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After the Horsemen
Death
The Darkness
I was a Horseman. Yep, that Horseman. Years ago, I got into a mood and convinced my brothers and sister that humankind were a waste of space on this planet, so we came early. Which was a bad idea. War met his match with this tiny Death Angel. Me, tiny Death Angel and a merry group of freaks. Then Pest got it by none other than our sister, Famine. I think she is the only one who didn’t have to come to this swirling black of nothingness. I had been in there for decades. Then I wasn’t. I was sitting at a long wooden table with Lucifer herself in the open kitchen asking “Tea? I have iced or cinnamon.”
“There is iced tea in Hell?”
“Why yes, only got unsweetened though.”
John Luke Matthews
The Artists
It had been five years since I met Metatron and given my first Holy Assignment. Which, by the way, was to kill Death. Yeah, Death. That Death. I had been a paramedic for Holy City EMS. I had been treated by Raphael himself of PTSD, or what the Angels call a “Tragedy Mark” Apparently, its a large spider web looking thing that grew over my kidneys. For my work, I was allowed to come Topside when I wanted to hang out with The Artists. Michelangelo and a silent Van Gogh opened an Inking Parlor, Vangelo’s and it’s where all the dead artists worth a damn hang out. Picasso is usually sitting in the window arguing about postmodern art with Rothko. Kandinsky is in laying on one of the tables, with a circa 1990 Discman, listening to Nina Simone or The Rolling Stones depending on the day. Dali is usually found bending shit he finds around the shop, quietly, then just leaves them to be found. I thought Van Gogh was going to actually lose his shit and speak when Dali stretched out his inking pen, making it look like Sputnik. DaVinci comes in every so often, usually with Vermeer and Brunochelli. There is always an argument between Michelangelo and Brunochelli over something. It’s always in this old ass dialect of Italian.
On this day, Tron (I’ll get back to him) was busy delivering His Message to members of this “Baptist Church” that is so backwards in their religious thoughts, The Father sent Tron down with a personal message. “Don’t take everything in The Book so literal. I would have already smithed y’all for mixing fabrics. Chill. Love, The Big Guy” PS Leave the Vets alone. And the gays. I was sitting in an empty chair next to Picasso, who was smoking a cigarette and drinking whiskey from this delicate porcelain teacup and DaVinci who had a bucket of legos at his feet digging for a “little grey, flat piece with exactly three clickers.
“Do you know, Boy…”
“Matthews.”
“Oh yes, quite right...John Paul…”
“John Luke.”
“I know that John Luke. Did you know LEGO was...damn. I forgot.”
The shop bell rung and in flew a Baby Bird (young Angel). In a small voice, “Matthews, HG sent me to find you. You must meet him forthwith in the Garden.”
“Why didn’t…”
The little Bird just screeched, “NOW.” And was gone.
I turned to the Artists, “where is the garden...like The Garden, Adam, Eve, apple, serpent garden?”
“Yeah,” said a voice from the back, “That Garden, take The Elevator to the top, go right, then second left, you will meet a hellhound named Janice, bring fingers, there are some in the fridge, then a right, another left, big tree, little tree, both on fire, light you a torch, walk into the tunnel, on exit, left. Do not go right, HG will be on the bench under the Tree of Knowledge.”
“What? I lost you at Hellhound, Kandy.” Then a piece of parchment was thrust into my line of sight. Van Gogh had drawn a map.
“Thanks.” I said as I took it “Pretty, too”
Vincent just smiled and nodded.
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Prologue
John Luke Matthews
The Prophet
I was sucked from one Holy War to another. It was not by choice.
I had spent the day with my buddies that were on this side of the world, the other two that were injured in the explosion. Barns, he lost an arm. I couldn’t get the...thing….the fucking thing...fucking whatsit...anyway, I couldn’t get it tight enough...or loose enough, every was fucking loud and or screaming, I was distracted. He has no arm now. Fuck. But, he doesn’t blame me. Of course he would say that to my face. Then Harrison, he didn’t lose anything, except maybe his fucking mind later. He had been holding Martisovick, who had a fatal head wound. Piece of the Humvee in his skull. I couldn’t help him. So I moved on. Harrison felt him go limp. He hasn’t been fucking right since. We all gather in my room, I am not mobile, my left side was...broken, so I’m all strung up like a fucking **puppet** from multiple frames holding my broken body together while they do my multiple needed surgeries that are needed. Femur both, R hip replacement, both knees, and at least three for my tibfibs, and keeping an eye on my kidneys, they say they don’t want to do surgery on them unless they have to. Everyday, we get up and gather in my room, I’ve learned which wire or cord, or what the fuck ever fucking medieval torture device pulls which bone, or tendon, or whatever. Mostly buy trial and error, move, hurt? Don’t fucking move that way. Barns could always get a nurse to feel sorry for him, you know, no fucking arm, and score an Xbox. So everyday in Room 667, sixth floor of Walter Reed Hospital in Washington DC we fought aliens.
