To Light Us, To Guard Us (The Angel War Book 1)

by Sean M O'Connell

  Sometimes there was a need for such tools, as unfortunate as that was.

  The simple reality of his life –of every life- proved to be a cycle of peace and pain.

  For now, it appeared the cycle was swinging back to pain.

  Cutouts inside the case cradled the bones of two perfectly clean weapons. Both were meticulously oiled, but chipped and dented, evidence of hard use. Everyday use from an earlier time. The larger, set at a diagonal, corner to corner in the case, was a Remington tactical sub-shotgun. An extremely compact and powerful weapon, the snub-nosed scattergun had been a gift from Dayne’s commanding officer upon his graduation from spec-weapons training. The old grizzled man had gone down the line of newly minted operators and issued them weapons that he thought suited their skill sets and personalities.

  “Dayne, you got some bark, and some bite.” Sergeant Horn had said, “This piece has a lot of both.”

  Aaron had learned to appreciate the weapon because it was somewhat smaller than their standard-issue assault rifles, yet still possessed versatility and heft. It could accommodate a fairly large clip for a shotgun, was compatible with scattershot or slugs, and had superior long range accuracy for a short range weapon. There was even bulky drum silencer that he’d used on a couple of night raids. The gun’s only notable detriment was the lack of an automatic firing setting, meaning he was forced to conserve his ammo, but even that skill had proved to be lifesaving more than once. The single-barrel shotgun had a nasty kick that took some practice. Aaron had plenty of practice.

  The utility of the gun was rounded out nicely by a laser sight/torch combo in the place of a pump handle.

  He snapped the thing together, piece by piece, as he had done hundreds of times before.

  Such a weapon did indeed suit Aaron. Effective. Bottom line.

  Its weight was all too familiar in his hands.

  The stock felt to him like a knife handle must feel to a butcher, shaming him a bit.

  Aaron reached into his old wrestling bag and pulled out a clip, tossing it lightly to make sure it was full and then snapping it home. With a final check of the safety and tug of shoulder belt he swung the loaded weapon over his back, letting it settle in its old bed between his shoulder blades.

  The other gun was a Heckler and Koch .44 mini-G with concentric rings in its revolver, allowing its user to load double the ammo. It was a far more glamorous weapon, boasting a sleek square barrel and compact stock with the tight revolving drum between them that utilized Australian Metalstorm technology. There was no firing pin or moving parts. Bullets fired on an electronic signal coming from the trigger,

  The gun didn’t jam. Ever.

  The other corner of the case held a higher capacity drum clip for the shotgun and a suppresser for the handgun, neither of which Aaron would ever need to use outside of military service, or so he hoped.

  He loaded the mini-G with its specialized bullets, selected the single-round firing setting with the push of a button, and double engaged the safety. Another belt and holster settled the sidearm in the small of his back and he straightened, regretful that he would have to carry weapons to ensure his progress went unimpeded.

  He ran back into the house one more time and looked on the fridge for the number of his former in-laws, Danny’s grandparents. The old man always had his ancient cell phone on, even though nobody ever called him.

  Finding it stuck behind a “#1 Grandpa” magnet, Aaron dialed the number.

  “The network is busy, please hang up and try again.”

  The metallic voice-recording, at that moment, was quite possibly the most annoying thing Aaron had ever heard. He ground his teeth together so hard they squeaked.

  “Shit.”

  Of course everybody who owned a phone or sat link was likely on it at this very moment. Aaron also considered the possibility that there was indeed a serious attack unfolding and the communication centers had been crippled. He didn’t like the thought of that at all.

  Time to find Danny

  Aaron could hardly believe that he was armed so heavily, here at his home, in his own garage, but one could never be too careful when it came to dealing with people in crisis.

  He pulled an old button-up set of saddle bags out of the corner and stuffed the guns inside. The last thing he needed to do was freak somebody out or draw the attention of an already over-stressed cop by screaming down the freeway on his motorcycle, bristling with high-powered weaponry.

