It reeked horrendously. Fumes steamed their way into his nose with chemical malice. Some got in his eyes, stinging wickedly and distracting him from the instructions the soldiers shouted through their gasmasks and self-contained contamination helmets.
He was handled brusquely, pushed bodily away from his would-be victim. Peni resisted for a moment, tossing one smallish man effortlessly aside. Another ambulance squalled up to the curb and stopped with a skid. More soldiers in their rubber Martian suits joined the fray. The distorted voices shouting at him about quarantine rang with clear panic.
One of the larger suits came toward him, striding without hurry. A large MP decal on the chest of his uniform told Peni he was a different sort of cleanup crew.
Military Police.
In one glove the soldier carried a pair of zip cuffs.
The other gloved hand -extended and leveled at Peni’s chest- held a high-tech sidearm.
The voice from behind a reflective face shield was calm and easy. Even through the robotic intonation.
“Sir, put your hands on your head and turn around. You are being placed under protective custody by the United States Navy for the purpose of quarantine.”
Peni did not move, only stood there with one arm still in the grip of a worried young soldier.
“Sir. Honolulu and the entire Hawaiian island chain have been designated a hot zone for uncategorized biological risk. Turn around and put your hands on your head.”
Peni had already decided that he would comply.
The uncaring eye of the gun left him little room for argument.
What did give him pause was the still-shuddering vagrant now being strapped onto a gurney in the back of the ambulance. Peni felt he should be there when that man woke up. Puzzled by his own sense of responsibility, but no less driven by it. The soldier came closer. This time the voice was less measured.
“You only have two options here.” He gestured first with the cuffs, then wagged the gun.
“Now turn around.”
Peni hated being cuffed, but he turned anyway after hearing the certainty in the younger man’s distorted voice.
Moments later, cuffed and disarmed in the back of a Humvee truck, he questioned his benevolent captors.
“Where is the fleet?”
Four silent and masked faces rocked back and forth as the retrofitted Humvee navigated the zigzag of cement barricades.
His escorts were not talking. That made sense. They were military. He was a civilian.
For a moment Peni contemplated the last time he had been this far down shore. Five, six years had it been?
Time on the island had a way of slowing down. Or was it speeding up? Time had a way of being forgotten altogether.
The ambulance and its silent occupants slowed and stopped in front of the long, low generic buildings that characterized all military installations.
This particular shed housed a barrack hospital. Peni could tell because of the oversized automated doors.
The tiny windows revealed a beehive of activity inside. Olive drab figures buzzed back and forth. He strained to see past the bulky costumes of his captors and take stock of where the other ambulance was. A moment later the bay doors of the vehicle he rode in swung open to yield an answer. The other medibus was there.
Over the sound of aircraft and diesel engines came a different noise.
A harbinger of more trouble pinged off of neighboring buildings and blew into Peni’s ears like a fire alarm.
It came from inside the hospital.
The soldiers, in their echoey helmets did not hear it, or paid it no heed because they had undoubtedly been hearing the same for the last day and night. But the howling scream carried something that made it impossible for Peni to ignore. Some note or pitch to the ululation drove into his brain. Deeper even. He leapt out of the back of the ambulance and barreled through the throng of heavily-suited soldiers toward the doors. Their big rubbery gloves sought purchase on his slick skin, squeaking like basketball shoes. Once he was tripped, but regained his feet and kept going. A gunshot cracked behind him.
Warning shot.
Not even the serious young soldier from the gate would fire into a group of his own. Still, Peni felt compelled not to risk hurting anyone else. Torn between a desperate urgency to snuff out the malevolent screams and an already-loaded conscience, he skidded to a stop.
Immediately hands and arms clamped down on his shackled wrists. He raged internally at the wasted time as another howl triggered fearful echoes.
“Let me go! I can help. I can HELP!”
The soldiers warned him and struggled with him. But they did not listen.
Many faceless bodies surrounded him and reached for various instruments, not sure what action to take. Here was a target conscious and unafraid, apparently healthy. A hard gun muzzle stared Peni straight in the face. Twice in one day. Trying in vain to calm himself. He bellowed.
“It’s happening inside! Can’t you hear it? I can help you!” For a moment he hated his accent, because he knew if these faceless soldiers were white men they would think him stupider or crazier for it. They did not even answer him, clinging hands clamped down harder and called for some medical-sounding contraption that Peni intrinsically knew was meant to knock him out.
“Get off me! Get your hands off me!”
His intimidation didn’t work. They were blanketed in the security of the guns they carried.
He strained against the cuffs. Hard enough that blood ran onto his fingers where the polyurethane bonds bit into his skin. Then he remembered that he was not himself anymore. He was stronger, better; different in impossible ways. Peni flexed his shoulders and the cuffs gave way as if they were made of wet paper. He shrugged off the soldiers restraining him effortlessly. The black eye of the pistol trained on him dropped momentarily and then came back to his face as its holder steeled himself to do what needed to be done. Nervousness and shock tingled off of his would-be captors. Peni could sense it.
He snorted out the unpleasant taste of human fear and spoke to his own reflection in the soldier’s faceplate. Trying at once to sound serious and passive.
