It was odd, but for some reason I was thinking about my ex-girlfriend, who was my justification for moving to Hawk Claw in the first place. I’m not sure I was having coherent thoughts, but I felt as if I could see everything clearly for a few seconds. Janet had been like a bad apple—beautiful on the outside, but rotten underneath. She had lied to me with ease and thought nothing of it. That was what passed for normal in her world. She was damaged, and she would never be whole again. In that moment, I was no longer angry at her; I felt nothing but pity.
Then I smelled the burning building and snapped back to reality. Gibbons said, “We need to create a distraction. We’ll make it seem like we’re going out the far door, but everyone goes out this door here. We’ll stay together and try to shoot our way out.”
“What kind of distraction?” asked Sheriff Edwards.
“I’ll go,” said Reverend Santos, and before anyone could object, he let go of Moira Fitzgerald’s hand and started for the far door. He moved quickly. Smoke was pouring in from the front of the building and it was already getting hard to breathe. We ducked low to reduce our exposure. Reverend Santos didn’t seem to notice and continued walking as the smoke enveloped his head. He was halfway to the door when we heard the howling.
It had been eerily quiet so we couldn’t miss the sounds of the dogs—the screeching and baying of famished wolves, like from a horror soundtrack. It sounded the way I imagined hell would sound; it was pure distilled malevolence. The first hound came charging at Reverend Santos from the front of the building, and I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It was on fire, sprinting rapidly toward him like a fireball shot from a cannon. The flaming creature darted toward Father Santos and then the crack of a rifle in my ear nearly deafened me.
Luckily, Cody McDonough had been ready—I still had my rifle pointed at the floor with the safety on—and the beast went limp and tumbled into a ball of burning fur that came to rest by Reverend Santos. When the second dog came through the door, we were expecting it, and all of us started firing. It bloomed red as the bullets pierced its smoking fur. It died long before it got close to Father Santos, who was at the other exit now. As he grabbed the doorknob, he yelled, “Emily! Never forget your faith!”
I saw Emily’s face and I knew that she had heard him, and then Reverend Santos opened the door. I hadn’t known what to expect, but nothing happened immediately—he simply slipped through the opening and we could no longer see him through the smoke. We waited for what seemed like ages, but it was probably only a few more seconds, and then Sheriff Edwards counted out to us, “Three… Two… One…” and pulled our door open. He went out first, and then Agent Gibbons followed. After that, the rest of us went through. Cody McDonough went last, behind me and Emily.
When we got outside, there was only brightness—the light was blinding, and it rendered my eyes momentarily useless. I couldn’t understand why it was so bright. It was like staring straight at the sun. I could just make out five bright stars in a semi-circle. Then I heard the crack of gunfire, and a bullet ricocheted nearby, causing even more adrenaline to course through me. So, I did what we all did, without thinking. We shot at the lights.
I kneeled on the ground and fired the M-4 again and again, and in that way, we extinguished the lights one by one. And as the light bulbs went ‘pop’ as they were hit, I knew that these were not celestial stars come down to earth to illuminate targets for the MCP. They were the overhead lightbars on five trucks that had been parked right outside the back of the Sheriff’s Department.
As my eyes recovered from the vicious over-exposure, I was able to focus on more targets—shadowy figures crouching behind trucks. We fired and fired until the last of the lights winked out and the last of the targets dropped. Finally, when I could see again, I looked around. Cody was next to me, and Emily was on her stomach in firing position. And, as the firing tapered off, I saw Sheriff Thomas Edwards lying on the ground, a bullet hole in his forehead.
Chapter 14
The Archangel was enjoying himself. He always liked the city, although the bits and pieces he remembered from his past were of a different place—not Washington, but somewhere sunnier and cleaner. It took him a bit, but finally he remembered—it had been Denver. He couldn’t remember how he had ended up in DC, but it didn’t matter. He was happy. He hadn’t felt this way in long time—and yet he couldn’t get distracted.
