
“The rivers will run red with blood,” the beautiful devil mused; it was a line in the Book of Revelation; he would know; he’d known it in every language, in every time, since John first wrote it.
He watched the soldier who’d spoken twitch, finger shuddering against the trigger, barrel pointed at the devil.
Other soldiers shouted, turning their weapons to Satan, as well, and just as Father Tono started stammering, demanding the other priest step back — the devil spoke once more.
With both hands raised by his head, palms facing the soldiers, he stepped before Tono, though not without brushing past him, whispering the word, “Left.”
“ángel?” the good priest helplessly called.
“ángel,” echoed the devil, feeling a looming presence, a shadow trailing closer until it sprawled by his feet.
“There is one with us now.” Slow, a smile began to bloom across his lips, curling them back, exposing perfect teeth.
He reached into the pocket of his cassock, gripped the stout revolver hidden there, then twisted.
Right above, there he was: the cloaked figure with a silver helmet obscuring all of his face and chains dangling from one hand.
However bulky the angel's armor was, Satan caught a sliver of exposed skin between chest plate and head, aimed, shot.
The harsh bang was followed by the hiss of the bullet, then the splatter as it cut right through the angel's throat. Blood, strings of meat, flesh, from Michael the archangel, dribbled onto the river, staining it like oil in sea. Though the humans couldn’t seen him, they saw the red of his blood and the ghost-silhouette of a body.
But, as shouts rang all around, Satan didn’t linger, didn't even stay to watch the saint flutter erratically in the air, plunge down what amounted to two stories.
He did, however, catch Michael's helmet jerk in his direction, so sharp his neck might’ve snapped had it not already burst.
The devil took off, sprinting to the right in the few seconds that he had before any of the armed officers, at either side of the bridge, could recover from the shock of a killed ghost. The bangs of more shots were quick to follow him, as well as the burn of grazing bullets.
Shrill screams surrounded him, all of them.
Michael yelled out, choking on the blood in his mouth.
But the devil ran like it was God after him.