Well, I just killed the last Angel who wandered through my (now broken) front door, and my sexy little burden is still unconscious in the next room, so I decided I'd do some writing and put down my thoughts. I figure with my Dad's weapon collection I can hold 'em off as long as it takes. Or at least until the fucking candle burns out.

My English teacher once told me that no mater how horrorific a story the reader should always have some compassion for the main character. Thing is, I never did agree much with him (and only months ago I found out the old bastard was a fruit, so I guess I really didn't agree with him) so allow me to introduce myself, as honestly as possible: My name is Art Falkirk. If you're wondering, "Art" is short for "Artimus"; my parents were sick. I am the wealthy son of a wealthy lawyer, my hobbies consist of watching movies and complaining, and I'm a terminally depressed bigot.

Oh, one more thing: I'm all but a quarter French.

Feeling that compassion start to flow yet?

I really shouldn't bother asking questions, rhetorical or not, considering the chances of someone reading this are slim, so I'll just cut to the chase and start where I figure things should start: outside the neighborhood bakery, with my best friend Charlie.

(Ex-best friend. Gotta remember that.)

Charlie was the kind of guy your girlfriend, if neglected long enough, would run to for a couple of blissful weeks -- before deciding that the sensitive, caring, wonderful man that she always searched for just wasn't enough to hold her interest. Don't get me wrong, Charlie wasn't nice to the point of sickening... he was nice to the point of a six month coma. The only reason I hung out with him was that he was a habitual over-spender and always had money enough for getting a couple of lunches on the way to work. Well, that and the fact that my father hated him.

Anyway, this morning me and Charlie were doing the usual philosophical bullshit thing we do every day. He'd bring up some dandy new topic he picked off the news, I'd rip it to shreds, he'd act shocked at how heartless I was. Every day, it seemed, Charlie would find something which would enrage him (the homeless problem, racism, drugs, teen sex), and would repeat -- line for line -- the news report. Thing is, he didn't just recite the report, he acted like it was his own opinion, to the point where he acted like it was the bloody Word of God.

And if I wasn't fond of religion then, well, I certainly have my reasons now. We all do.

I glanced around for some sort of distraction, but could find none. The streets were empty and wet. A light rain had started ten minutes before, giving everything a slick and strangely sterile look despite the mud and trash in the gutters. The only person in sight was a crumpled looking bum who was passed out against a phone booth. No point in trying to use him as a distraction, though. I'd rather argue race than the homeless any day.

So, just as Charlie was prattling off the last of his argument for Affirmative Action, his sis called to us from across the parking lot. Usually I hate distraction, but this morning I embraced it. I was this close to beating Charlie over his thick skull with my infamous "Half our fucking country fought and died to free 'em, and they still act like we owe them something?" argument, which would most likely have won me nothing but a funny look from Charlie. A "What's wrong with you?" look.

I hate that.

"You guys!" Cynthia Brown called as she bounced towards us. "Didja hear about the Armageddon?" For the first time, I realized Charlie's sister was turning out to be quite a looker, but pushed such thoughts out of my head. She was only sixteen, after all, and quite off limits. At least, legally. You can't blame a guy for thinking. And I've thought a lot since this morning.

"Cynth," I growled, a bit angry with myself for checking out a 'local cow'. "What in the hell are you talking about?"

She didn't answer until she reached us. I hated that, too. Out of the corner of my eye I saw movement near the phone booth, but didn't give it a second thought due to the tight jeans Cynthia was wearing. Goddamn libido. I prefer ego any day.

"Hell? Close," Cynthia grinned. She had a strange look on her face, much unlike her usual apathetic visage. "It finally happened. I just saw it on TV. All networks; all channels; even on sets which're shut off at the time. Hell, guys, I'm surprised you haven't heard. Didn't you notice how quiet things are?"

Before I could shoot off another "What the hell are you talking about", it hit me: Things were quiet. And, to abuse a cliche, too quiet. There weren't even any cars coming down the road. Hick town or not, light rain or not, there should have been at least a rusty Ford rumbling down the lane. "Yeah, so? Maybe it's free beer day in the ballpark again. You know that always gets the natives --"

"No, no! I was picked by Darkness!" she gasped, still a bit out of breath from the run. It was a cute little gasp, too.