He knew he had to get the big black box onto the subway. He was supposed to ‘play it cool.’ They had gone over the plan many times. He would pretend like he knew what he was doing. He would take the box—it was an amplifier—into the subway and ride to the Capitol. Or as close as possible. He could look at the map on the wall to find the best spot. That was the plan, and he couldn’t let the Messiah down. The whole world was counting on him.
If he got in trouble, he could just call the Messiah. That’s what he had been told. But how would he get the box into the subway? He remembered—there was a ramp. He had a two-wheeled dolly for the box. He could wheel it down the ramp. The box was heavy. It was an amp, and he was a roadie for God’s Will.
He was standing outside the subway station now, but he didn’t want to go in. He liked it here. He loved this song. He was watching a man who was playing guitar and singing ‘Hey Joe’ by Jimi Hendrix. It was a classic. Everyone knew that. Even the Archangel knew how to play it. It must have been another thing he remembered from his life before he became the Archangel. He remembered the chords…C, G, D, A, E. He loved the haunting echoes of the 12-string guitar—it sounded like summer rain to him. It was familiar. It made him feel at home, and he didn’t want it to end.
And then the song was over, and he heard the sound of passing cars, and then he heard something that confused him. The man—the singer—the man who had been playing ‘Hey Joe’—was talking to him. The Archangel was flustered—this couldn’t be right. This was a sin. He wasn’t supposed to talk to non-believers.
“Hey, Mikey—is that you?” the man asked him. The Archangel just stared back at him. The man was old, and grizzled, with layers of dirt caked into his grey beard. He wore a wool knit cap despite the heat and he had soiled clothes, but the Archangel thought he recognized him. But that was, of course, impossible.
“Mikey!” the man said, “Mikey! I don’t believe it! It is you! What are you doing here, man? How did you get here?”
“I don’t know,” the Archangel said in a low whisper.
“Mikey! It’s me, Snake! You remember! Come on, man… it wasn’t that long ago. Denver? Five points! We had some good times—how many times did we jam out on this same guitar here? Where’s your axe? What is that you got with you? You with a band or something?”
“I’m a roadie,” the Archangel said.
“No kidding! I guess you are! Mikey, come on, man! What are the chances! Give me a hug, brother! I thought you were dead! I heard you got run down in the street. They said you were in Denver General with a tube in your throat. Mikey! I don’t believe it’s you! Come here, man!” The man was very animated, and he kept waving his hands around, trying to get a hug. But the Archangel did not move. He seemed to be frozen in place.
“I’m the Archangel,” he said very quietly.
“What? You’re what? Mikey, come here man. It’s me! Snake! Ol’ snake’s got you covered, baby! Come on, man, don’t leave me hanging! I can’t believe it’s you!”
The images came, unbidden, into the Archangel’s overburdened brain. He couldn’t process them all fast enough, but that didn’t stop them from coming. He saw Snake with a bottle of Jack Daniels to his lips. He saw Snake with a guitar in his hands, standing around a trash can fire. He saw flashing blue lights as he and Snake hopped a fence. He saw Snake handing him a joint. He saw Snake singing as the snow fell on him. It all seemed to come at once and the Archangel knew it was real. It was not imagined; it was not made up. It was all as real, right at that moment, it was as real as when it had all happened.
“Mikey! Mike! You OK, buddy? Mikey?
”
But the man formerly known as Mikey, and now known as the Archangel, did not answer. He was unable to talk anymore. His reality was fragile, and this was too much for him to take. The walls he had built up to protect himself from his past—the entire façade that the MCP represented, the new reality he had built for himself—it was all crumbling in front of him.
He knew Snake. He knew this man, this stranger, off the street, who could sing a hauntingly beautiful version of an old favorite that the Archangel had forgotten even existed. He couldn’t accept it. He couldn’t possibly have been this other person—this other reality. He wasn’t Mikey—he was the Archangel.
He had to get away. This was all wrong. He had to get to the subway. He had a job to do. The Messiah was counting on him. He could not be Mikey—the Messiah would punish him. He didn’t want to be a sinner, and he knew that this was sin. He had to get away.
“Mikey! Come on, man! Where are you going?”
