Read Online Jump: The Fallen: Testament 1 by Steve Windsor - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Steve Windsor
Tags: Religious Fiction, Psychological Suspense, metaphysical fiction, Religious Distopian Thriller, best mystery novels, best dystopian novels
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head, infecting my brain. If it wasn’t for the red wings and dark red feathers covering everything but his face, I’d say he looked like a State politician. And when he smiles, he looks just like one. Little, baby-harp-seal-colored teeth that look like he just ate an infant for the cameras. Not how I pictured him at all.
I blurt it out without thinking. “Where’s your tail?” I ask. Then I feel a shiver go through my whole body, but he should have a tail, right? And horns? He is red, I guess, so at least the God-dogs got that right. If it is. . .? That’s just crazy—I’m hallucinating. I hope Kelly wipes the carrots off my chin, because this . . . this is just a ghost story they tell to try and keep us compliant. Most people have stopped listening. But deep in the back of our minds . . . when we think about death, it's hard not to be afraid of judgment and damnation.
“I had it cropped,” he says, and his smile makes me think he’s only half-joking.
I think I lean to see behind him, but I’m feeling . . . fuzzy, so maybe it's something else. “Nice . . . wings.” I say it, but it feels like I’m talking in slow motion, watching someone else speak for me. Hope he doesn’t get me killed. The wings are . . . beautiful, is the only way I can describe them, but I never imagined him as. . . I mean, the guy looks like a dark red angel.
His laugh echoes through the emptiness. It’s maniacal and goosebumps prickle my whole body. My nostrils burn a little when I smell his breath. It’s confident and . . . final, a bit like the smoke after the last fireworks on a Fourth of Freedom barbecue. He’s definitely not where the molasses and cookie smell came from.
“Ah,” he says, “the stories they tell you.”
It’s weird, because it feels kinda like meeting the Prime Officer of the huge corporation you work for—I’m just trying not to make a mistake and he’s wondering how many credits I cost him, or why the hell I'm on the revenue-rolls at all.
And he’s smiling like he just figured out a joke he was working on. I don’t think I wanna know the punchline.
I should be afraid, but all I feel is . . . anger. “Apparently, they aren’t stories,” I say.
“Yes . . . however,” he says. Then he stops, cocks his head to the side a little and sniffs in a blast of air.
For a second the heat subsides, but when he breathes out through his mouth, I smell the warmth of . . . souls? The sound of wailing women, chained in agony, rushes past my face and I can smell the torment on his breath. Believe me, I know what misery smells like. But there’s something else, too . . . understanding. I can see it in his eyes.
“You ever tell stories, Jake?” he asks.
He knows my name. Santa Claus? Shit, I’m on the naughty list. We’re off to a bad start on that. I’m sure he knows I’ve told my fair share of stories. What else is there to do in a Protection smoke . . . other than drink shitty coffee?
“Yes,” he says. Then he smiles so I can see all of his teeth. “I am sure you have.”
His teeth are perfectly aligned, but they are . . . unnatural. Like an old cinewave star who’s had too much dental work. How he keeps them from being bloodstained red from all the— “Why are your teeth so white?” The questions are coming out too easy. I guess I’m curious. Anyway, I’m not going anywhere, so I might as well get some answers. Sure, the fear and the fog in my mind are fucking with me, but there must be a reason he hasn’t just eaten my soul by now. If that’s what they do.
He rolls his eyes around a little. Kinda like he’s trying not to be impatient. His sockets are deep, but the eyes . . . light blue? “I like that about you,” he says.
“What?”
He folds his hands together, slowly weaving his long fingers, alternating one then another like he’s wrapping them around a bat. He grips them together like he’s done it a billion times, threatening me without saying anything. Silence is the
I blurt it out without thinking. “Where’s your tail?” I ask. Then I feel a shiver go through my whole body, but he should have a tail, right? And horns? He is red, I guess, so at least the God-dogs got that right. If it is. . .? That’s just crazy—I’m hallucinating. I hope Kelly wipes the carrots off my chin, because this . . . this is just a ghost story they tell to try and keep us compliant. Most people have stopped listening. But deep in the back of our minds . . . when we think about death, it's hard not to be afraid of judgment and damnation.
“I had it cropped,” he says, and his smile makes me think he’s only half-joking.
I think I lean to see behind him, but I’m feeling . . . fuzzy, so maybe it's something else. “Nice . . . wings.” I say it, but it feels like I’m talking in slow motion, watching someone else speak for me. Hope he doesn’t get me killed. The wings are . . . beautiful, is the only way I can describe them, but I never imagined him as. . . I mean, the guy looks like a dark red angel.
His laugh echoes through the emptiness. It’s maniacal and goosebumps prickle my whole body. My nostrils burn a little when I smell his breath. It’s confident and . . . final, a bit like the smoke after the last fireworks on a Fourth of Freedom barbecue. He’s definitely not where the molasses and cookie smell came from.
“Ah,” he says, “the stories they tell you.”
It’s weird, because it feels kinda like meeting the Prime Officer of the huge corporation you work for—I’m just trying not to make a mistake and he’s wondering how many credits I cost him, or why the hell I'm on the revenue-rolls at all.
And he’s smiling like he just figured out a joke he was working on. I don’t think I wanna know the punchline.
I should be afraid, but all I feel is . . . anger. “Apparently, they aren’t stories,” I say.
“Yes . . . however,” he says. Then he stops, cocks his head to the side a little and sniffs in a blast of air.
For a second the heat subsides, but when he breathes out through his mouth, I smell the warmth of . . . souls? The sound of wailing women, chained in agony, rushes past my face and I can smell the torment on his breath. Believe me, I know what misery smells like. But there’s something else, too . . . understanding. I can see it in his eyes.
“You ever tell stories, Jake?” he asks.
He knows my name. Santa Claus? Shit, I’m on the naughty list. We’re off to a bad start on that. I’m sure he knows I’ve told my fair share of stories. What else is there to do in a Protection smoke . . . other than drink shitty coffee?
“Yes,” he says. Then he smiles so I can see all of his teeth. “I am sure you have.”
His teeth are perfectly aligned, but they are . . . unnatural. Like an old cinewave star who’s had too much dental work. How he keeps them from being bloodstained red from all the— “Why are your teeth so white?” The questions are coming out too easy. I guess I’m curious. Anyway, I’m not going anywhere, so I might as well get some answers. Sure, the fear and the fog in my mind are fucking with me, but there must be a reason he hasn’t just eaten my soul by now. If that’s what they do.
He rolls his eyes around a little. Kinda like he’s trying not to be impatient. His sockets are deep, but the eyes . . . light blue? “I like that about you,” he says.
“What?”
He folds his hands together, slowly weaving his long fingers, alternating one then another like he’s wrapping them around a bat. He grips them together like he’s done it a billion times, threatening me without saying anything. Silence is the
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