by Nina Post
Faster than even he perceived, she withdrew a hunting knife from across her back and thrust it cleanly, masterfully, into his heart.
He cleared his throat. For the moment, he left the knife in his body, because it looked badass. To impress her a little more, he took a bite of his sandwich and chewed contemplatively.
“That should’ve killed you.” She shook her head in disappointment.
“I can’t be killed.” He plucked a napkin from the dispenser and dabbed at his mouth.
“Why not?”
“Because I just can’t.”
“I’ll figure a way.”
“Maybe you’d be doing me a favor.”
“Don’t care. I’m gonna follow you and figure out a way. Rest of my life, that’s what it takes.”
“Like I told you, I really cannot be killed.”
She thought about this. “The next best thing, then.”
“You’re too late.” He put money on the counter. “I’m being punished enough.”
“Meantime, I’ll be watching. Then I’ll sneak up on you and you won’t know when.”
The bald man rubbed the hollow of his temple with a fingertip. His carefree life would be bludgeoned by this assignment, and on top of that, he had to be the fall guy. But with what he supposed was a masochistic mindset, he also kind of looked forward to it.
aum, Forcas, Crocell, and Gaap huddled in the dumpster.
Forcas gagged. “This is a bad, bad idea.”
Crocell pushed Gaap. “Would you fold up your wings, please?”
Gaap groaned. “I’m in some gastrointestinal distress.”
“Why do I let you talk us into this stuff, Raum?” Forcas said.
“Shh!” Raum said. “This is going to work. This is the loophole. The only loophole. And once the garbage truck shows up, which it will probably do sometime in the next six hours, we’ll be free. First thing we do is destroy this building. The quality of life has really gone downhill with these monsters rubbing their mucous cocoons against everything. Then we can level the city, destroy the rest of the humans, and spread out from there, to all cities, all humans. This world will be ours.”
Gaap yanked one of his wings from under Forcas. “Hey, get off my wing!” He examined his wing for damage. “Listen, Raum, I don’t know about this plan.”
“It’s too late. The plan is in motion,” Raum said.
“Being bound here isn’t so bad,” Gaap said. “We’ve got an indoor lap pool, a fitness center, a diligent maintenance team―”
“You should have seen Dragomir with my dishwasher last week,” Crocell said. “He took it apart and put it back together in under an hour. Very impressive.”
“Yes, he’s a wonder.” Raum clapped his hands together. “All righty. Everyone get on their game and remember what you are. We may have lost our grace, but who needs it? It was only holding us back.”
“Being bound here is holding us back,” Forcas said.
“Shut up, Forcas,” Raum said. “Being bound is holding us back.”
Forcas made eye contact with the others and expressed incredulous frustration. “Isn’t that what I just said?”
Raum continued as though he hadn’t noticed. “Now, the truck is going to pick up the dumpster and hold it upside down.” He shined a laser pointer at a drawing of a dump truck and a bin. “Do not be alarmed. We’re going to fall into the garbage truck, which will drive away from the building and out of the radius―and then we’ll be free.”
“Dammit, I forgot to pick up the mail today,” Crocell said.
“So?” Forcas said.
“I ordered a box of 1000 ladybugs,” Crocell said.
“Why?” Raum said.
“Why not? ”
Raum was silent. “Anyway, who cares about the mail? In just a few minutes, we’ll be powerful again! Why are you thinking about insignificant human matters?”
“Because you can get ladybugs by mail. What a world! Also because I’m in this human vessel and can’t help it,” Crocell said.
“Oh, please,” Raum said. “You’re bigger than that!”
“I was,” Crocell said. “Now I’m someone who gets unreasonable enjoyment from picking up the mail and from the holiday decorations that just magically appear in the lobby.”
“Now we wait,” Raum said. “The garbage truck should be here anytime now.”
elly checked the real-time feed for the Cluck Snack street van. The van was close, only five blocks away. She grabbed her bike and rode standing, careening around dazed and despondent traders, bankers, and professors until she came to a smoking halt, scattering a queue of customers at the Cluck Snack counter window.