The Archangel tipped the amplifier back and quickly wheeled it down the ramp into the cool underground of the Metro. He nearly ran over a pregnant woman in the process. He shoved her aside in his haste and she yelled at him. He didn’t hear her. He ran awkwardly towards the train, pushing the amplifier in front of him. He didn’t hear Snake yelling after him. He didn’t hear the woman cursing loudly. He didn’t hear the blood pounding in his ears, or his own wheezing as he panted. He didn’t hear the approaching subway car or the car honking on the street above. All he heard were the echoes of a 12-string guitar playing ‘Hey Joe’ on the streets of downtown Denver.
Somehow, he managed to swipe the card he had been given to pay the fare. He made it through the turnstile with the amplifier—he had trained for this—and then he reached into his pocket and took out his pill bottle. It wasn’t time yet—but he couldn’t help himself. He needed to take a pill now, or he didn’t know what he might do. He felt confused, angry, and abandoned. It was that man’s fault—the man who had called himself Snake. It was his fault. He was a bad man. He shouldn’t have talked to the Archangel—he shouldn’t have sung that song. It made the Archangel ache inside when he thought of it.
No matter, thought the Archangel, This was just a test, and I’ve already passed it.
The subway door opened, and he wheeled the amplifier onto the train. Sitting down, he thought, That was just a test, and I can rest now. Soon, I will be in heaven, and there won’t be anyone named Snake there. But I wish the Messiah had warned me. I’m so tired, but I’ve got to stay awake. The Messiah is counting on me.
I won’t let him down, he thought, but his eyelids were already growing heavy.
The thing that saved us from certain death was the MCP’s mistrust of their own. Burke wouldn’t let them have guns. Only the members of his security force known as ‘the Justified’ were allowed to carry firearms. Had all of the MCP been carrying guns, we wouldn’t have stood a chance; we would have been mowed down as soon as we had stepped out the door. But as it was, the thirty or forty MCP that waited for us only had knives and clubs. In that sense, it was a slaughter. There were only five ‘Justified’ security guards—one in each pickup—and they only had pistols. They hadn’t had rifles or Kevlar vests. And since the first thing we had done when we escaped the burning building was to start firing at the trucks, we had wiped them out quickly.
So, we broke out the back of the Sheriff’s Department in a matter of seconds and suddenly I was kneeling, uninjured, reloading the M-4 and assessing the situation. There was carnage everywhere. All five pickup trucks were shot up, with bullet holes in the windshields. I could hear the faint sound of people running away through the surrounding forest. There were dead MCP everywhere. Five ‘Justified’ lay in their bloodied uniforms among the dozens of ‘Faithful’ in their old-fashioned garb.
Agent Gibbons was lying on the ground nearby. I saw that Cody was kneeling over Sheriff Edward’s body, checking for a pulse. I looked around and I could see a body that I knew to be Reverend Santos. Emily ran to him. I knew that he would be dead—he had sacrificed himself to save us, and it had worked.
I went over to Agent Gibbons. He was on his side. He had a bullet wound in his abdomen. It didn’t look good. From the amount of blood, I knew his likelihood of survival was low, getting lower by the second. I took off the Denver Broncos jersey I was wearing and bunched it up and pressed it against the wound. Gibbons grunted in pain. Then he turned his head to me.
“Listen to me, doctor,” he said, “My cell phone is in my pocket. The six-digit code to unlock it is zero-three-two-three-zero-nine. It’s my daughter’s birthday—March twenty-third, 2009. The last number I texted is my contact inside the MCP. His name is Hannaford and he’s an undercover FBI agent. He’s going to call me tonight. He’s going to try to break into Burke’s office. I contacted him right before we left the safehouse. I’ve also got an MCP guard on my payroll—his name is Taylor, and he’s one of the Justified. His cell number is the one right below Hannaford’s.” I fished his cell phone out of his pocket. “Don’t call or text those numbers,” he said, “If one starts vibrating at the wrong time, it could get them killed. When Hannaford calls, you need to answer it. When he calls and doesn’t get me, he’ll be suspicious. Explain to him what happened, he’ll have no choice but to trust you.” I punched in the code on Gibbon’s phone and it unlocked. He made me repeat his daughter’s birthday, and I confirmed which phone numbers were the undercover agent and the MCP guard, and I repeated their names. Once he was satisfied that I could remember these things, he asked me to stop putting pressure on the wound. “It hurts, and we both know I won’t make it to the hospital.”