He was unafraid, but wanted to be of use before he was shot by a frightened young man or woman working for a government that didn’t really care about Hawaii.
“I told you,” he said to the stunned blankness. “I can help.”
The trigger finger relaxed almost imperceptibly.
For Peni, that was enough.
He wheeled around and burst into motion. A motion that would not have been possible before today. The automated doors hung open and he flew into the mayhem beyond with righteous fury. Taking in the bustling scene of seizures and quarantine showers and bloody accidents, he scanned for the source of his impetus. Off in one corner, clinging to a light fixture high up on the wall, was a howling and foaming shell of what used to be an athletic young man. He bled from one ear and carried a severed arm.
A severed arm?
No. It couldn’t be.
But it was. Still dripping and trailing red meat and purple nerve bundles. He swung the limb like a club at a doctor in fatigue scrubs who chased after him with an oversized syringe.
The boy screamed what could only be obscenities in a language Peni didn’t understand, but sounded like Korean.
Somehow, despite the sea of mayhem between them, the youngster redirected his ire toward Peni. He gestured grotesquely with the arm and redoubled his shouting, stringing together foreign expletives in an endless, spittle-ridden tirade. The boy was crying, at once terrified and furious.
Peni headed for him, teeth set grim and ready to inflict damage.
He never got there.
The terrifying roar of automatic gunfire, raw and abrasive, tore into the racket of the hospital. Every standing figure in the room dropped low on instinct.
On the far wall, a tight line marched toward the climbing and scrabbling young demon. Tracing bullets found his flesh and sent up tiny misted spits.
Without dramatic gasp or ceremony, he lost his footing on the rafters and crashed lazily to the floor. The body sounded like a dropping laundry sack when it hit the floor.
The doctor with the syringe dropped his weapon and put his hands on his head. Puffing his cheeks out in a mixture of shock and relief, he looked around for the shooter.
Peni’s eyes followed, landing on a grim-looking soldier dressed in black tactical pants, boots, and vest. The getup looked better suited for a S.W.A.T. cop. His smoking rifle now wandered toward Peni. Third time today.
The soldier gestured with a small upward flick of his chin, but the message was clear enough. Come with me.
Then he turned and disappeared down a narrow corridor.
Looking one more time at the cooling body against the far wall, Peni frowned, and followed the shooter.
Decrypted Archival File 0022-543
KC Chris Jiulkenen Deacon Pacifica Province, WUN
Entry 1: Confirmed sightings on Oahu, Maui, and Molokai. Angels and Fallen.
Entry 2: KC Operations station at Pearl Harbor compromised.
Entry 3: Priority Collection and Retreat order issued. Confirmed KC Nicholas Burgos Bishop
Entry 4: Contact and Collection of Peni Poloa Angel (manifestation confirmed)
Las Vegas, Nevada
“I don’t care how you find them, just find them.”
It was a rare occasion, hearing Brown talk. Even more unusual was the fact that he was giving orders rather than taking them. His rarely-used voice sounded hollow, even to his own ear.
On the other end of the line was an old acquaintance of Valdez’.
The Oklahoma drawl that came back sounded puzzled.
“What is it y’all need to find these two for anyway? ‘Seems like there would be other things on Mr. Valdez’ mind at the present moment.”
That insufferable voice broke up the name and made it sound like two words. ‘Val-Dez’. Backwoods accents had always irritated Brown, whose own English was rather smooth, despite it being a third language. Now; agitated, in pain, and insulted with the menial task of contacting this cowboy, the odd manner of speaking was like a trip to the dentist. The voice on the line was an affront to intelligent life.
“That is not your concern.” was Brown’s dry response.
A moment of silence followed. Rednecks did not like being talked down to.
Brown couldn’t help it at the moment, and wouldn’t care even if he could.
“Right ya are Mr. Brown! Just wire the money as usual.” Then dial tone.
Brown slapped his mobile phone shut and set it on a marble table. His abbreviated pinky finger left a tiny dot of moisture on the shiny surface. Sweat. More of the pungent liquid dripped onto the khaki carpeting.
A side table held the remains of their meal, his and Valdez’s. Six pizza boxes, sandwich wrappers, a box of graham crackers, and the carcasses of innumerable empty soda and juice cans. It was more than either of them should have been able to eat.
Their feast had been undignified, the two of them standing over their meal, barely chewing.
Brown could smell pepperoni grease on his own perspiration.
Hunter Valdez emerged from a side door, stark naked and shining with greasy sweat. Just finished with a less-than-willing visitor. In the wedge of coppery light pouring through the doorway he looked like a statue, artistically beautiful and grim. Muscles stood in sinister relief for a brief moment. Restless as a shark, he didn’t stay still long. Light on his toes, he padded over to the buffet table again and began rifling through the few leftovers. He turned to speak over a shoulder, but Brown already knew what was coming, and spoke first.
“I already told them to send more.” speaking this time in their native dialectic Portuguese. “But most of your loyal employees went home as soon as the trouble began. It might take a while.” His sarcasm dripped, and Valdez didn’t like it.
The bodyguard was rewarded with a glare.