  He went outside, turned on the hose and gulped until his stomach sloshed. Letting the hose run for the dogs to lap at, he hustled into the back door of the house, returning from the cozy kitchen with pockets full of granola bars and munching an apple for quick energy.

  With a well-deserved scratch to each of the dogs, he closed the spigot and ran back out to the curb, hopping on his motorcycle and thundering away, the whole supply run having taken a total of seven minutes.

  Aaron drove west, descending out of the foothills and into the valley bottom, where the howl of sirens and a few scattered trails of smoke told him that there was indeed a state of real emergency.

  Please God, keep Allie safe.

  The main thoroughfares choked with wrecks and honking traffic, so Aaron wound his way along the backstreets, cutting across parking lots and sidewalks and even the occasional lawn on his way to the interstate. At the onramp, he found absolute and utter gridlock.

  Motorists leaned out their windows to shout at one another, wasting time and energy that they didn’t yet know they would need.

  The motorcycle was a good idea.

  Had he chosen to stay in the truck, his journey would have landed him here, stranded in a sea of aluminum alloy, bumper to bumper with every other person who needed to check on a loved one or make sure their house hadn’t burned down. On the cycle he was able to pick his way around and between cars and onto the freeway, where traffic was again at a standstill. An ambulance, completely stationary- blared its horn and sirens, but the cars blocking it in had nowhere to go because of a jack-knifed eighteen-wheeler a quarter mile ahead.

  The entire freeway south of the crash looked empty to Aaron, if he could just get beyond it.

  The Emergency lane -not really wide enough for a car to drive on if all lanes of traffic were full- gave him his yellow brick road. Five or so feet between the cement barrier and the bulk of the gridlock was plenty of room for he and his machine to fit through. He skimmed by as fast as he dared, honking as he went to make sure that none of the drivers at a standstill opened their doors or stepped out into his path.

  In a matter of minutes he was past the wreck of the semi, where a group of people were attempting to hold down the seizing body of a fat trucker, much as he had done with Scott earlier. Aaron wished he could help, but his son was too important to him, and if the interstates between here and Vegas looked anything like the scene he had just left behind him, he wanted to find the boy sooner than later.

  The relatively empty stretch of asphalt was only a temporary blessing, as Aaron came upon another accident and pileup only a few exits later. Again, he picked his way past the crowded cars, frustrated at his slow progress, but relieved to be making progress at all. He rode, sometimes crawling, sometimes breezing, but always moving, focused on a singular goal that had to be attained before he could think about anything else.

  Danny. I have to find my son.

  Scipio, Utah

  “SON OF A BITCH!!” Aaron cursed.

  There were no other words for it.

  Provo’s ever-present traffic had been aggravated to gridlock status by whatever was going on, taking him the better part of an hour to pick through. Aside from that, his progress had been better than hoped for.

  Until now.

  An overturned semi truck lay smoldering on its side, tanker trailer spewing some unknown liquid onto the blacktop. Nearby SUV’s and sedans sat rim-deep in toxic soup. The telltale hiss of oxidation informed Aaron that he didn’t want to get anywhere near the spreading spill.
Along the side of the road, frustrated motorists stood beside their idling cars, hands on hips, angry and impotent. Despite the worry he felt for his son, he couldn’t help but be angry at them for doing nothing to help the truck crew that was clearly trying to contain the spill and get the people in their cars out of harm’s way.

  He was almost there. Almost to where he needed to be.

  He had managed to get in touch with Danny’s grandparents. Grandpa had exited the freeway with the caution of the elderly as soon as radio reports of the situation had started to trickle into his NPR programming.

  They were in the sleepy little farming town of Scipio. Off the beaten path and unhurt.

  Aaron had only been there once, years ago. It felt good knowing where Danny was at least, but he had to get him home. The plan was to take the boy and set him up with Collie and the two dogs, then get back to the hospital to check on Scott and Bluejean. Eventually he would get them and Allie home and the whole lot of them would ride this out together.

