Perhaps the adage didn’t hold true in the case of the missing veterinarian and personal assistant, even if their company was sought for different reasons. The bodyguard had no other choice but to redeem himself by delivering the two women in a timely manner.
Brown’s sinister mind had been stewing on it since the confrontation with his former colleague on the zoo level.
He had grossly underestimated the younger man, and had paid for it. The mistake ate at him. Everything ate at him. His normally stoic consciousness had become decidedly more hectic, a cantankerous jumble of all the things that made him want to break and hurt.
Luckily, the injuries he had sustained against his underdog companion had healed overnight. Healed completely in fact.
No telltale soreness of jaw or creaking sore joints. The freakish swelling of his face had smoothed out miraculously. No trace of his fight with the larger colleague remained, save for a burst blood vessel in one already-bloodshot eye. Close inspection in a mirror had revealed that, while some old purple scars remained, they had faded. There was no new addition to the map of combat history that decorated his skin. The stumped pinky bore a sheen, like newly healed burns. Whatever the change was, it was far from being only skin deep.
A sort of continuous adrenaline rush coursed his veins. At once euphoric and draining.
Valdez had been raving for days about similar sensations, alternating periods of invincibility complex and sluggishness.
There had been mood swings, and insatiable, almost unbelievable hunger.
Both men were on edge, but the boss hid his angst much better.
Valdez was never seen in public as anything short of implacable. For years he had maintained a facade of professional coolness that belied the stress and importance of his position. Press and competitors alike had raved about it since his early days as a mogul. That a relatively young entrepreneur could live the lifestyle that he did and not ever turn up in a negatively spun paparazzi photo or tabloid story was extraordinary.
Of course in reality it was not only Hunter’s discretion that kept up the appearances. Brown, and a few times his erstwhile companion, were paid generously for work done behind the scenes, away from the cameras and red carpets and printing presses.
Babel’s staff photographer frequently consulted with the bodyguards on the best angle and distance to maintain so as not to appear in photos when possible.
Because while Hunter Valdez was truly chameleonic, Brown himself looked exactly like what he was; a dangerous man. No amount of expensive tailoring would ever be able to cover that. Nor did he care to conceal his true colors. Such thoughts never even entered the Brazilian’s consciousness, so little importance did he place on public opinion.
He was as close to robot as a person could be. Lack of emotion made him effective. Yet his employer rarely showed any appreciation.
Hunter Valdez was growing impatient with Brown’s presence, and the smacking of his meal.
“I want them both in front of me as soon as possible. And it would be in your best interest to find them before that cowboy bounty hunter. If memory serves, he has a bit of a weakness with women.”
Again, a subtle elevation of eyebrow from the bodyguard, as if to say, “and you don’t?”
This silent sarcasm only further inflamed Valdez.
“Take the helicopter, the roads are bad. Go now.”
Finally, the official order.
Brown was tempted to refuse. It had been a long time since he had, but his wrists still bore the evidence of consequence.
Things were different now, but as changed as he himself was, it was evident that the boss was still a step ahead. So he opted for his trademark silence instead.
Dismissing the helicopter suggestion, Brown walked to a window. Outside, the view went on forever. Stark desert ugliness interrupted by the sprawl of humanity in crisis. Columns of smoke rose at intervals, rooted in buildings and car lots and apartment buildings that burned unattended by the overworked fire departments. Most of the city’s main thoroughfares were still thick with traffic, but the side streets were nearly empty, as if the citizenry had resigned itself to riding out the troubles at home. They kept tabs on the evening news and satellite radios behind closed doors and darkened windows.
Brown didn’t think about such things.
Instead, he pulled off his shirt and tucked it into his waistband. He could feel the ever-judging eyes of his lifelong counterpart boring into his muscled back. The window slid open easily, then shattered outward as he kicked to make more room. There was satisfaction in the unnecessary destruction.
For a moment, he disappeared into the bedroom. When he reappeared, he lugged something large wrapped in bed sheets. One final matter of business. No need for a vehicle.
He would get to where he needed to go.
Brown was confident that his quarry would behave the way he expected. He would find the fugitive women quickly enough.
Resisting the urge to glare back at the man behind him, he vaulted through the open window and out into the hot dry air. His silhouette shifted as he fell, and then he was not falling but gliding. Carried on inky dark wings that were either there or not. Illusion or reality, they served their purpose. Far below, Las Vegas twinkled and burned.
Having watched his subordinate go, Valdez turned back to the television. Unimpressed with the stoic bodyguard’s new flair for drama. He himself could have done the same if he wanted. In fact he had, if only by accident.
On screen, more news came streaming in from affiliates around the globe. The initial shock of global distress was slowly melting away. The focus now lie on treatment, problem solving, and of course, explanation. Experts -who in reality were no more expert than anyone else in the face of this totally new phenomenon- rotated through the studios, offering this word of advice and that tidbit of cautious wisdom.
It was a new weapon, or an airborne virus, or government conspiracy. Hardcore religious zealots screamed on cameras about Jesus coming soon and the culling of the wicked. Their red faces and adamant spittle gave them the air of hysterics.
Hunter Valdez sat and relished the chaos.