The whatever-it-was in the chicken costume clucked in surprise and consternation as she opened the back panels of the van.
She tossed in her bike. “I am commandeering this vehicle pursuant to section 9-302-020 of the Pothole City Municipal Code.” She put her hands against the feathery back of the chicken and gently pushed him out the door until he hopped onto the street.
With a curt “Sorry” to the murmuring would-be customers, she sat in the driver’s seat of the van and examined the controls. The pedals and clutch were much farther up than normal, so she slid the seat back as far as it would go and felt around for the gearshift, which wasn’t in the center console or to the side of the steering column.
“Where―?”
Eventually she found the gearshift, which resembled an old Simon game. She pressed the green triangle and peeled out.
At the first light, she turned on the revolving clucking chicken head on top of the van. That didn’t seem official enough, so she clicked on the flashing lights, too.
If the Cluck Snack street van didn’t bring the SPs out of hiding, nothing would.
Kelly wove the van around large debris in the street, at one point hopping a tire up on the curb to get between a fat, naked, screaming man and a deserted city bus. Lightning stabbed down from a shimmering red and silver sky. Thunder rumbled, reminding her of Af’s angel form.
She headed east on a relatively uncrowded street, closer to Amenity Tower and her apartment, hoping the stray SPs would hear the Cluck Snack jingle and come running. Two of them did, by the library with a crash-landed airplane on it. Moments later, the two SPs contentedly nibbled Cluck Snack Krispy Baked B’nana Bitz for Dogs and Ferrets.
Then more SPs came, entranced by the siren call of Cluck Snack.
“Is that everyone?” She craned her head and looked behind her. “Wait, where are Mefathiel and Zack?”
Rochel drew a map on a paper menu, showed the map to the others, who nodded in approval, then handed it to Kelly. She turned the map upside down, then to the side… and back up. With a sigh, she slapped it on the wide dashboard.
“Why would Zack be―OK, let’s try it.”
Iggy and Tigg, long-suffering and often bored angels of the future, glared at each other across identical desks in a modest office in what was once the third-tallest building in Pothole City.
Iggy cleared his throat. He held up a picture of a death worm in a fruit peddler costume. He shook it and the paper rippled. Tigg cocked his head, opened a drawer, and presented a photo of the SPs in an RV.
Iggy scoffed. He slid a photo of Murray over to the other desk and smirked. Tigg crumpled up a piece of paper and threw it at Iggy, who smoothed out the paper, a photo of Af in jail.
Zack, the missing SP, padded over to Tigg and whispered something in his ear. Tigg grinned, and Iggy stood, his chair clattering to the floor.
By the time Kelly arrived at the office of the angels of the future, papers were fluttering down to the floor and the water cooler was spewing filtered water on an acrylic painting of a lighthouse.
The angels of the future turned to look at her. Correction liquid dripped off Tigg’s hair.
“Don’t tell me I have to find all of your pencils.”
Zack ran over to her and clutched the side of her pants. Tigg shook his head, spattering droplets of co
rrector fluid on his dark wood desk.
“Thanks for watching him,” she said, to neither angel in particular.
Zack proudly held up a purple and yellow device.
“And for the, uh, label-maker,” she added.
Tigg shot a withering look at Iggy.
Zack pressed some buttons and the device whirred. He handed Kelly a small white label. “Cluck,” she read. She peeled off the label and stuck it on the back of her hand.
s they left the two agitated angels, Kelly knew she would have labels stuck all over her by the end of the day, and made a mental note to tell Zack he shouldn’t wander into random offices.
A line had formed at the Cluck Snack van.
When she got close enough for the people to hear her, she pronounced, “This is an official vehicle of the Pothole City Division of Infectious Disease. If you’re here as a volunteer tester for a new strain of a viral hemorrhagic fever that we’re investigating, then please stay in line to receive your synthetic dosage.”
