Rogue Angel: The Chosen

by Alex Archer

  Annja sprang up onto the back of a pew. It rocked beneath her weight. She began to move forward as fast as she could from seat back to seat back. She knew that she would never be able to interpose herself between the nightmare creature and its helpless prey.

  The chapel echoed to a shattering boom. A second followed. The beast flinched. It screamed like an anguished woman. It stopped its blinding rush to snap at flanks that had started to bleed.

  At the first shot Annja had halted. Teetering on the back of a pew halfway to the altar, she glanced back. Father Godin strode down the aisle holding his big short-barreled revolver out in front of him in a black-gloved hand.

  "The child," he called. "Hurry!"

  In two springing steps Annja reached the child. The girl looked up in fear as the last pew overbalanced and toppled backward with a crash. Her olive face had gone ashen.

  Annja touched down before her, holding her sword out to her right, in case the creature should charge again. As she did Godin fired twice more. He was answered by a furious, guttural snarl.

  "Run, girl," Annja shouted in English. She repeated it in Spanish. The little girl stared at her as if doubtful and gave no sign of understanding.

  Annja heard the scrabbling of great claws on a wooden floor polished by generations of pious feet. With no more time Annja grabbed the girl by the shoulder and propelled her bodily down the space between pews and wall. The little girl bounced off a heavy wooden pew eight or ten feet back with a little cry of pain that wrenched Annja's heart. But it seemed to snap her back to herself. In a flash she recovered her balance and raced toward the exit with surprising speed.

  Godin had stopped ten feet inside the entrance. Now he advanced again to cover the little girl's retreat. He fired the final two shots in his cylinder. Behind him the child scuttled out into the snow.

  Annja smelled something like burning fuel oil and hair. The monster rocked back as a little gout of flame jetted from one shoulder. A gash along its muzzle bled smoke.

  Seeming to sense its tormentor was out of cartridges, it charged. Again it voiced its horrifying cry. Godin stood square. Still holding his huge revolver with its barrel tipped toward the ceiling, he reached behind him for the handgun Annja knew he carried there.

  The heavy .45 slugs had not come close to incapacitating the beast. The lighter if faster 9 mm bullets would never stop the creature from smashing the Jesuit to the floor and mauling the life from him.

  As the monster raced past Annja she sprang. High over it she soared. She slashed downward with her sword.

  She felt it bite. The beast's scream was like a steam whistle. It put down its haunches and spun, skidding on the slick floor. It slammed into a pew and shattered it. Then it completed its turn to charge at Annja.

  She had already jumped up to run toward the altar, leaping again from pew back to pew back, just succeeding in managing her balance so she didn't tip one beneath her.

  The beast followed, head down. As it plowed into the pews behind her it tossed them aside with its head like a Mexican fighting bull. The hump of its back was apparently largely muscle, like a bison's, and gave its neck extraordinary strength.

  She touched down on the rail before the painted altar screen. The horror overtook her. The beast tossed the last pew aside and smashed right through the rail. Annja fell over sideways as it was knocked splintering from under her.

  She had to let the sword slip back to oblivion to throw out her right hand to catch herself. She felt a moment's fear she might snap wrist or forearm, crippling herself in the face of the horrific creature. Its stench filled her lungs.

  She caught herself with her hand. Her right knee struck the floor hard, sending a white lance of pain stabbing through her thigh and brain.

  With the sound of further splintering of heavy old wood the monster turned on her. She dove forward up the aisle. Its teeth raked her thigh, ripping open jeans and skin. She landed on her elbows, slid.

  The creature jumped at her. Its mouth was a gape of reeking scarlet-and-white teeth like curved ivory nails. She brought up her feet. The monstrous breastbone slammed into them. She grabbed the sides of the hideous head behind the jaws, somehow, seizing great handfuls of slippery flesh and spiky fur. The beast's weight was unimaginable. It might have weighed a thousand pounds.

  She didn't try to hold the crushing weight. Instead she braced and pulled as she rolled over backward, and let its own terrific momentum carry it on over the top of her in a fair approximation of a judo throw.

  Black talons raked her right cheek. The wounds stung like acid. The creature landed on its back with a heavy thud.

  Instantly it was up again. Annja heard Godin's pistol go off, like a string of firecrackers in the enclosed space.

  The creature screamed. It lunged at Godin. He dodged aside. It ran past him out the door.

