A Demon’s Guide to Getting into Heaven (previously Sneezus Christ)

 

“Bless you.”

Michael nodded his thanks to the middle-aged man with too-large sideburns and round green eyes, and dabbed daintily at his nose with a handkerchief. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

The line at the coffee shop wasn’t as long as he preferred. His plan was to wait, make it to the middle, make eye contact with one of the older women in line (forties preferably but thirties would do), and let it rip. If he looked sympathetic but not sick he would get the best bang for his buck. Or the best bless for his blow, as the case was.  Sadly, the deflated line and the group of gaggling teenage flits wandering the shop only scored him one blessing. Still, a million pennies made ten thousand dollars. Every blessing was a penny. Every blessing counted.

Placing his hanky back into a silk-lined pocket, he pulled a small red notebook from another.  A click of his pen and a line on the paper, and it vanished back into the folds of his blazer before anyone had seen him move. A tingle of pleasant, hellish warmth licked at his toes as he reached the top of the line and ordered the most expensive beverage the place had to offer. He threw a twenty onto the counter, taking his steaming cup of whatever it was, and flashed big, square teeth at the shop girl, who was only half in love with him by the time he strolled out onto the sidewalk. He would have to visit there again. A girl smitten would definitely add one or two marks a week if he timed it right.

A white lit man on the crosswalk signal told him to go but he waited, spotting an old couple with tourist maps and canes. He smiled pleasantly at them and turned to look forlorn at the busy intersection, pretending to scowl at the buzzing taxi-cabs. When the couple stood beside him he threw his head backward and sneezed, making a show of trying to cover his mouth with an elbow and leaning away from them, the elderly being so cautious of their failing health and all. He didn’t even have to dart his eyes at them for the connection to be made.

“Bless you.”

“God bless you.”

He winked at them. “Thank you,” he pulled out the handkerchief again, as dry from the last fake sneeze as it would be after this one. “Allergy season never ends, does it?”

The old man shook his head and then gently reached for his wife’s fingers as they began their treacherous journey down the crosswalk.

He took the notebook out. Two more marks. Where to next? The library? No, not today. The subway station maybe. People moved in and out so fast they never noticed one man standing there for hours. He wasn’t worried about coming off as homeless if someone were to notice his lack of movement: he was wearing his most expensive suit, his most daring cologne, his hair freshly cut, his face freshly shaved. He was GQ, the Hell edition, and he was going to sell like it was nobody’s business. Like it was his job.

He was at 436,200.

“Sixty-three thousand, eight hundred to go,” he muttered, heading to the underground station. Picking out a prime spot was easy. The biggest group was usually near the front of the station, as close to the rails as possible without falling into the hole. He liked it down here. It was warm. It reminded him of Hell.

But he wasn’t as typical as all that. Even as a demon, he could also appreciate, even admire, tall buildings. They promised possibilities. Height.

Sometimes he would walk into a skyscraper like he owned it, passing security officers and cameras like a slick shadow stuck to the wall. If he got into a crowded elevator he wouldn’t pass off the chance for a few marks to add to his ledger, but he didn’t go there for work. He went for the roof. He easily unlocked the doors with a thought and stood on the half-wall of the rooftop and looked down.

The people walking in troves like swarms of nasty little spiders. The cars, pretty little machines, boxes of cheap, sparkling metal, zooming and swerving like deranged centipedes. It was awesome seeing them from up here. That’s how it would look, he decided. When he got into Heaven.

“Sixty-three thousand, eight hundred,” he whispered once more as he wormed his way into a pocket of commuters, shuffling in his Italian leather loafers and giving a slight warning sniff.

The trick was to not look sick. Sick people made healthy people nervous. Sick people didn’t garner as much sympathy, the idea being that they should have stayed home to be sick, and not gone out to spread their sickness around. Spring was easy. Everyone gave him understanding pity nods and smiles. Summer was harder. Winter was impossible. His numbers dropped to fifteen or twenty a day then. He had to make up for it when the pollen alerts went high in April and May. That was his busy season.