"Darkness, huh? Let me guess. Manson's coming to town. But you can't be this worked up over him; he's a queer. I hear he gives a good blow, though, so Charlie might --"

I didn't finish for two reasons: The first is I realized the strange look on Cynthia's face was anticipation mixed with pride, the kinda thing you see on a guy the day after his first lay. The second reason is Charlie's meaty elbow was, at the time, wedged deep in my stomach. Gotta love white trash. Especially the violent, self-righteous kind.

Doubled over, I glared up at Charlie and said, "Cynth, you screwed up little Goth wannabe, if you're going to do drugs, don't take more than you can handle." I smiled, inwardly, when I noticed her look of pride was replaced with hurt. She tried to kill herself last year. O.D.'d on sleeping pills. Now, trendy death-babe or not, she refused to even drink coffee.

"I'm talking about the end of the world, Arty," Cynthia said quietly. "The end of it all. We're finally going to know who's stronger. I was picked by Darkness. Isn't that great? I'm so glad I wasn't one of flamin' white losers. I can't wait until I fall asleep!"

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Charlie Brown (shit, did I have fun with his name. I think I'm starting to miss him already) and his whacked out sister, standing on the corner of Dunkin' Donuts discussing the end of the world -- as if there was such a thing. I had enough. I threw my arms dramatically in the air (one of my favorite gestures) and looked around for someone, anyone, who I could turn to. The bum was slowly making his way towards us. He was slowly taking off his clothing, letting layer by layer fall to the ground. I looked away, hoping he wouldn't come to me for a handout. Or a date.

I snapped. "Cynthia, if you don't shut up and tell me what the fuck you're talking about I'm going to tell Charlie where you were last night."

Charlie make a squeak of protest, but before he could chide me for yelling at his sister Cynthia took a deep breath and gave me the strangest explanation I have ever heard in my life. If it wasn't for the fact that she was telling me God and the Devil finally got off their respective asses and declared their own little Un/Holy war, I'd have probably given more notice to Charlie's enraged glare. I figure it was the "last night" thing. Overprotective brothers, one of life's simple pleasures.

But I digress. That candle is near halfway gone, and I haven't even gotten to the good parts yet. Well, the violent parts. But if it sells movies, it'll sell this story easy. Oh, and if you're wondering how I remembered all this, it's because I didn't. I'm reciting this from a very frazzled memory right now, so everything might not have happened just so. But I remember it this way, and that's what counts.

One moment, checking on Cynth.

OK, she's still kicking. But time's running short, so it seems I'll have to skip over some dialog. No matter, you were probably growing sick of my awkward prose anyway. Everyone's a critic.

No one spoke for several moments. It was just me, Charlie and Cynthia. Staring at each other under a cold rain. For some reason, I didn't shoot her story down. I wanted to, but I couldn't. The rain, the bum, the story, the girl. Alone, hardly shocking; together, surreal. It felt as if we were in stasis. A stasis which I didn't dare tarnish with my usual colorful commentary.

Finally, Charlie broke the silence: "So, this is it, sis? Humans fighting for God?"

"Or the Devil," Cynthia added. She told him he just had to close his eyes and wait for an image to appear. A giant pearl if you're aligned with the big white guy, a vast ebony sea if you're destined for flames. Charlie looked to the sky, mouthed a silent prayer, then closed his eyes.

The rain seemed louder as we sat there, waiting for Charlie. The rain seemed louder, and the bum stumbled closer. I didn't like the look of Charlie, his forehead wrinkled and mouth pressed tightly. Nor did I like how Cynthia continued to lick her lips, it was too damn distracting. But what I really didn't like was the wretched fellow who was barely ten feet away. He looked sick. Really, really sick.

"Shit," I muttered. "I don't like this."

Charlie startled me by letting out a bellowing whoop and leaping into the air like a puppy trying to reach a scrap of meat. "Yes!" he cried, "I'm good! I'm an..." Words failed him. Cynthia looked disgusted. "Aww, shit. I'd better not take a nap around you or --"

Then everything happened at once.

The bum made a sudden lunge towards Cynthia. He grabbed her by the upper arms and pulled her oversized t-shirt downwards. With a growl, he bit into her uncovered shoulder. Cynthia screamed, and tried to push him away, but was either too weak or too shocked to accomplish much. Charlie yelled his sister's name, but made no move to save her. He was too freaked out to do anything; I too weak. I knew if one of us didn't react soon, the bastard would bite again, and this time might cause more damage than the huge welt which was already forming on her soft, white flesh.