“You had better hope it comes quickly, or you’ll be headed to the kitchens to fetch it yourself.”
A pained sobbing crawled its way out of the doorway, making Hunter grit his teeth in irritation.
“Shut UP!” he screamed.
Veins stood out and spittle flew toward the source of the whimpers.
Frightened into silence, whomever it was that cried muffled their cries into a faint sniffling.
Speaking calmly now, but with a concerted effort. Valdez offered instructions.
“Two things, old friend.”
Friend. It held a strange meaning between the pair. But they were as close to friendly as either knew how to be.
“First, shut her up… For the long term please.”
Brown knew what that meant. It was one of his traditional duties, and had been for many years. A man of Valdez’s status had to keep certain personal tastes as discreet as possible.
“Second..” Brown held up a restraining finger, eliciting yet more exasperation from his boss.
“First, I will take care of this, boss”
Hiding this one would be easy, with all of the chaos and the already-lofty body count. One more prom queen would not be missed. At least not by the public.
He stalked to the door, spitting on his hands and rubbing them together. Steam rose. An odor reminiscent of spoiled breakfast ham wafted from inside the dim room.
A small form shuddered beneath sheets, evidence that Valdez had gone well above and beyond his normal perversions.
Brown closed the door behind him.
He took off the horseshoe pinky ring, having too many times lost a stone in these feeble struggles. Light on his feet, he sauntered around to the side of the mattress. Whoever lay in the bed sensed his presence and froze, not daring to breathe.
Pausing to unplug the lone lamp, Brown tore the cord from both wall and light fixture. Darkness soaked the room, and the crying began again. Shushing, he coiled the thin rubber and wire around both hands.
In the dark, a glint like pearl showed.
A few brief and frantic moments later, Brown reappeared in the light of the main room, still smiling. He mumbled to himself, and offered up a sort of chuckle. The only one in on a private joke.
No sounds of distress followed him, no crying.
Rather, a reeking, weighted silence emanated from the blackness.
Hunter had clothed himself in loose khaki pants and a Kappa t-shirt. Soft Brioni slippers rested on an ottoman in front of a massive television monitor. He was watching himself, a replay of the morning’s interview. It was customary for the mogul to review his own media appearances, making sure he kept a consistent image at all times. Even in this altered state, Hunter Valdez understood the value of appearance. Aside from a few agitated twitches of the jaw, he approved. He nearly always did.
His hand absently gestured toward a freshly-delivered trolley, still half laden with food from the kitchens.
“I’ve had my fill.”
Brown took his turn. Piling rotisserie chicken into his jaw in oversized bites, he sucked at the bones. For minutes, neither man said anything. It had not yet been an hour since his last huge meal, but the Brazilian wolfed down a day’s worth of calories earnestly.
The sound of his feasting was grotesque. Whatever was in him now that gave him these uncanny abilities was apparently a hungry thing. The growling in his belly was extraordinary.
Finished with his self-appraisal, Valdez finally spoke.
“Where are they Brown?” No need to hide the impatience.
With and impatient sigh of his own, and switching to Portuguese, Brown responded.
“Our cameras showed them leaving the facilities late last night. I searched both residences after your interview this morning. Clearly, they have both relocated.”
Hunter raised an eyebrow. It was not often that Brown brought him bad news. The bodyguard rarely fell short of expectations such as these. Teeth ground together audibly.
“And when, exactly, do you plan on fixing that situation?
Relocation, as you so eloquently coined their escape, is not an option.”
Brown, for once, truly shared his boss’ displeasure.
He had wanted to find that bitch Serena, to find her and make her pay for all of the behind-back giggling, and the little inside jokes and shuddered displeasure when she caught him looking too long. He had never really liked the woman, though he wouldn’t mind having a night alone with her before he added her body to the collection already moldering in a dark Henderson storage locker.
But now, it was more than that. She was the opposite of him, a dark to his light, or more likely the reverse. Twisting the smile off of her pretty face would be more than satisfying, it would be like breathing. He yearned for it.
“A few days.” He smiled at the idea, “Two days, maybe three. They come from the same city, we will find them both there I think.”
“You are going to find them yourself?”
Returning to usual form, Brown said nothing. Didn’t even shrug, only cocked an eyebrow.
“Go.” Valdez said. “Help the bounty-hunter find them. And next time spare the excuses, they are not becoming of you.”
Hunter had raged at the sight of Brown, battered and exhausted by his confrontation with Julani. Cursing vehemently, he had trashed one of the tower’s many hidden rooms, breaking a window and slapping the more formidable man several times in his already broken face. When he finally calmed down, the two had decided that Julani was not cut from the right cloth, so to speak. Or rather, Valdez had decided so.
The large young man had been hand selected. Physically imposing, calm under pressure, no stranger to violence, the tools were all there. What he had lacked was the sort of psycho-social detachment necessary to be a real member of the inner circle. Julani still cared what people thought of him. Not a good trait in this unique line of work. Not that it mattered any longer.
If it was to be considered a loss at all, only a small one.
Everyone was replaceable, even Brown himself.
To Light Us, To Guard Us (The Angel War Book 1) Page 23