He let out a small sneeze; better not to overdo it in this kind of crowd, and heard two separate “bless-you’s,” and one “gesundheit” from a goofy-looking kid in a bright yellow sweatshirt who thought he was funny. Friendly vibe this morning, he noted. It was going to be a good day.

Two more lines in the book. Unfortunately, the Germanic didn’t count since it was only a wish for good health, not actually a “blessing” from one soul to his…lack of one. The phrase was making a comeback, some hipster irony or old-fashioned revelation. He would have to calculate that into his numbers. The word also set his teeth on edge, as a certain number of them would remove a mark from the ledger, given that they technically are intended to remove demons from human bodies. He wasn’t using a human body, just a cleverly crafted disguise, but still, the intention of souls was a fickle and demented thing.

Humans went around saying words like they had no consequence. “Bless you” and “Damn you” and “Go to Hell” and they all counted. They all marked you up from the inside like cuts on an orange and if you had enough your soul would be juice for the devil to drink.

But he wouldn’t let one goofy kid get him down. It was only 7:48 in the morning. The day was his.

Sixty-three thousand, seven hundred and ninety-eight.

By lunch time he had garnered sixteen more blessings and one more gesundheit. One more and he would have to erase a mark. Sighing, he flexed and relaxed the muscles in his thighs; they felt stale under him from standing too long. His suit was covered in the filthy air of the underground system and the itch on his face meant the coal dust was probably clogging his pores. A demon had to look good to get blessed. On his way to his apartment he threw a five into a homeless woman’s empty coffee cup, his notebook out before she opened her mouth.

“Oh, God bless you sir! Bless you! Thank you, thank you!” He huffed out a laugh and marked two more down. She was a regular. She was his favorite. Easy to please, easy to anticipate, easy to reach. She lived in an alleyway close to his building. The building’s security made sure she didn’t get too close, but every day he gave her some money so he knew she would always be there. It was nice, like she was pet. Something that never changed.

Before he could open the glass and faux-gold door to his building, a wave of hot air smacked the back of his skull. His feet seemed to melt into the cement walkway. He couldn’t move.

“Michael, is it?”

Amazed to find that he could suddenly move his feet, Michael turned to find a man, easily into his mid-forties with a wide mouth and a thick beard, glaring at him from only a few steps away.

“Can I help you, gentleman?” Michael asked.

“Yes, I think you can.”

Michael leaned his ear toward the man, waiting for more, but there was nothing. The man just stood there, arms at his side, the busy street bustling with anonymous cars and faces that passed them both without notice. He saw the homeless woman wander by, her eyes straight ahead. Compelled to look away? Blind to him?

“How do you know me?” Michael asked the man. He rarely gave his name to humans, and only a few associates also stuck on this plane until they made their 500,000 blessings knew he was even in this damn predicament.

“I knew your brother,” the man said.

Michael tried to take a step backward but found it impossible. The man was drawing him in. There was a pull, a sharp yanking on his chest that dragged him forward even though every bit of him wanted to run.

“I have many brothers,” Michael deferred. “Which one do you know?”

“I said ‘knew,’” the man corrected.

Michael had three brothers stuck on this plane.  David and Joseph were behind Michael’s numbers. John was ahead by three upon their last check-in. A day could mean the difference in the game, and the bragging rights for being in first were all that kept the task from getting horribly boring. Who would be ready for heaven first?

Once they hit 500,000 human blessings they would be set. They could die and be free. The human façade would wear out fast and it was a constant race. Joseph was a bit weaker, a bit more tired. Michael feared Joseph’s human face would slip and his real self would shine through.

“Which brother?” Michael asked again, this time through gritted teeth so tight his molars might be chipping under the strain.

“Joseph.”

Shit. It was Joseph. Of course it was. Shit again. Joseph’s face was always too close to the surface. He had a harder time being human than David or John. A harder time blending in. It wasn’t every demon for himself up here. It was a group effort. The more demons in Heaven the better.

“What happened to him?”

“Come with me,” the man answered.

Michael’s feet glided across the surface of the ground as some force stronger than even his demonic powers dragged him through the air. Not a single face turned towards the pair, one walking with sure steps South down the street, one half-floating, half struggling against the invisible bonds that skimmed the tips of his loafers across the sidewalk.

