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

by Sean M O'Connell

  Redman.

  He didn’t want to be one anymore. Not again. Not ever.

  “Okay Danny. So what about Mom? What kind of animal does she look like?”

  Serena raised an eyebrow in his direction, having not been privy to the earlier conversation.

  The boy propped double chins between his hands and tapped his temple, like he’d seen people do it in the cartoons. Blue-gray eyes that were much too old for his cherubic face fixed intently on his mother’s stunning features.

  “Well..” he started with a heavy sigh. “Well, she used to look kind of like an otter.”

  Otter? That’s a new one.

  “But now I think she looks more like an eagle maybe.”

  They both laughed at that. Serena’s giggle was musical against his own rough chuckle. Danny smiled at himself, pleased to have entertained them both. Aaron had to ask. Even though he knew just what the answer would be.

  “So how come an eagle now?”

  Danny rolled his eyes as he finished chewing yet another oversized mouthful. He swallowed dramatically before offering the response.

  “Dad, come on. The big white wings give it away.”

  Serena almost fell off her chair laughing at the way their six-year-old suddenly sounded twenty.

  Pig and Xerxes interrupted the fun. The Great Dane knocked over a juice drink with his tail as he bolted toward the fence. Probably after a rabbit or cat.

  Isn’t he too young for sarcasm?

  Then barking from the dogs, loud and aggressive, followed the next instant by a chorus of shouting voices.

  Shit.

  Aaron instinctively jumped up and put himself between the ruckus and his son and ex-wife.

  He surveyed the scene quickly, noting the way the patrolling shadows now converged on one area of southern fenceline where the trees were tallest and thickest, the same place where his two trusty pets now snapped and growled, trying to chew through the chain link. He saw one Monk grab them each by the collar and manhandle them into the back of a Humvee, leaving them to streak the glass with their slobber and whine desperately.

  Several shapes rose above the dense tree line.

  Nine of them. Probably more behind them.

  Their dark wings gave them away. And their scent, though Aaron himself hadn’t yet caught wind. Even as they appeared, two fell, burst open by bullets from the well-trained Monks. Off to Aaron’s left, the lanky sniper -whose name had turned out to be Rossborough- climbed to the top of one of the playground slides and calmly set about knocking Heaters from the sky. Still more of the black-suited soldiers hurriedly ushered the scattered young families and pets to the buses that had brought them here.

  Bishop and E.T. had planned the escape contingencies in the unlikely event of an attack, but both had thought it was just a precaution.

  Still, the Monks were prepared in typical fashion. Aaron couldn’t help in that instant but be proud to be one of them.

  A large green truck came roaring up the side street that approached the park’s main parking lot. Inside the cab, Aaron could see four men, all carrying hunting rifles. The back of the truck was full as well, of men in makeshift uniforms that were actually just hunting camouflage and work coveralls. One of them carried a long tube with a cone attached to the end. He brought the tube up onto his shoulder and..

  Damn… RPG!

  “Serena get down!” Aaron screamed just as the telltale whump, hiss! of the propelled grenade sounded.

  Serena was already moving -diving toward Danny, wings blossoming brightly in a protective posture as she scooped the boy with one arm and wrenched the picnic table out of the cement pad it was secured to with the other. She pulled the table upright and vaulted behind it, bracing the thick wood on her wings and curling herself tightly around her son until all Aaron could see was a brilliant white ball of her feathers.

  He continued shouting.

  “RPG! RPG!” Even now the warning was too late. One of the Angels, a shortish kid named James, or Jeff? dove flat out of the sky in a flash of color, the tips of his white wings nipped with parrot-like yellows and reds.

  The grenade, whizzing hotly toward a bus half-full of panicked civilians, caught him full in the belly.

  Or rather, he caught it.

  The explosion ripped through the afternoon air with a malicious bellow.

  For half a breath everything fell into terrible slow motion, as if time itself was appalled by the unfolding events.