  That was the plan.

  Aaron had too many questions about the nature of the crisis. About what had hurt his friends, and apparently so many others. He wanted to know the source of the problem. The prognosis. The solution. But his ever-efficient mind forced itself to clear out these inquiries until he had accomplished goal number one, to find his boy.

  The idling throb of his motorcycle centered him, brought him back to the moment. He had to get around this spill, and then it would be a short shot in and out of Scipio, putting him back in Salt Lake in less than four hours. The cellular networks were still overloaded, but he had managed to get through to Allie once. Her harried report on Scott and Bluejean had been to the point. No change. They were both in trouble.

  One thing at a time Dayne.

  He swung his motorcycle around a minivan full of crying children and onto the shoulder. The ruddy liquid was reacting violently with the soil, sending up great plumes of whitish-yellow steam. Better not to breathe those fumes. Chattering down into the pasture land on the side of the road, he traced a wide arc around the spill, sending a silent vote of encouragement to the others affected by whatever was going on. Pebbles and vegetation jumped into the spokeless back wheel and pinged like a hyperactive reggae band. Front forks protested the rough terrain, and the frame scraped several times on broad stones in the scrub grass, but the powerful machine screamed on, getting Aaron where he needed to go. Fast.

  Twenty minutes later he was swinging the thundering bike onto Scipio’s main street. The gas station had been closed at the exit, and he was relieved to find that a two-pump Sinclair was still offering gasoline along with the hydrogen fuels favored in newer vehicles. It was the work of a few moments to refill his tank and ask where he would most likely find out-of-towners waiting for the troubles to pass.

  “Most likely at the library down the street, but I’m supposed to tell you that the town is closed. Sheriff prob’ly won’t be inclined to let you past the roadblock.”

  So the town was taking care of its own.

  Shutting off incoming traffic from the interstate wasn’t a bad idea. Desperation did strange things to people, and the I-15 corridor had definitely seen its share of craziness today.

  Aaron Dayne thanked the man for the information, figuring that local law enforcement would make an exception for a father trying to get to his son. He rolled slowly along the single main drag, passing the decrepit remains of a grain silo and a boarded-up hardware store that hadn’t seen business since the Wal-Mart opened up years and years ago. Up ahead, the roadblock came into view. It was nothing more than two Highway Patrol cars, parked nose to nose across the blacktop. One cruiser was empty. A young deputy sat sweating behind the wheel of the other. He popped the door and stretched a long leg out as Aaron approached.

  Classic small-town cop.

  Aaron could almost write the back-story.

  Athletic, handsome, but not too bright or ambitious. No doubt one of the town’s favorite sons had decided to stay at home and be the local law man after his athletic ambitions hit dead ends.

  Meat and potatoes.

  An upraised hand slowed Aaron, who cut the thunderous engine so he could speak to the man.

  The Deputy wasted no time with niceties.

  “Sorry, you’re going to have to turn around. The town is closed.”

  “They told me at the gas station Deputy. I just…”

  “I’m glad you know the situation. Now go ahead and swing around and go about your business.”

  “It’s just that my son and his grandparents are here, I need to meet them so I can take him home.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

  The deputy had clearly been given his orders not to let anybody into the town. It appeared that he was going to stick to his guns.

  Aaron noted that the man was swallowing frequently, a sign of uneasiness. Fear perhaps?

  Unfortunately for both of them, Aaron didn’t have time to waste arguing.

  “Listen, my six year old son is here. His grandparents were driving him up for a visit from Las Vegas. You can’t expect them all to stay here while there is a crisis going on.”

  “That is exactly why I will be keeping them here. The radio has been squawking all day with reports of crashes and explosions and all kinds of hell. They’re talking about some kind of plague, and this crap is nationwide! Our own Sheriff got hit with some sort of fever this morning! So yes, I can expect them to stay. We are in the middle of a quarantine.”

