What Would Satan Do_ - Anthony Miller [37]
Chapter 13. Friggin’ FBI Agents Everywhere
Satan raised his hands slowly. Fifteen FBI agents stood shoulder-to-shoulder in a semicircle facing the open elevator, pointing guns of various sizes and shapes at him. Some of the weapons were very large and very unpleasant looking. His FBI nemesis, agent Bob Robertson, stood in the dead center of the group.
“Lie down on the floor,” said Robertson. “Now.”
Satan stared at Robertson. He lowered his hands and, leaning over, put them on his knees. He slid one leg back, as if he were about to lie down, and scanned the eyes of the men with all the guns. They were just men, he thought. Just men.
The elevator lobby exploded with light.
A few seconds later, Robertson sat up and looked around. His agents lay sprawled all over the floor. Satan’s body sat in an awkward heap near the elevator door. One of those “EXIT” signs with the red, illuminated letters dangled precariously from the ceiling and then fell, smashing to bits on the floor.
Robertson turned to look up at the point on the ceiling from where the sign had fallen, but stopped as he spotted a very large, very well-lit man standing in front of the elevator. The man had wings. Really big wings, which seemed to stretch from one end of the lobby to the other. He was the most beautiful thing Robertson had ever seen.
Satan rolled his neck and sighed. It was good to stretch his wings, even if it was only for a moment. He felt light and unencumbered. His mind raced, free of the thought-inhibiting sludge that slowed and muddied his thoughts as a human. He opened his eyes and stared down at Robertson, who was still on the floor, looking a little shocked.
“What—?”
The Devil pressed a finger to his lips. “Shhhh,” he said, and turned to lift his human body and place it just inside the open elevator. The door chime bonged as the door tried to shut, thwarted by the body of one of the agents. He turned back to Robertson with a kindly smile. “Relax, my friend.”
A warm breeze began to blow there, in front of the elevators, and Robertson suddenly felt very calm and a little sleepy. He closed his eyes, feeling the warm air on his face, and let his head drift back, as if he were settling into a bath.
After just a moment, however, the breeze picked up, swirling and scattering papers and other garbage from the offices nearby. The temperature began to rise. The comfortable warmth on Robertson’s face faded, replaced by the sensation of having been out in the sun a little too long.
The wind blew faster and began to make a faint, whistling sound that grew to an insistent howl. The small trashcan in front of the elevator suddenly burst into flames. One of the slumbering agents began to stir, apparently awakened as his clothes started to smolder. Robertson reached for his gun but immediately dropped it, yelling out in pain as he clutched his now burnt hand to his chest.
The walls began to smoke; the paint blistered and bubbled and, after a few seconds, fell in ashy chunks to the floor. Flames burst out from the holes in the paint and spread across the walls. An alarm sounded and sprinkler heads dropped from the ceiling, but the nozzles sprayed no water – only steam.
Satan stood over the scene with the beatific countenance of a priest at a wedding. He glanced over at Robertson, who was standing now and looking down at his shoes, the soles of which had melted to the floor. He glanced up from his liquefying footwear, meeting Satan’s eyes.
“My home is here now,” said Satan. He smiled again – a warm, comforting smile – and watched as Robertson’s flesh evaporated, leaving just a pile of bones and ash.
Satan stooped down to scoop up his own lifeless human body and stepped back into the elevator, pausing only to kick the smoldering remains of an agent out of the way. He waited for a good thirty seconds as alarms sounded and the elevator doors failed to close. Finally he peeked his head back out of the elevator, and strode off to find some