Some of the faces on the screen drove him mad though. Smiling accounts of those incapacitated who awoke miraculously healed. Blind men saw. A tandem of paralyzed wheelchair basketball players walked out of their gym to pull victims from a horrific car accident. These little islands of positivity amidst the bedlam irked Valdez violently. Twice he had to turn off the feed for a moment and collect himself before returning to his couch-cushion-reconnaissance. For hours he watched, laughing at some stories, raging at others, but absorbing them all.
Interest piqued when footage flashed of looters hitting a local grocery mart. The camera zoomed through aisles and produce bins as one hundred or so people raided the shelves.
A select few, puzzled by the zealousness of their co-criminals, ducked behind their laden shopping carts as the masses tore into the coffers aisle by aisle.
The scene took on a sort of Discovery Channel tone as housewives in sweatpants, dirty utility workers, and a few scantily clad dancers fresh from the pole tore into bags of chips and deli meat and jars of peanut butter as they chatted or laughed and cursed at each other.
For a brief moment, the camera caught the shadow of something large hurtling overhead and crashing into a group of people who sucked at the produce section. Valdez saw limbs flying in what appeared to be a fight before the camera swung back to a stripper gnawing on a huge block of cheese. She laughed into the camera and then lashed out, like a schizophrenic. Her movements were jerky and fast, and her eyes opened just a bit too wide, but otherwise the insults she screamed at the cameraman off-screen were coherent, even creative.
At least the fever didn’t melt too many brain cells and turn all of these people into zombie-like eating machines. Valdez was not a fan of stupidity, but the pitiful display being broadcast was at least amusing.
A genuine smile reflected the bluish glow of his
screen. He recognized the frantic hunger with which they tore into their stolen food, not caring what they wolfed down.
He knew that hunger.
These people were like him, or at least shared something of what he had been through the past few days. It meant they were likely thinking what he was thinking. Itching like he itched. His smile broadened.
There were so very many of them.
Salt Lake City, Utah
As hard as he tried, Aaron couldn’t dam the flood.
Not of tears, those had dried up days ago.
It was the memories now that were killing him.
They flitted in and out behind his eyes.
Allie’s smiling face.
The little tiny roll she could never get rid of below her belly button.
The way she rolled her eyes at his old sports stories…
When a few helpful nurses had finally pried the two apart back at the hospital, he had retched on the floor. Watery bile mixed in and tainted the blood that had poured out of her. He had sat there in it, in the red pool of his wife, for what seemed like hours but was likely only minutes.
Through a mist, he had watched Scott tumble and brawl with several of the people.
The Fallen, Possessed E.T. had called them.
Foggily, Aaron remembered wanting to help, but the rock in his chest weighed him down, pinned him to his spot. Eventually they had rolled and battered through the crowds and out the cafeteria doors to play out the conflict in less congested quarters.
Aaron cried some more.
Scott had found him that night, lying on the floor of the hospital chapel, asleep finally after endless stressful hours of fighting, saving lives, worrying, and worst of all, grieving.
The big man had roused him gently and the two sat there in a pew and watched the wounds on Scott’s hands and arms close themselves up. It was a strange thing, witnessing a miracle inside of a church when only hours before the most damnable thing either could imagine had taken place.
The minor scratches and abrasions had healed very quickly, before Scott even sat down. Deeper cuts and puncture wounds took most of that first hour that they shared. It was of course exactly what they had been told to expect by the enigmatic man Lougee had brought into their strangely hectic lives. Nonetheless, Aaron had a hard time believing what his own weary eyes were revealing. The dark holes in Scott’s flesh pulled shut bit by indiscernible bit, like watching an ice cube melt. One moment there was a cold hard block and before you knew it, only a puddle. The science of it made sense but it was hard to break down in real time, second for second. Aaron was glad of the distraction.
His burly and apparently indestructible friend sat with him and cried a little. Prayed a little. He kneaded the back of Dayne’s neck and said exactly the right things. As if whatever had blessed him with superphysical ability had also made him into an empath.
Time stretched, there in the dim glow of cheap electric candles.
The digital clock on the wall next to Jesus ticked the passing of something that no longer mattered to either of them.
With his best friend by his side, Aaron mourned.
He grieved hard for the passing of his lovely young wife. But also for the many that he had never properly paid tribute. Tears came for his parents, his brother, the friends lost at war. In the end he and Scott sat and laughed tearfully at the same old stories they always told about Bluejean, because neither were sure that they would ever see him again.
Now, a week later, Aaron Dayne rolled sod over the backyard grave he had dug for Allie. The morgue at the hospital was overburdened, unable to make space for even one of their own. Mortuaries were either closed or overloaded with an unfortunate boom in business.
Just too many bodies.
At Collie’s goading, he and his friends had decided to lay Allie to rest here, at home. Aaron wasn’t able to look at her much, cold and gray like that. It wasn’t the way she would want him to remember her anyway.
Collie had dressed her in the long blue gown that she wore one night for dinner on their honeymoon. Unlike Scott, the deep scalpel wound on Allie’s neck hadn’t zipped shut, so the fussy old woman had put a scarf on her too. It didn’t match the dress, but nobody cared. After giving her cold forehead a light kiss, Aaron wrapped her in their bed sheets.