The line cleared out in seconds and Kelly and Zack got in the van. She sat on the center console, facing the SPs.
“Now that I have you rounded up, I want to talk strategy. Since you’ve been off your posts, the city has pretty much fallen apart. The bound angels in Amenity Tower are planning to escape today, and the king of the demonic locusts is unhappy with my job performance. But most important, you’re all in danger.”
Tubiel scribbled on his sketch pad and held up a drawing of a small bird with big eyes and an open beak.
“That’s an irrelevant objective. But an adorable one.”
Tubiel smiled. Kermit held up a sketch of a clock.
“We need to define our objectives more closely.”
Dave held up his drawing, a water insect, and pumped his fist in the air.
“I love water insects as much as anyone, but let’s not use past experiences as a crutch.”
Morris showed his drawing of a series of ducts and equipment.
“And that seems like a private objective.”
They watched her expectantly. She held out her hand and made a beckoning gesture. The SPs handed her their drawings and she shuffled through the papers.
“You’re right,” she said. “And I didn’t see it. We use your talents to get into that building and stop the bound angels from getting out.” She thought about it for a minute. “OK, listen up. We’re going to do a Key Hole recon patrol―hey, wait, is that the empanada truck?”
She stood in a half-crouch and tucked the keys in her pocket. “I’ll be right back. Some of us can’t live on Cluck Snacks alone.”
When she turned the corner with a bagful of hot baked empanadas, the Cluck Snack van was gone.
“Motherclucker,” she said, and ran to Amenity Tower, eating a spinach empanada on the way.
hat’s On Your Mind, With Roger Balbi was in session in the management office’s studio.
On the monitor in the reception area, Kelly watched a woman with red hair and a manic look in her eyes hold a squawking goose on her lap. The goose quacked and flapped its wings, while snapping its beak in Roger’s direction.
“Shamanically speaking, Roger―” the woman started to say.
Roger abruptly turned to the camera and spoke over her. “We’ve got some surprise guests for you today, so just bear with me for a moment. We’ll be right back.”
He waved frantically at Kelly to come into the studio and ushered the woman off her chair and out the studio door.
The woman sideswiped her with her ample chest and jammed a piece of paper down her shirt.
Kelly fished the card out from her shirt. “Shamanic and Psychic Animal Services,” she read. “Specializing in Fowl. This card good for 15% off any thirty-minute session.”
She ripped up the card and stuffed the bits in her pocket as she entered the studio. They could take their ferrying and shamanic services and cram them in their―
“Let’s get started,” Roger said, all business.
Feeling violated, she took one of the seats in front of the camera. “This isn’t a good idea.”
Roger gave her an encouraging, close-lipped smile, eyes crinkling at the sides. “Just be yourself.” He checked his Databank watch.
“You don’t want that. Isn’t there someone else for you to interview?” she said through clenched teeth.
“Of course there is,” Roger said. “I have to turn down guests all the time. But I get the impression that you and my surprise second guest have a few things to sort out.”
“Surprise second guest?”
“Here’s a hint: he protects bankers and traders.”
“Murray.” Her tone was bone dry.
“Yep.”
She gave Roger a cutting stare. “If we did have anything to sort out, it would not be on your show.”
“Why not?” Roger held up his palms. “What’s On Your Mind, With Roger Balbi is a good show. It’s won the Conseil d’Administration Award from the French-American Building Manager’s Association, Pothole City Chapter, for three consecutive years. It also won the Trailblazer Award, presented by the Amenity Tower Community Committee, this year and last year.”
“Impressive, but any sorting out Murray and I have to do will be done in private.”
They looked up at a knock on the door. Murray leaned in with a piece of paper. “Is this the studio? I received this invitation.” He blinked in surprise at Kelly. “What are you doing here?”
Roger led Murray into the other chair, then straightened his tie and performed a few bizarre vocal warm-ups. His camera operator raised a forearm and held it straight up. A moment later, the operator brought his arm down to point at Roger.