  The force of the blast blew the Angel backward to slam savagely into the broad side of the bus. Windows shattered, showering the mothers and babies inside with glass. The bus itself tilted, and for a moment Aaron thought it would topple before it righted itself, squealing in metallic protest.

  He cast a quick look back to check on Danny, still wrapped in the cocoon of Serena’s wings, before sprinting toward the fallen Angel.

  Jeff, his name is Jeff. Osborne. No, damnit! NO!

  As he ran he reached deep into the waist band of his jeans, where he’d strapped a Heckler and Koch .45. He had lied to Danny about leaving the guns behind. A white lie.

  The explosion and ensuing chatter of automatic gunfire rang harshly in his ears as SK comrades poured out revenge on the truck full of mercenaries. On the lawns all around furious swirling shadows pantomimed real battles being carried out overhead.

  For now, Aaron’s focus was in front of him.

  RPG first.

  Aaron brought his own firearm to bear, doubting the accuracy from such long range, and while running full tilt. The man with the launcher stood grim-faced and sweaty, waiting for another round to be jammed home by his loader. The men attempting to reload kept falling, head-shot even as they lifted the next round to the cylinder in assembly-line fashion.

  One up, one down.

  One up, One down.

  Rossborough. Good.

  Confident that the sniper would handle the heavy gunner, Aaron Dayne turned his attention to the fractured bus. The side was heavily damaged and blackened from the explosion, but it was still driveable. Those inside were scrambling to get back out, pushing and clawing toward the door. One woman dangled a screaming toddler out a side window. Her eyes had gone glassy with fear. Aaron pushed the child back into her arms.

  “No! stay inside! This bus is leaving! We have to get you out of here!”

  The door was ruined by the impact, jammed shut by the star-shaped crater of twisted metal that had given way to the blast and collision with the Angel. Those inside were not going to make it out, and nobody else could be loaded through the front.

  A chunk of sod and spit of dirt jumped just behind his heels as an enemy shot scored a near-miss.

  Aaron threw open the emergency door at the back of the bus and enlisted the help of a young father to convince those inside to sit down while they filled the rest of the bus from back to front.

  Aaron smiled tightly at the women and children while cursing profusely under his breath.

  His helper was clearly terrified, but in this moment that demanded bravery, he rose to the occasion.

  Job done, Aaron skidded around the front of the bus and shouted at the driver.

  “Move!”

  As usual, his orders were unquestioned and the diesel roared to life. The bus labored loudly out of the parking lot, flanked by two black jeeps full of Monks. Other buses were filling up and revving engines, ready to evacuate the civilian innocent before anybody got hurt. Glass spider-webbed and bullets whanged off of the buses’ wheel wells.

  Trying to puncture the tires? For what?

  Aaron already knew.

  “Get the train moving! They’re trying to disable the buses and force us to stay put! Get MOVING!”

  The enemy wanted them stuck. Defending crippled buses would bog down the Angels and Monks assigned here for hours. To Aaron, this meant that there was another attack happening somewhere in the valley, and whoever organized the coordinated raids wanted the Angels and Knights spread thin.

  I
t was a ruthless tactic, and it was becoming a common practice for their enemy.

  Aaron motioned for a radio to be rushed his way as he knelt beside Osborne, the wounded Angel. The whole front of the man was burnt black, with a gruesome red flower of torn flesh where his stomach should be. White ribs jutted wetly. Aaron reeled at the sight. A mortal wound.

  Is it for an Angel?

  “Jeff, just stay still pal.” The Angel didn’t look in a hurry to go anywhere. His eyes lolled up and sideways, but never down. Never down at his own wound. Reluctant to observe the carnage. Aaron’s eyes ticked intently back and forth between the grievous gut wound and Osborne’s head.

  No Halo. Good.

  The telltale ring of light hadn’t sealed doom just yet. Aaron prayed that it wouldn’t appear. Chewed-looking meat that used to be internal organs forced skepticism.

  To his credit, Osborne the Angel didn’t seem to doubt. Didn’t even seem all that bothered by the horror show that was once his abdomen.