I guess I was pretty juiced -- fear, coffee and lust make one hell of a recipe for adrenaline -- because without wondering what that fuckhead would do to me once I pried him off of Cynthia, I dove forward with an impromptu tackle and knocked the bum to the ground. It was a grade 'A' tackle, the kinda tackle a jock dreams of pulling off. One in a million. Goddamn, it rocked.

My sudden burst of pride was shot to hell when I noticed that, despite being knocked to the ground, the guy still had hold of Cynthia's shoulders. She was pulled downwards, and the three of us ended sprawled in the gutter.

All of this took five, maybe six seconds.

As I scrambled to my feet, I got an up-close-and-personal look at the bum. His skin was pasty. His eyes whirled around in their sockets madly. He was dressed in only a filthy tee shirt and jeans, having thrown aside his clothes while making way to us. But it wasn't his vacant expression, gnashing teeth or guttural growls which worried me; it was the dark liquid pouring out from a wound the ground tore in his unprotected arms.

"He's not human!" Charlie yelled, finally shaking off his initial fear long enough to drag Cynthia away from the rabid transient. Cynthia made no effort to stand on her own. "Arty?" Charlie said, his voice suddenly childlike. "I think she hit her head..."

I kicked the piece of trash in his stomach, then kicked again -- hard enough to send him rolling a few feet away. "So?" I snapped, more than a bit annoyed that Charlie was worried about a bump on the noggin when the world was quickly turning to a load of... well, you know.

That's when I saw all the blood in Cynthia's hair. So much blood for such a tiny girl. A tiny, beautiful, unconscious girl. I couldn't help it. Then-atheist or not, I whispered:

"God, no."

The rain fell. Never growing harder, never showing any signs of letting up. The rain fell on me; on Charlie; on the thrashing, mindless bum; and on Cynthia, the Gothic Princess who had hit her head on the sidewalk and never woke up again.

Me and Charlie started to drag Cynthia back to my house. The bum gave us no trouble, seemingly interested only in conscious girls. The last we saw of him, he was curled up in a fetal position, a look of bliss on his face. I was disgusted. It was like he was being rewarded for trying to kill Cynthia. I'll remember that look until the day I die. Which is, all things considering, today. When there's no tomorrow, everything is today.

On the way to the house we saw an overweight woman across the street. She was hard to miss. Not only because of her size and the horrid hunters orange jacket she wore, but because she was being chased by another lunatic who looked to be a mechanic: he was dressed in a blue, grease covered jump suit. She screamed to us for help. Charlie started to ask if we could do something. I shook my head and picked up Cynthia's arms. We had our own problems. Besides, she shouldn't have worn hunters orange. I mean, come on.

(Damnit. Candle. Hurry.)

We reached my front yard without further incident. We lost sight of the fat lady a few blocks back when she dove behind some bushes. Shockingly enough, the foliage did nothing to stop the mechanics advancement. Her screams of terror turned to screams of agony. I guess Cynthia wasn't the only one being attacked that day.

Cynth was covered in blood. Head wounds always bled more than they should, but for some reason her's stopped a few minutes after she fell. At first, I was scared: dead Goths don't bleed. But a quick check of her pulse told me Cynthia Brown was alive and well. OK, alive.

I told Charlie to stay by Cynthia's side (he was still talking to her; urging her to wake up) and tried to unlock the front door, only to find it swung open easily. "Charlie," I called. "Something's not right here. Dad'd never leave the house unlocked." Then it hit me, and at once I knew my father wouldn't be that much help. Old man Falkirk was more likely than not as dead as Hunters Orange back there.

"What?" Charlie asked, peering through the open door.

"Just get ready. Whatever that bum and mechanic had is spreading."

Spreading indeed.

Charlie ambled back down the porch and picked up Cynthia like a doll, throwing her over his shoulder with a sudden burst of strength. For a moment, I envied him. But just a moment. I stepped inside the dark house and tried the light switch. Dead. "Just like everything else," I muttered.

"What's that?" Charlie asked, sliding past me and into the living room.

I told him "Nothing" and made a beeline for a redwood-and-glass display case which stood a good six feet tall. Dad liked to keep his gun collection in plain view. He thought it gave a sense of machismo which would impress any wealthy clients who thought their case important enough to warrant a house call. I could care less about clients or my father, I just wanted the guns.