  His words came out just a little too fast and a little too loud. Scared.

  More importantly, the Deputy had just explained that the real Sheriff had been hit with the same thing that was affecting so many others, leaving this young pup to make the decisions for the entire community.

  Naturally, the man opted for the path of least resistance and shut down the town.

  For Aaron at least, this was a problem.

  Wasting time.

  He would try reasoning with the man.

  “Listen deputy, I know you are just doing your job, and I know you are in a bad spot. But I am only here to pick up my son and take him back with me to Salt Lake City. I will be in and out of this town in five minutes if you just let me pass.”

  Stubbornly, the deputy wiped a sleeve across his brow and shook his head.

  “I told you, we’re under quarantine. The best I can do is tell you that you can wait out at the Quik Stop with Earl ‘til it’s safe to open the town.”

  Aaron fought the urge to scream and kept his voice calm.

  Wasting time.

  “That is not an option.” He tried to keep the threat out of his words.

  The sheriff licked his lips nervously, but stood his ground.

  “I’m sorry, but that is your only option. Your boy will be safe here with us for now.”

  “No. He needs to be with me.” Aaron turned his back on the man and walked to his bike. He reached into his pack for a cell phone, making the mistake of letting the satchel hang open long enough for the deputy to see its contents.

  “FREEZE!” The scrambling jingle of a duty belt told Aaron that Dudley Do-right had drawn down. The hair standing on the back of his neck told him that the other man’s sidearm was trained on him.

  “Hands up! Put your hands in the air NOW!” The deputy was loud, but his words came out breathless.

  He was about to lose it.

  The last thing Aaron needed was to get popped by some hyperactive Mayberry sheriff.

  He reached for the sky.

  “Alright, Officer, I’ll cooperate. Just calm down. This is not what it looks like.”

  “SHUT UP! Slowly lower your … your bag.. to the ground.”

  Close as he was to panic, the cop was at least doing what he should. Disarm the subject first. Aaron unfastened the strap and let the pack loaded with guns and ammunition drop to the ground. It hit the pavement with a sharp clang.

  Wasting time.

  “Lock your hands on the back
of your head and slowly back up.”

  “Officer, please, I am here for my son. I just need to take him home. I brought the guns because I didn’t know what I would encounter on the way.”

  He could hear the deputy’s heavy breathing as the tall man pondered what to do with him. Aaron knew how it looked. Here he was, muscles, motorcycle, and serious firepower rolling into a small central Utah town on what was already the most unusual day of this young man’s life. A bad guy on a bad day, and the deputy had been saddled with the burden of playing the hero.

  Wasting time.

  “Deputy, I can’t let you arrest me.”

  “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  “I am telling you the truth..”

  “Back up slowly.”

  Wasting time.

  “This is an emergency!” Aaron strained to keep his cool.

  Wasting time.

  He could hear the man ratcheting handcuffs open.

  Wasting time. This can’t be happening.

  Aaron couldn’t afford to spend a single minute in some podunk jail cell while his friends and family were in jeopardy.

  Aaron had no choice. This man wasn’t going to be talked out of arresting him. He was supposed to be the hero.

  Dayne sighed and focused on a faraway cloud. Forcing his muscles to relax, he spread his fingers and listened.

  All was still save for the sounding of a click as the deputy thumbed the release latch on the cuffs between heartbeats.

  Wasting time.

  One more step and the man would be on him, Aaron’s focus narrowed even further.

  He concentrated on the subtle sounds emanating from the deputy. The soft scuff of his final footfall, his ragged breath, the jangle of his belt. It all helped Aaron Dayne get an idea of the other man’s body position without actually looking back at him.

  “Give me your left arm.”

  He could almost feel the steely eye of the gun barrel staring into the back of his skull, but Aaron Dayne had no other choice than to act.

  Wasting time.

  He relaxed, compliant, malleable, as the cop closed the cold cuffs onto his left wrist.