  “Redskin…I’m going to be fine… Kind of hurts, but I think I’ll be fine.” He finally looked at himself, taking stock of the damage.

  “See? Already healing up.” He lifted his eyebrows in an unconvincing attempt at optimism. The very edges of his burns, on his shoulders and wings, were starting to regenerate. Ever so slowly. Glacially. Pinkish new skin struggled against hard black crust. Aaron wiped dirt from his own rough hands and took his shirt off to press against the spot where Osborne’s pectoral muscle glistened like a fresh steak.

  “Okay friend, you just settle back on the grass here, Monk is going to take care of you.” A tall Monk with a large crooked nose joined them, snapping a small headset down over Aaron’s ears. Aaron gestured for him to remain, and for two others nearby to complete the team that would guard Jeff until his wounds healed.

  Or until the halo did make an appearance.

  The voice in Aaron’s ears made him appreciate the efficiency of the Monks. Without being told to, they had patched him in to central communications.

  E.T.’s gruffness crackled through the headset.

  The elder man actually sounded worried, which of course he was. Nobody wanted innocent blood on their hands, especially the blood of children.

  “Talk to me Cap.” Cap was the nickname E.T. now used for Aaron Dayne. As in Captain America. Just another on the long list.

  Aaron counted even as he spoke, watching the Monks cram more of the families from a disabled bus onto trucks pulling away from the small park.

  “Ambush. Total of thirty-one, repeat, three-one Flyers. Ground support undetermined, but I’d say plenty. Most of them already count as casualties.”

  Indeed, the green truck was immobilized, with only a handful of mercenaries returning the carefully placed fire of the Monks. They would either die or surrender within the next few moments.

  “KC casualties?” E.T. was all about business now.

  “Minimal. Looks like three Monks, maybe one fatality, and Angel Osborne is down.”

  “Jesus.., Halo?”

  “Not yet.” Aaron felt torn between optimism and realism. “Could go either way I think.”

  E.T. wasn’t particularly fond of this Osborne guy Aaron remembered, but the news was no less sobering.

  He broke down the whole attack quickly, knowing that either Tyson himself or a Comm technician would record the data for further analysis. His report was practiced, detailed, thorough. Numbers, weaponry, origin of attack, duration, all of it spilled from Aaron in tight soldier speak. He concluded quickly and moved on to the more pressing issue.

  “They were trying to disable the buses. Trying to slow us down.” out of the corner of his eye he could see Serena and Danny moving away from the overturned table, a cease-fire had been reached, or forced.

  “My bet is that they are headed your way, or to West.”

  West High School, rebuilt only six years ago, had become a sort of refugee camp due to its relative proximity to the Angel stronghold on Capitol Hill.

  In recent days, Heaters and their allies had taken to attacking civilian gatherings and raiding foraging parties. Tactically it made sense, because the Angels who guarded the others would then be forced to fight distracted, torn between protecting innocent lives and tearing apart their natural enemies.

  “Good call, Red-man. But I have to tell you, you are a bit slow, the party started here about ten minutes ago. Scott and the boys are working as we speak.”

  So the attack had begun on Capitol Hill.

  “What about West?”

  “We haven’t heard anything from them yet, which means they are probably busy as well.”

  “Looks like the bastards are making a serious effort this time.” Aaron was mildly surprised. The attacks were obviously coordinated. More organized than past efforts.

  “Alright, we’re on our way. Where do you want me?”

  “You yourself come up our way if you can. Approach from the Memory Grove road, they’ve got State Street clogged up with a couple of wrecks and the West Hill is too hot to be driving up just now.”

  Memory Grove. Slow.

  “Tell Serena and her boys to head down to West. Bluejean and his Swans are out of town, so we are thinner than usual on Flyers. Over”

  Looking again toward Serena, who was kneeling in front of Danny wiping tears away from the boy’s eyes and smiling into his chubby face, Aaron doubted that he’d be able to ensure her further involvement today. He didn’t need to inform Emmanuel Tyson of that fact.

  “I’ll let her know.. On my way. ETA twenty-five minutes. Over”

  “Make it twenty. Out.”