“From Amenity Tower in Pothole City, this is What’s On Your Mind, With Roger Balbi, on local access channel nine. I’m Roger Balbi.
“What’s On Your Mind, With Roger Balbi is brought to you by Clucking Along Holdings, Inc., the makers of Cluck Snacks. ‘14 Million Chickens Can’t Be Wrong.’
“Today, we’re proud to feature the band Hot Room of Miscellaneous. We’re also going to play some Rock Paper Scissors with a speleologist vs. a serologist, give Dragomir the Turkle test, and build a cloud chamber. But first, I’m thrilled to have with us today two very special guests: Kelly Driscoll, vampire hunter, and―”
“I’m not a vampire hunter, Roger.”
“And Murray, who’s in charge of the protection of bankers and traders.”
“Oh, you should think about that,” the camera operator said to Kelly, peeking around the camera body. “My cousin’s fiancée just got her vampire hunting certificate from that online school on late-night TV, and she’s raking it in―they just bought a new house in Crisis City with an infinity pool and wine cellar.”
“Owen,” Roger said, with a smile and a tone that said, ‘I’m going to fire you and you’ll miss out on Secret Santa.’ “We’re live. I’m sure our guests don’t need any advice from us.”
Roger turned back to her. “We’ve established that you are not a vampire hunter. I’d like you to tell our audience a little about yourself. You work as a―” He raised a brow to prompt her.
“Squirrel expert.”
“Right, right. Well, tell us something we don’t know about squirrels.”
“Sure, Roger.” She straightened in the chair and twined her fingers. “Squirrels can be charming and ingratiating, but they’re much more deceptive than you might think. For example, a squirrel will dig a hole, pretend to push an acorn in that hole, and then cover the hole while keeping the seed hidden in its mouth.
“They call this behavior”―she turned her head to look steadily at Murray―“‘deceptive caching,’ which could be considered tactical deception. It was previously thought to occur only in primates.”
Roger nodded enthusiastically. “Fascinating.”
Murray shifted in his seat. His body signaled it was ready for flight.
“Isn’t it?”
“And Murray. Tell the audience about what
you do.”
Murray opened his mouth then closed it again. “Uh.”
Roger smiled. “Take your time. Working memory is a limited resource.”
Murray squinted at Roger, and settled into his chair. “I wish I could say that I have an exciting job like Kelly’s, but I have a very boring mid-level corporate position. If I elaborated, your eyes would glaze over.”
She snorted.
“Kelly, you have a comment?” Roger asked, momentarily distracted by the residents gathering outside the studio window and inside the door.
“Hell yes I have a comment,” she said. “This betrayer killed my mother, burned down our house, and took my family from me, all before I turned eleven. He then employed me under false pretenses and pretended to be my colleague and my friend.” She paused, glancing at the audience of residents. “And he killed his own kind.”
The residents gasped, cawed, and hissed, depending on their form. Something blue splattered on the studio window.
Roger looked down as though to focus his thoughts, then at the camera, then at Kelly. “You are familiar with Amenity Tower, yes?”
“I’ve worked undercover in Amenity Tower for several days now, as a window washer, an elevator inspector, and a grief counselor. I’ve also been here as an FDA Criminal Investigations agent, and as a member of the Fugitive Apprehension Task Force.”
Roger intertwined his hands and tilted his head like Charlie Rose. “And what were you looking for?”
“I was looking for a red herring, when my real target was working alongside me the whole time.”
A flame-colored dragonfly buzzed under the studio door, popped out to three times its size, and took a chunk out of Murray’s arm before flitting out again.
“Ow! What the hell!”
Kelly stifled a laugh.
“What’s your response to that, Murray?” Roger asked, fingertips together at his chin.
“It hurt, obviously. I think I need stitches.”
“No, your response to what Kelly said.”
“Completely untrue and unprovable.” Murray casually leaned back in his chair, but his face took on a pallor unaided by the brown suit.