The Maze The Lost Labyrinth - By Jason Brannon Page 0,36

Gene where he stood. “I want you to go away.”

Although he didn’t want to admit it, something stirred inside him, and reacted to what Carl was saying. More than anything else, he wanted to shut the door and leave this nut job standing out in the cold, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not even when he heard the microwave cursing from the kitchen and ordering him to close the door.

Carl held up both hands. “I understand. I don’t want to try and pressure you into anything. I think I’ve said enough for now. I can go now and come back some other time that’s more convenient.”

“That might be for the best,” Darrell Gene admitted. “My head feels a little muddled.”

“Conviction sometimes works that way. Why don’t I stop by later on in the week?”

“Just go!” Darrell Gene shut the door in Carl’s face. “Now!”

“It’s all a big lie,” the appliances told him once the door was closed again. “If God is love, then why did He allow your family to fall apart?”

It was a fair question. “You tell me,” Darrell Gene said. “You seem to be a regular fount of information.”

“I would think the answer to be an obvious one. Your life certainly hasn’t been filled with a lot of love.”

“No, it hasn’t.”

“So you know we’re telling you the truth. We’re leveling with you, not trying to fill you with a bunch of false hope.”

“But the things I’m doing---they’re helping you. Isn’t that right? Tormenting the family across the street hasn’t changed my life one little bit.”

“Not yet.”

Darrell Gene’s head snapped up at the implied promise. “What do you mean?”

“Just trust us. You wouldn’t question us, now would you?”

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 scraping against the rock, the steady motion of his arm pushing 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 God 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 damned. Somewhere in the distance, a war trumpet sounded and God’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