They turned into an alley which was bloated with garbage, empty crates, and wooden pallets. Lumps of homeless people twitched and muttered as they passed. At the end of the alley was a chain link fence full of dog-sized holes the rats must use for travel.

Michael dropped to the ground and even though it was only a couple of inches difference, his knees clicked and shook as his feet hit the dirty floor.

“What did you do to Joseph?” Michael asked, fear turning his eyes into big, black orbs.

“Why do you pick names like that?” the man countered.

“If people think you’re religious, they are less likely to feel foolish for blessing you.” He winced. Why did he just say that? Why was he talking at all? Why wasn’t he beating the ever loving life out of this man and leaving his blood to paint the ground? His arms were too heavy to move.

It dawned on him.

“You’re holy,” Michael realized, the whisper struggling to reach his lips.

“I’m the holy,” the man smiled.

An angel then, Michael despaired. He had been found by a goddamned angel.

“What—“ before he could finish the angel raised a hand and Michael felt the blessings on his slowly-developing soul ripped away one by one like the most excruciating wax job he could ever imagine. Over a thousand were gone when the pain stopped and Michael could suck in a breath. The throbbing was intense and if his legs had been allowed to bend he would have slumped onto his knees.

“Where are your other brothers?” he demanded.

“We don’t keep houses.” It felt as if Michael’s teeth were coated in sludge and he wondered if his insides were bleeding somehow.

“Yes, that’s what Joseph said. But he knew where I could look for you. Tell me where I can look for them.”

“John he… he’s in Philly. He works… he works down near some shelter. Some kitchen thing, I don’t know where exactly it is. He sees David a lot. They do jobs together. They won’t tell me how. I think John dresses up like Clergy, but it’s a fake church. Obviously. I don’t… I don’t know anything else.”

“You swear it?” asked the angel.

Michael wanted to rip out his own teeth, his own tongue. He was spilling information like a green soldier. He was over ten thousand years old! This… this thing was pulling truth out of him and it was going to get his brothers! He tried to step forward, to raise an arm, anything, but his muscles were not his own.

“Yes. I swear,” he took a breath. “How are you doing this?”

“Creature, you are not worth the answer.”

The pain ripped through him again, and Michael’s face fell away. The demon within was bare and exposed.  His horns tasted the air and his tongue lolled in his mouth like a dead snake. The blessings he had so carefully collected, over so many years, hundreds of years, were pulled away one by one. The agony ripped through him, white hot, from the inside out. The pain touched every cell, every thought, until he was nothing more than screams, and then he couldn’t even do that. He was nothing.

The angel lowered his hand and rolled his shoulders. The people huddled in this place were vacant-eyed and still. They would come-to in moments, and then he would be gone.

There was no body. Only the notebook was left. The suit, the handkerchief, everything else was dust below the surface of the earth. Lower than dirt. He picked up the ledger and tucked it away.

He would find them one by one. Cleansing them. Revealing them. Destroying them. Each one gave up at least one other. They may be isolated but they haunted the same spots, they tried the same tricks. They were always in populated spots, always in crowds. As many marks as possible. As fast as possible.

He was the best at his job.

One of the women in the alley began to stir and he stopped the sinful pride slinking through his emotions in favor of leaving, heading past her on his way to the mouth of the alleyway.

“Bless you, Sir,” she muttered, as if in her sleep, curling in on herself under a thin layer of paper and clothing.

“Bless you, Child,” he answered, stopping to leave what money he did carry with him on the floor by her hand. As he turned the corner back into the light of the city and civilization, already planning his trip to the QuakerState, he failed to notice the girl as she removed from under her starving belly a thick notebook of crumpled pages covered in lines and dashes and notes. Placing the money under her head as if it were a pillow, she smiled into the grimy floor.

“Three-hundred-four… to go.”

 

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Previously published in The Big Bad: An Anthology of Evil, published by Dark Oak Press, available for purchase here: http://www.amazon.com/The-Big-Bad-Anthology-ebook/dp/B00D3RNNCY