Father Cruz stood smiling at the foot of his Redeemer and began to speak to passers-by. He relaxed his scarred brown hands and let the well-worn Bible that accompanied him on all of his travels fall open. Translucent pages fluttered in the balmy breeze for a moment before they finally rasped to rest. He read the two facing pages aloud in their entirety, eyes misting with emotion as a feeling of warmth and contentment unattainable through any other means washed over him.
His voice carried across the square, strong enough to be heard but not so loud as to interrupt the experiences of those gathered for more personal moments of clarity and worship.
He was not an evangelist, this was just a custom of his, a way to get out and enjoy the best part of a troubled city. Rafael Cruz was not interested in becoming a spectacle or a scrapbook moment for some English teenaged tourist.
He would not force the Word upon anybody.
Instead, he read passage after passage at random. The clear, measured cadence of his humble oration mingled with the music of communal space.
He stayed well into the afternoon.
At the behest of a young couple, he performed a marriage inside of the tiny chapel tucked beneath the feet of the Cristo. In perfect contradiction, the priest also annointed one terminally ill man as the shadows lengthened. The dying man gripped him tearfully, taking Rafael’s scarred fist in his own gnarled hand.
“Bless you my boy, bless you, bless you.”
He repeated it over and over in their native Portuguese, tears tracing their way down his canyoned face, gathering the grit of a hard day and a hard life with them.
Rafael watched, his own heart welling up heavily, as the tears percolated into a glistening beard and dropped off, each a perfectly formed sphere.
It was a reversal of roles, the shepherd being blessed by the sheep.
A moment of perfection such as this, flawless selflessness in the shadow of one of the world’s most recognizable religious icons, was exactly the reason that Rafael took time out of his busy schedule to return home and touch base with his humble roots.
The pristine halls of the Vatican -replete with gold leaf and masterpiece upon masterpiece of Renaissance art- might be the ancient backbone of the Christ’s church, but its beating heart was here. In the tears of a dying and faithful man whose only escape from the misery of impoverished life was found in the waning light of a Brazilian evening with a scarred priest young enough to be his grandson.
As the wrinkled old urchin ambled away, Rafael noted his arthritic paralysis -the same that had made him step so heavily in approach- seemed to be temporarily assuaged. His narrow shoulders pulled back straighter, stronger. Head held just minutely higher. His tread less labored.
All the Lord’s work.
Cruz decided to end his evening at the Cristo on this high note.
He knelt inside the foot of the statue between two old women, in the attitude of his late brother. Their clicking rosary beads and barely-audible whispers simultaneously caused an upwelling of painful memories and happy contentment in prayer.
Father Rafael Cruz prayed, as he often did, for each and every cause he could think of.
For personal help. That he might be blessed with the courage and patience to carry out his duties as a scientist and man of the Clergy.
For peace in the ravaged world.
For the souls of his brothers. The souls of the women beside him.
For relief from the very plagues he had made a career of investigating.
All the while he habitually massaged the scars on his hands, face, neck and head.
He remained there, lost deep in conversation with God.
After some time, his hands gradually started to shake, but the priest didn’t notice.
Sweat stains began to mottle his clothing, but his meditation remained uninterrupted.
The old women beside him wondered at his labored breathing and slumping shoulders, inching slowly away.
Father Rafael Cruz paid no attention.
His focus remained on the internal dialogue of prayer. Mind disassociated from body, until his seizures became so intense as to knock him off balance.
An abrupt and violent sense of alarm welled up as his face smacked onto the stone floor.
Instinctually, the priest-scientist wondered which exotic disease he had contracted, despite careful quarantine.
Holiday Fever? Sarloos?
No. There was no characteristic lightheadedness. In fact his head pounded.
Ebola?
No. No blood to evidence the rapid breakdown of internal tissues.
His brain raced through possibilities until a single, agonizing bolt of neural lightning washed out every thought, every trace of consciousness, and thankfully every agonizing perception of the millions of dendrites protesting inside his body.
Father Cruz slumped, blessedly unconscious, between two veiled grandmothers, beneath the feet of his Redeemer.
He slept unaware of what had happened to him, and what was happening to the many thousands across the planet being touched by the same hand that had felled him.
Salt Lake City, Utah
“You have got to be kidding me..” Aaron mumbled angrily under his breath.
Crazy Dave had promised them answers. What he actually offered sounded a lot more like science fiction.
The four of them; Scott, Aaron, Dave and none other than Tim Greatwater Lougee, sat around a table in the staff lounge where Allie had dumped them. Next to Lougee was a fifth man that Aaron had never seen or heard of.
He had been introduced as E.T. And the name certainly fit. There was something alien in the way the man looked through each of them.
Aaron and Scott sipped electrolyte supplements through straws, trying to re-hydrate their bodies after the brawl. Crazy Dave picked at a stale blueberry bagel and the mysterious Native American, Lougee, sipped loudly from his fifth cup of coffee.
E.T. did not eat or drink, but he smelled like camp smoke. The stench was overpowering and out of place.