  “Roger, Over and out.”

  Aaron hustled over to Serena and Danny. She fixed him with what now passed for a glare when he recounted the orders meant for her, but at least nodded an acknowledgement. Danny had already calmed down quite a bit, and Serena kept her wings spread in front of him so he wouldn’t be able to see past, to the blood and mess. Aaron took his turn squatting down to hug and kiss his perfect son. A silent prayer of thanks all three of them were totally unharmed was sent up. He wanted to stay with Danny, make sure everything was fine, but knew he couldn’t.

  “Good job pal. You did good. My tough guy.” It wasn’t lip service. The boy’s composure was impressive. “Mom and Dad have to go, but will you do me a favor?”

  The bristly little head nodded up and down seriously.

  Aaron went on, issuing orders to his miniature soldier.

  “You have to make sure the dogs get home and fed, they were pretty scared there. More scared than you, so you’ve got to make them feel better alright?”

  Danny nodded again. He could do that. Nobody knew how to get tails wagging like Danny did. Aaron nodded toward the Humvee where the dogs whined.

  “I don’t know if Monk remembers which house is ours. Make sure you show him the right one okay?” Danny’s fat hand wiped the last drops away from his chubby cheeks and he squared his small shoulders.

  “I can show him, Dad.” Pride swelling, Aaron squeezed his son and kissed him on top of the head, inhaling the scent of soil and grass. His son smelled like the dogs.

  “Thanks pal, hustle now.”

  Still holding Serena’s hand, and sheltered by her humongous feathers, Danny ran earnestly for the rumbling truck. Aaron shrugged apologetically at the look Serena cast over her shoulder. She would be upset now for weeks, though of course the attack was not his fault.

  Danny climbed into the Humvee, and Serena jumped onto the roof, tucking her wings close as it roared off. Her blonde hair whipped like wildfire around her neck. Habitually, Aaron scanned the space around her head for a glow, a glimmer, a firefly. Anything that might be the beginning of a halo.

  Nothing.

  He took a breath and weighed the options for his next move. Years of training and experience had taught him that composure was king.

  Soldiers in a rush often lost their lives.

  Officers in a rush did worse, losing the lives of the
ir subordinates as well.

  Aaron had almost forgotten that Bluejean was gone.

  The absence of such a valuable ally changed the equation some.

  The Swan and his team were in South America, bailing out groups of Angels and civilians that were in extreme danger.

  The network of Knights outside of the World Union and the U.S. was thin, but distress calls had poured in from all over the globe. Something had to be done.

  E.T. had hinted at the Swan excursion being important for others reasons as well, but Aaron paid little attention. Shadowy objectives might be important to his superiors in the Sleepless Knights, but for him they took a back seat to everyday survival.

  Eugene “Bluejean” Moss and his closest comrades were something of a mystery.

  Since the day Aaron had buried Allie, he had seen his old pal only a handful of times. Scott had been more closely involved with him, enough at least to gather that Bluejean was now mute, but otherwise perfect.

  In fact, Serena’s good friend Dr. Peel had made the fairly valid point that perhaps being mute made Bluejean more perfect. Words muddled beauty and truth more often than they complemented it. Nothing the restored man could say would improve what he had become.

  Bluejean was faster, stronger, better than even Scott.

  He and the company he kept were the thoroughbreds of the Angel population. They meted out swift and vicious justice on the enemy, so much so that many of the Heaters would flee if they noticed Swans among their opponents. Few of them bothered to heed orders from Bishop or any of the Knights, but they were famous for swooping in and saving the day when most needed. Often a group of civilians or even soldiers who found themselves in danger would be bailed out by silent juggernauts from the heavens. Every day that the conflict stretched, so did the legends of their heroics.

  As far as Aaron knew there had not been a single Swan casualty. He didn’t even know if they could be wounded. Maybe they healed too fast to even notice. All of them were brilliant in combat, all of them mute, and -Lougee had been the first to figure it out- all of them formerly handicapped.