I looked back for a moment and saw Charlie lay his sister down on the couch. He had wiped the blood off of Cynthia's face and dark hair. Once again, I felt desire wash over me, like a wave. Lust, or something mixed with lust. Bloodstained, unconscious, sixteen or not -- she was wonderful. I bit my lip to clear my mind. Hard.

"Charlie," I called over my shoulder. "'The fuck you think's going on?"

Charlie was perched on the couch, staring intently at his sister. "A man tried to kill her, Arty. It's the end of the world, and we're the pawns." He remained quiet for so long I thought he was finished, then: "No, not pawns. Warriors. Angels and Demons, fighting to decide who gets control of our little world. Or maybe our souls. A Demon tried to take her from me."

I took off my soaking sweatshirt and wrapped it around my hand. "That's bull, Charles," I said dryly. "Even if this was the end of the world, Cynthia said she worked for the man down under, so that was no 'demon' back there." Behind me, Charlie sighed. He sounded very, very tired. Without giving any warning (it slipped my mind, OK?) I punched through the glass doors of the display case, and hoped my sweatshirt would be enough to save my hand from harm.

It wasn't. But the sweatshirt must've served as a built in turniqet -- or however the fuck you spell that -- because the bleeding stopped pretty quickly. If it wasn't for the pain, I wouldn't have been all that alarmed. Charlie offered to look for some gauze, but I told him to stick by Cynthia and keep an eye out for anything funny. Or insane. Or biblical. Or whatever.

I picked up a shotgun with my good hand and started poking around for shells. I don't know if it was the pain or the fact that a bum had recently tried to eat my best friend's little sister, but for some reason (the pain), I found myself starting to warm up to the whole divine intervention theory... as much as I hated to admit it. "Hey, Charlie? Why do you suppose only some of us have gone crazy, like the bum? If it's a side-effect of this jihad shit, then why haven't we --"

That's when I heard him scream.

I turned around in time to see my father, or what used to be my father, shambling down the stairs. Even though he looked the same -- save for a little wear, a little tear, and the fact that he was covered in dried blood -- he sure didn't act the same. Dad was jerking down each step, his knees locking and unlocking like a toy soldier. He looked at me, and for a moment his features showed a perfect look of confusion.

For a moment, I thought he might snap out of it. You know, like in the movies, where the Girl Who Is Pure Of Heart says, "It's me! Don't hurt me! I love you!", and her possessed boyfriend fights off the evil, turns good and dispatches the monster in time for the credits to roll. "Hey, Dad?" I said quietly, feeling kind of foolish. "Remember me?"

Fat. Fucking. Chance.

The absent minded look slipped from my father's face and he quickened his descent. He was only five feet away from the bottom step, which was, in turn, a few feet away from me. I looked at the empty shotgun in my hand, then my dad, then Charlie (who was screaming for God to save us), then back at my useless weapon. I wished, just for a second, that like the bum, my dad was going after Cynthia. And not me.

(Candle flickering heavily; pardon the lack of a Hollywood caliber action scene, no time.)

I dove down and began searching the tiny wooden accessory drawers which lined the lower quarter of the display case. Dad was at the foot of the steps now, his arms extended, his eyes hungry. "Charlie!" I screamed. "Get this fuckwit away from me!" There were only two drawers left. I only needed ten, maybe twenty seconds to load the gun. I had five.

Lucky for me, Charlie finally stopped praying and leapt off the couch, opting to beat the holy-hell out of my father rather than wait for God. Dad lost interest in me and wrapped his thin fingers around Charlie's neck. From the look on Charlie's face, Dad wasn't the weakling he was yesterday. In fact, Dad looked like he was about to rip ol' Charlie's head off and spike it on the living room carpet.

Turning my attention back to the task at hand, I found the box of bullets and struggled to remember how to load an f'n shotgun. To my right, Charlie was making low, gurgling sounds. That must have inspired me, 'cause the instructions flooded into my head. Fear enhancing my speed, I had the shotgun loaded in no time. I stood to full height, swung the shotgun around, and pointed it where my father's head should have been.

Only, Dad wasn't standing on the bottom stair and strangling Charlie anymore. He was kneeling over Charlie's body and gnawing on his neck like an animal. "Oh, shit," I said. "Shit, shit, shit." Charlie looked slowly up at me, his eyes glassy and unfocused. "Help," he gurgled.