He didn’t think he could sleep on them again without her.
She weighed next to nothing when he carried her out to the square pit in the yard. He jumped down in and gently laid her on the damp, dark floor. The smells of wet earth wafted up from beneath his boots. For a long time, he stayed in the pit with her.
Little Danny watched from the window, not really understanding, but assuming the appropriate somberness of the adults surrounding him.
Each of them said a piece.
All but Aaron.
He said his after he sent the rest of them inside to be fed by Collie. Insisting that he be the one to cover her over with earth and grass. Xerxes and Pig whined softly as he shoveled back what had been turned up..
Goodbye love.
The cold grass that should feel good on his fingers made Aaron think of a day not long ago when he and Allie had made love out here in the yard. She had been nervous that the neighbors would hear them, so they had finished in the garage, laughing at themselves.
He hated the memory for torturing him, bit hard on the insides of his cheeks to stop the tears that welled up.
The last shovelful of dirt was torturous, the rolling of the sod even more so.
The unpleasant job done, he stood again and went to the garage. It was a comforting place, with heavy smells of dirt and grease and dog.
E.T. was there, sitting on Aaron’s motorcycle wearing a look like he’d been waiting for the younger man to finish.
“Get off my bike.”
The gray eyes that never seemed to blink just stared calmly back at him as he washed his dirty hands in the utility sink. Ignoring the instruction, the older man started to speak.
“I am sorry for your loss Mr. Dayne.”
That was a surprise. So far E.T. had said little since their initial meeting, and what he had said was usually a brusque question. Aaron didn’t like the man. He was starting to believe him; but he didn’t like him.
“Don’t call me mister… and I said get off of my bike. What do you want?”
E.T. still didn’t move.
“I know that now is not a good time. But there will not ever be a good time. It’s time for you to step up soldier. It’s been near a week now and your friend Scott and that mystery man you two told us about have been doing all the work. Hell, the two of them cleaned out the whole damn hospital by themselves, just about! Them and a few others.”
It was true. After the night in the chapel Aaron had returned home to be with Danny and Collie. He and Dave had cracked the safe at the bike shop and bought out the corner store’s supply of bottled water and halfway healthy foods. Aside from the motorcycle, the only thing that fit in the garage now was box upon box of beef jerky and snackbags of trail mix. A few of the elderly neighbors had received a share, but the rest was being hoarded after what they had seen on the news. For five days Aaron had been stewing on what their next course of action should be.
It had become a routine.
Each morning he awoke, cleaned his guns, mounted the bike, checked Collie’s empty house for signs of Bluejean, attempted to contact Danny’s mother, swung by the hospital to make sure there was no more rioting and check on Scott, who had become a sort of adopted security chief. On those visits Aaron would hear strange stories about what Scott and the strangers were capable of. Stories of wings and breaking through walls. Thus far, he hadn’t witnessed anything of the sort. Nor had he asked Scott to confirm or deny anything. In the evening he would return home to listen in on more bizarre conversations being held in his own basement between Lougee and this E.T. character. Collie would feed them all. Making sure each of the men only had one helping but offering heaps to Danny and -when he c
ould make time for a meal- Scott.
Each night Aaron would clean his guns again and go to sleep thinking about Allie.
He dreaded his own dreams.
“What do you want me to do?” Aaron asked the odd grayish man “Every day you and Greatwater sit in the basement and scheme up these ideas that make no sense. All your talk about divine power and the Devil and occultism gets us nowhere.” He started to huff. “I’m doing exactly what I need to be doing. I’m taking care of my family. What’s left of it...”
The last bit trailed off pathetically. Aaron was embarrassed at the way he sounded. He stared at a crack in the cement floor.
“Your son will be fine here. That Collie is quite the woman. And if you were going to find your friend you most likely would have by now.” He raised his hands defensively at the glare Aaron gifted him. “I’m not telling you to give up. I’m just saying a man like you is useful in a time like this.”
The truth of his point had to be conceded.
Aaron was a talented mechanic and metal worker with just enough of an artistic side to dream up cool designs for motorcycles. Good enough.
He was a great soldier though. Tough to a fault, calm under pressure and a natural leader. He also came equipped with the kind of training that allowed a man to deal with any contingency.
Tools.
Even thinking about the things he was capable of doing -and at one time had been obligated to do- was enough to get Dayne’s leaden heart to quicken its pace. He looked at the older man, who appeared calm but might just as likely be bat-shit crazy.
Crazy or not, E.T. had a point.
Something needed to be done. People were dying and getting hurt by their former neighbors, friends, and family members. Allie had guessed it was a sort of cephalic fever. His friends seemed convinced that it was the work of the Devil.
Aaron didn’t know why it couldn’t be both.
If indeed the Devil was playing his hand, he was piling up a lot of chips.
This man E.T. had told them he’d seen it happen before, on a smaller scale. He told them that what he had seen was a small uprising, compared to the full blown world war that was unfolding at present.
To Light Us, To Guard Us (The Angel War Book 1) Page 24