Lougee glared at Dayne’s mumbling, but said nothing.
“He isn’t crazy, Aaron.” Dave cautioned his young friend.
“Maybe he isn’t crazy, but his story certainly is. You can’t expect us to believe this garbage Dave.” Aaron knew he should guard his words, that he didn’t want to burn bridges with the fickle painter. That relationship was important to their business. In the present moment, he couldn’t muster up the energy to care about future financial troubles. What mattered was happening all around him.
Here.
Now.
Scott hadn’t said a word since they sat down.
He only waited and listened patiently while Aaron snorted and rolled his eyes at the old Indian’s delusional hypotheses. Scott’s pale eyes never left the mysterious stranger.
How much paint has Greatwater inhaled over all these years?
For the last twenty minutes Aaron had listened in irritated disbelief while the shaggy-haired Lougee rambled on about the ongoing struggle between good and evil, about manifested abilities in normal people, about God and the Devil and Demons and Angels and his friend E.T.’s eye-witness accounts of combat between flying men.
He told his stories second-hand.
E.T. only nodded when Lougee got the facts right and frowned when the details were off.
Aaron had a gut full of tension already, and washing it down with this bull was not what he wanted. He stood to leave the room.
“Sit down young man, and listen. This is important.” It was not a request, or a suggestion. It was an order. And it came from E.T.
Aaron bristled.
Who does this guy think he is?
“No, you listen. There is a very real situation going on right now.” Aaron started counting his own fingers as he spoke, illustrating his many reasons for being upset.
Index finger
“People are sick and dying.”
Middle finger
“Our helpless friend has come up missing
. We should be looking for him right now.”
Ring finger
“This hospital is overworked and understaffed.”
Pinky
“The National Guard has been called out!”
Running out of fingers, Aaron doubled his point on the thumb.
“Random strangers are attacking one another. The CDC is calling it an epidemic! And you two are bringing this…. Fabricated shit as explanation.” He spat the words out.
E.T. responded. Finally ready to speak for himself apparently.
“I assure you there is nothing fabricated in what my friend has told you. I saw this happen once before.”
“Really!?” Aaron snapped. “You saw hundreds of people knocked down with violent tremors that tore their bodies apart?” He gestured toward Scott. “And did some of them miraculously heal too? Because it seems like that would have made the news.” His sarcasm dripped like venom.
E.T. appraised him with cool grey eyes. The stormy irises were full of unconcerned blankness. This man did not care what Aaron Dayne thought of him or his stories.
“If it had made the news, it would likely have done so at a time you were much too young to care, if you were even born yet. And the situation was different, but the signs were the same. I know what I saw. And yes, I did know someone who went through an ordeal much like your friend’s.”
He turned his colorless eyes on Scott for a moment before continuing.
“Unfortunately, we were in a war zone, and I wasn’t able to help him make it out.”
Aaron forced himself to go a little easier on the aging veteran. He knew plenty of guys whose memories and brains and personalities were scrambled by combat. E.T was just one more.
“I’m sorry to hear that. I really am. I also know how confusing a war zone can be, and you might think you saw something impossible..”
Something like irritation flashed across the older man’s face, darker gray against gray.
“I don’t think I saw anything. I witnessed something that you consider unexplainable. Please, don’t be patronizing. The war zone was not confusing to me, and if your service record is any indication, it didn’t exactly puzzle you either.”
Aaron bit off his retort. This grey-haired mystery knew something about him.
How? Lougee? Dave?
E.T. continued.
“Mr. Dayne, as much as you wish it was not true, you can feel that this is different. Some people are born to fight. Born to kill. Born to die. Men like us can feel a fight coming in our bones. Don’t deny it.”
A tiny red lamp flicked on in the back of Aaron‘s mind.
“You don’t know what you are talking about.” He retorted.
“I do. And you know it. I was a Marine myself, and I met a hundred men like you. Men who didn’t know what to do when the war ended. Some of them had families and real jobs, but their hearts only beat when they were battling the bad guys. Maybe some of them were the bad guys, but they were the same as you. Warriors. It’s the reason you are sitting in this room instead of at home with your family. No normal young father would have his son at home and his wife at work in a time like this.”
Aaron bristled, but E.T. pressed on.
“I know who you are “Redman”. I know what you’re made of. And I know what your miracle friend here is made of too. That is why you have to believe me.”
The truth of his words rang like a cymbal in the silent room.
Aaron didn’t know what to say. So he said nothing.
“But that is a conversation for another day.” E.T. continued, settling again in his chair. “Our Indian friend brought me here to tell you this because we think we can help.” He waited a breath, shifting his attention once again to Scott. “More specifically- we can tell you how to help.”
Scott raised an eyebrow and leaned his massive shoulders in close.
He looked at the ragtag group of men around the cheap plastic table. At the jittery old Indian with hemp braids and beads, at the stoic and dead-eyed man known only to them by two letters, at the feigned nonchalance of Crazy Dave, who Scott knew was really recording every word in his mental catalogue. Last he looked at his best friend, all turning gears and grinding teeth.