Without pausing to think of a witty one-liner, I lowered the shotgun to my father's head and fired.

I have never even seen someone shot before, not in real life. I have also never seen someone shot in the head at close range with a shotgun. The results were swift and irreversible: My father pushed off Charlie, fragments of brain and skull painting the walls; the kickback from the shotgun knocking me into the broken gun case, shards tearing though my back; nausea forcing me to drop the gun and heave. I would check on my best friend in a moment. All I could think about then was emptying my stomach.

(I've got maybe two minutes, the rest will be rushed.)

The broken glass ripped up my back pretty bad, but I barely noticed the pain. Soon as I could stand, I moved to Charlie's side. At first, I was hoping the blood covering his upper torso was all my Dad's. Hope, as it usually does, failed me. His wound was worse than I thought. Charlie Brown was going to die.

We did our final moments thing. It was just like in the movies, where the cop tells his partner "Don't die!" and his partner, stupidly, chooses not to take his advice. I was surprised by my own tears. I never knew how much I cared for the big guy until he was laying before me bleeding to death. The final words out of Charlie's lips were "Take care of Cynthia." Then, with a shudder, his life fled to the very god that had killed him.

Which brings us to now. I checked the rest of the house, and found the origin of all that dried blood which was covered my father: my mother. I didn't bury her. There are too many of them on the streets now.

I'm growing tired, but I have to fight off sleep, and not just because of the monsters outside. You see, in the last few hours I've had little to do besides shoot anyone who tries to get a hold of me and Cynth, which left me plenty of time for thinking. I think I figured out what Cynthia was talking about when she said she couldn't catch a few winks around Charlie: That's when you change.

How does a battle between two evenly matched armies, one good, one evil, ever come to a end? Simple. You do something to change the odds. Even if only a few hours, if one side has the advantage over the other, that's enough for at least some kind of change. And in a few more hours? Team Darkness gets the ball. And guess what? We're the fucking ball.

Half the time, you're human. Running, defending, scared, and more likely than not, dead. The other half, you're one of Them. Demon or Angel, it makes no difference, as long as you kill until something -- somehow -- wakes you up. They drew straws on who gets who on their team long ago, I suspect. Pearl and River have lain dormant within us all, waiting to be unleashed.

It never stopped raining. Before the final light of day disappeared, I checked outside for signs of flooding. None. I think the rain has some significance. This might sound a little crazy, but I think that time -- assuming it exists -- has stopped. No lights, no cars, no change at all. Just humans, monsters, light, darkness and rain. Maybe when the last Demon or Angel is slain, the rain'll stop and the world will awaken again, minus us pesky humans. Maybe that's not it, though. Maybe we have a chance to survive. Maybe the rain'll just end in forty days.

Maybe not.

Cynthia never woke up. She's still on the couch. Beautiful. Vulnerable. She hasn't changed because she's not asleep, not really. She's in a coma, or something worse. I can't tell. I'm not a doctor. But I have the strangest feeling she's lost. As if she was searching for a way to move on to the next plane of existence, but the Light at the End of the Tunnel was turned off. Maybe all tickets to Heaven are on hold until this thing's over. Maybe that's why I didn't bleed to death when I had my little dance on the broken glass. Why let your troops kill themselves or die in accidents? That's not efficient military tactics, soldier.

Every now and then Cynthia makes little gasping noises, like she's drowning. I can identify. We all are.

I'd kill myself, but I'm afraid of what will happen. I might be trapped like Cynthia. I'm too much a coward to risk that. Death, sure. Eternity, no.

(Flicker, flicker, why not just burn out you little bastard?)

That's about all there is to tell. Cynthia is unconscious, Charlie is dead, the world has gone to hell. Or limbo, if you prefer. I'm doing pretty good, all things considering. My hand and back hurt, but I'm not about to die. I've got plenty of ammo, food and water. Even the mound of bodies in my doorway is even doing me good: they're warding off their brothers quite nicely. All is well in the Falkirk residence. There is just one problem: Shortly after Charlie died, I closed my eyes and saw a beautiful glowing pearl.

(It's out, now. But I don't care about light anymore. I just want all this to end.)

Now I know why I've felt such a desire for Cynthia.

It's dark. It's quiet. I'm falling asleep.

Charlie, forgive me.