I didn’t know what to say. I had only met Gibbons less than 24 hours ago and now he was dying. I asked him if he wanted to call his daughter. “No, I don’t think she needs a call from her dying father to haunt her for the rest of her life,” he said. I said I understood, but I convinced him to let me take a video of him.
I’m not going to write what he said into the camera. It was a personal message for his wife, his daughter and a few others. He knew he was dying. He said goodbye. I promised him I would get it to them. At the time I had no idea how I would do that, but I swore that I would make it happen.
By the time Emily came over to me, Gibbons was dead. I know I should be able to commemorate him, to give some idea as to what his life was worth—but words fail me. I’m unable to relay the significance of the sacrifice he made for the nation he served. His name and picture are on the wall of honor at FBI Headquarters in Washington, DC with a short description of how he died. I think he and all the people who died fighting the MCP deserve to be honored—Sheriff Edwards, Reverend Santos, Agent Gibbons and many more. Unfortunately, my writing ability is not worthy of them, and I find myself unable to express the significance of their valor.
This is also the case with Special Agent Michael Hannaford, who had infiltrated the MCP two months earlier as a member of the ‘faithful’. Gibbons had been his contact on the outside and when Gibbons had given him the command to break into Burke’s office, he had accepted the order and agreed to do it despite knowing what it would likely mean. Because if he broke into Burke’s office, he would almost certainly be discovered. He would not be able to conceal it—considering the level of security inside the walls of the MCP, it would be amazing if he was able to get any information at all. But he had taken the order from Gibbons and agreed to try, knowing that it was most likely a suicide mission. He had done it anyways.
Emily came over from where she had been saying goodbye to Reverend Santos. She had been crying. I told her how sorry I was. Then Cody and Moira came over and we gathered around Gibbon’s body. No one spoke. I tried to think of something appropriate to say but I am even worse at impromptu speeches than I am at writing.
“He gave me information before he died,” I said, “He gave me his cell phone and his passcode to open it. He’s got an agent on the inside of the MCP who is planning to break into Burke’s office tonight. And th
is other cell phone number here is the MCP guard—one of the Justified—who Gibbons has on his payroll. But we can’t call them. He said that if the cell phones are discovered it could get them killed.”
“So, we just wait for a call?” asked Cody McDonough.
“We need to get to FBI headquarters in Denver,” Emily said. I looked around us. The Sheriff’s Department building was fully engulfed in flames, but it didn’t seem violent to me, it seemed peaceful. Watching the twenty-foot-high wall of fire was mesmerizing and we all seemed to take a moment to just watch the flames. I think it was the endorphins working their magic, but I felt like everything was going to be OK. I was suddenly very tired. I wanted to lie down and take a nap. Right then the propane tank at the front of the building exploded and we all jumped.
“What was that?!” Moira Fitzgerald yelled.
“The propane tank,” Cody said, “I should have expected it.”
“Where are the fire trucks?” I asked.
“They must have killed Andy,” said Moira, “He was the dispatcher who was on duty tonight. He would have been the one to dispatch the fire trucks. We’re pretty far from town but someone’s bound to notice the smoke soon.”
No one spoke for a bit and then we all got to work. The fire lent an eerie quality to our tasks. Emily and I pulled the body of one of the Justified out of the driver seat of one of the Chevys. It seemed like the least damaged vehicle from what we could tell—no flat tires, and fewer bullet holes in the hood than the other ones. Cody inspected the engine while Emily and I dragged the dead MCP guard to an area of pine needles and scrub and left his body there. Emily closed her eyes and murmured some words. I went around to the other pickups to check on something.
The Armageddon Prophecy Page 15