Here is where my story takes a massive turn.
(Should inform you, I am/was a deep down motherfucking CAPITAL A Atheist)
There is this fucking light. I’m pissed because I just fell the fuck to sleep and the fucking nurse isn’t due for another 30 mins to wake you up to take vitals. “Seriously, why do I need my blood pressure taken at fucking 0500. Just check to see if I’m breathing and move on”
“Well now, aren’t we a peach.” a deep smooth voice from the corner.
I jerked awake at the unknown voice, well as best I could till I pulled the wire running through my lower leg, sending an electric shock of pain down my calf. I screamed out, well started to, then a constricting sensation around my throat. I panicked. The voice came again, this time with footsteps. “Calm down, Baby Boy,” the man clicked his tongue, “those wires, be a shame if you snapped one.” He was now sitting by the bed.The man, svelte black man, sharply dressed in a tailored pinstripe suit sat gracefully, crossing his long slender legs. “Now, introductions.”
I had now given up my pointless fight, now just fucking staring at this figure. “What...who...fu…” damn. I remember I can’t speak.
“Don’t speak. You’ve been binded. More you fight the tighter that little device gets. Gift from…doesn’t matter. Anyways. Introductions.” The slender man reached into his inside coat pocket, pulling out a piece of old paper, a pair of reading glasses, and a pocketwatch. He opened the watch, looked at it, crinkled his nose and snapped it shut, putting it back in his pocket. He turned back to me, “I unbind your throat, don’t start all that noise again, they can’t hear you and you will just annoy me. Okay?”
I nodded. I felt the sensation loosen. I rubbed my neck, then screamed “WHAT THE FUCK?” And then shit went black.
I woke up feeling like my goddamn head had been electrocuted, I saw nothing but fog and floaters. I sat straight up in bed, noticed something off and the man or whatever was still sitting in the chair reading something. “WHAT THE FUCK! HOW LONG….WHO. IN. THE. FUCK. ARE. YOU? OR WHAT IN THE FUCK…”
He held up his reading material “Did you read this article about…”
“No, I did not. That Vogue is from 2006”
The man looked at the cover, “Hmm, so it is.” He put the outdated magazine on the table. “Anyway, Brass Tacks. First, swear like that again, I’ll bind you. Understand?”
I heaved a sigh, “whatever you say.”
“Good. Second, name and birthdate?”
“What?”
He took his glasses off and rubbed between his eyes. “Just answer.”
“John Luke Matthews. 3/18/86.”
The man looked at the paper, “Yep, okay. Next. I am Metatron, The Messenger Of Lord.”
“What? Messenger from whom?”
“The Lord.” The thin man said curtly.
“The Lord?” I gave him a look, “The Lord? I want whatever drugs you are on, skinny man.”
He sighed, “You Humans, back in the day you things just went with it.”
“Okay then, Prove it.”
“The...fine. How may I prove it, besides the blinding light, electroshock, and the stopping time.”
“Wings.”
“Wings, what? Fine.”
He stood up, took his coat off, and shook out these large ebony wings.
“Fuck.”
“One more trick for you.” He said walking to the other side of room and sat back in the original chair he appeared in. He was silent. Then there was a loud snap, quick flash, “now, walk.”
“Newsflash, Holy Man, I’m not hanging on these cables like a fucking marionette because I like the look. Fuck you, walk.”
Then he appeared, in a blur, at my bedside. He started undoing all the pins and wires.
“What the fuck are you doing, man? Fucking in stop. I need those, they are literally holding my fucking body the fuck together.”
“I told you to quit swearing. Now shut up, baby boy.” He finished with the last wire. “Walk.”
I stared at the now loose wires. The pins were gone. The pain was gone. The casts were gone.
“Now get out of the bed and WALK! That is an order, soldier.”
I sat up, pulling on the trapeze hanging over my bed.
“Don’t need that.” Heard another snap and the trapeze was gone. “Get up. On your own. And BLESSED WALK”
“GIVE ME A GODDAMN SECOND, YOU FUCKING BIRDMAN.” I got up on my elbows, then my arms, then I was sitting up. I looked over at the winged creature who had gone back to the chair in the corner, who was looking very impatient. He took out a nail buffer and started buffing his nails, never actually looking up, just over his hands at me.
“Dude, I’ve been strung up on these things since I got back, give me a fucking minute to digest what the ACTUAL FUCK IS GOING ON! I, an atheist by the way, have a goddamn fucking ANGEL in my hospital room and not just any fucking Angel, but apparently GOD’S FUCKING PERSONAL MESSENGER BOY, who just undid my web, and is getting fucking impatient because I won’t walk on FUCKING COMMAND. WHAT THE FUCK.” I got done with my rant, then stopped suddenly. I was standing in front of the man in the pinstriped suit.
“So, what do you know about Death?
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