It was a strange gathering, but a necessary one.
In his altered state he could smell the differences in their moods. He could sense the pounding of their hearts. He could see the heat radiating off of Aaron’s buzz cut. Without looking, he counted the number of doctors and nurses and orderlies that shuffled about the room and the halls beyond.
It was like living in a superhero dream.
If this strange man, E.T. could tell him what was going on and why he felt the way that he did now, he was happy to hear it.
He looked at Aaron, letting an unspoken calm pass between them.
“I’m listening.” He told them all.
Las Vegas, Nevada
Serena vomited.
Struggling to make sense of what she saw, she tried to focus on something concrete, something that did make sense.
Nothing came to mind.
Beside her, Haley Peel sobbed quietly and hugged her knees tightly to her chest. The two of them sat side by side -backs pressed against the Lexan- hiding around the corner from where they had just discovered the source of Serena’s sickness and Peel’s sadness.
Snarling and belching in appreciative yips, just around the bend, were three hyenas. No doubt they’d escaped through a breach in one of the level’s many corridor walls.
A sound like ripping sheets filled the corridor as the beasts tore into the midsection of their friend Julani. Or rather, what used to be Julani.
Serena wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, tasting the re-run of their fancy meal and bile. It felt wrong, the way his body was being desecrated. Haley had been better prepared, having seen the result of Julani’s fight with Brown already.
Aside from her reflexive reaction to seeing the gore, Serena felt incredible. At least physically.
She had awoken to the cold touch of Dr. Peel’s stethoscope on her bare chest. Instantly she knew something was different.
Everything was different.
Goosebumps stood on her arms in response to the imperceptible breeze of the lab complex.
She felt lighter, tighter. Her body sang with energy.
Haley had warned her against finding Julani incapacitated by his fight with Brown, but neither expected to see the reformed gang member being eaten by wild animals. The sounds of their feast were too much to bear.
“I am going to scare them off… We can’t just let them tear him apart.”
Rubbing hard at her puffy eyes, Dr. Peel shook her head.
“No Serena, they are going to be hyper-aggressive in this state, hyenas are scavengers by nature, and they instinctively protect their food from anything they perceive as competition. They have been known to fight off lions and crocodiles, which are much scarier than you are.”
Serena did not listen to her friend’s Discovery Channel narrative. Instead, she stood up and turned the corner. The scene was grisly and raw, but she steeled herself, focusing instead on her altered senses.
A sort of wet dog musk drifted from the hyenas, overpowered by the metallic tang of blood. Serena had never seen so much of it, but for the first time she understood what her ex-husband had been crying about in his sleep while he dreamed of a far-off South American war.
Julani’s blood was not red like a rose or a fire engine. The crimson streaking floor and wall and snout had a depth Serena could only liken to staring into the night sky. Every highlight and shadow jumped out and told its story to her. She could have counted the hairs raised on the hackles of the beasts if she wanted to. Six shiny discs of reflected light winked back at her as the hyenas fixed their eyes on the intruder.
She had no plan, no course of action, but something in the smell and posture and breathing of these formidable canines told her that she was in no real danger.
Dr. Peel’s harsh whis
pers of protest reached her, but she waved them off.
For a moment, Serena Dayne just stood there and soaked in the awe.
She in awe of the animals and the horror before her, they in awe of her for some reason. Their wet rooting and grunting stopped long enough to take stock of this new human.
Wildness emanated from them.
They hardly reacted at all, simply staring and waiting for Serena to move.
She moved.
One tentative step to measure what would happen. Then another. Then another.
She walked gingerly, not sure whether to shout or wave her arms to scare off the scavengers. Her fearfulness faded as she stepped closer and closer to the carnage. One of the great shaggy beasts whined plaintively, like a begging puppy. All three backed away as she approached. They sniffed the air, heads down. Once again Serena picked up Dr. Peel’s voice, whispering from behind her.
“Serena, be careful… but stay relaxed. They are exhibiting submissive behavior right now. It makes no sense, unless they have already eaten their fill. But I think...” She continued on in a clinical voice, describing matriarchal family systems and predator psychology, distracted from the horror by the strange animal behavior. Serena was glad of it.
Julani’s ruined body unnerved her, but she stepped forward anyway, hoping her presence would make the hyenas run away, so she and Haley could do something.
Do what?
Julani was already dead. Nothing they could do would matter for their friend now.
Serena’s plan didn’t work.
The hyenas were fascinated rather than frightened. Oversized nostrils gulped at the air as they took olfactory stock of her. They retreated a bit more and then stopped. The largest of the three settled on its haunches like a house-pet from hell. All bloody snout, black eyes, and oversized ears. The trio waited, cocking heads from side to side and pawing.
Serena knew somehow that the animals would not harm her. That much had already been decided. So she went to Julani’s corpse and closed the staring eyes. His dark skin was mottled with purple bruises, and the cavity created by the hyenas’ rending sparkled with shiny blood and stark white bone fragments.
To Light Us, To Guard Us (The Angel War Book 1) Page 19