  Annja picked herself up. She felt as if the aid of a cane would not be unwelcome. She felt as old as the church and much less well preserved. Her right cheek and the back of her left upper thigh stung as if from fire-ant bites.

  Out the door she ran. To find herself staring down the barrels of at least a dozen handguns and shotguns pointed by terrified-looking law enforcers.

  Annja just had time to throw herself down behind the cover of the sealed well as the police and sheriff's officers opened fire in a thunderous fusillade.

  Chips and dust blasted from the facade of the church showered down on Annja. Most of the shots fired came nowhere near the monster. She realized with a fresh jolt that there were still people trapped in the courtyard – right in the line of heedless fire.

  She shifted to a crouch to be ready to move.

  The policemen's magazines all ran dry almost simultaneously. Silence fell like a lead curtain.

  Annja whipped around the side of the well. She took quick stock of the situation. At least half a dozen people lay scattered around the little courtyard just in her field of view. How many of them were sensibly hugging the ground during the panicked barrage, and how many had fallen victim to the beast – or police gunfire – she did not know.

  The courtyard was in chaos as people continued to flee. The police were searching frantically for the killer beast.

  "What was that?" Annja asked as Godin approached her.

  He merely shook his head.

  "The police are taking control," Godin finally said, looking around, "and are starting to return. We should most likely absent ourselves."

  "Amen to that," Annja replied. But she hesitated.

  "There are injured people here," she said, gesturing at shapes lying supine in the muddy, trampled turf, beginning to stir and moan. "Shouldn't we – ?"

  "There are already several ambulances parked on hand," the Jesuit pointed out correctly. "More emergency personnel are undoubtedly on their way. They can help these poor ones far more efficiently than we can."

  She nodded briskly – and gratefully. She had no more desire to answer official questions about all this than he appeared to. They walked quickly out the gates, turned left toward the nearest woods and walked as purposefully as they could without seeming to hurry.

  So frantically had the crowd, including police and news crews, fled when the monster appeared that Annja suspected nobody had actually seen the beast's final moments. She and Godin appeared to be but two survivors eager to escape the sanctuary.

  From above came the heavy chop of big rotor blades, descending fast. Out of the low ceiling of cloud a black helicopter appeared. Men wearing full-head ninja masks dangled black Nomex-clad legs from doors open in its sides. They carried machine pistols across their laps.

  Powerful spotlights stabbed out from the descending Black Hawk. Bystanders raised their hands to shield their eyes from the glare. Snow from the ground swirled up all around, blown up by the down-blast. It quickly shrouded the scene.

  With no one paying any attention to them, Annja and Father Godin slipped in among the snow-shrouded pine trees and quickly disappeared from that place
of sorrow.

  Chapter 19

  Her companion led her across the flank of a small peak overlooking the sanctuary. Beside a narrow dirt road running down a narrow valley with steep tree-crowded slopes, his vehicle waited, gleaming dully in the eerie shine between snow and cloud.

  "An Escalade?" she asked as he opened the passenger door courteously for her.

  "You know my order," he said. "We like to go first class."

  "But what it costs to keep this boat's tank filled – "

  "Expense account," he said, and closed the door.

  He drove with lights out down slick mud-surfaced roads that were barely more than tracks. Even away from the sanctuary a surprising amount of light emanated from the swollen bellies of the clouds. Perhaps they reflected the glow of nearby settlements, the blindingly illuminated tribal casinos, even Santa Fe twenty or more miles away. Annja's eyes were struggling to see well enough to drive. She wondered if Godin might be overestimating himself.

  But I haven't noticed him doing much of that so far, she thought. Not everything he'd tried had worked. Against the monster – or her. But that seemed to be because he was intent upon trying even if odds didn't favor him, not out of cockiness.

  He may be the most competent man I've ever met, she thought. "Where are we going?"

  "Elsewhere," he said, not taking his eyes from the road. "The obvious egress routes from the sanctuary and the vicinity of Chimayó will be carefully watched."

  "By the police?"

  He chuckled. "Perhaps them, too."

  She took in a deep breath and let it shudder out. She realized she was quivering like an aspen leaf in a brisk breeze. Her muscles and joints ached and the wounds in her cheek and thigh throbbed as if inflamed. "We need to talk," she said.

  "Yes. Or rather, you need to listen," Godin replied.

  She started to bridle at that. Then she settled back sideways on the wide seat with her arms folded tightly beneath her breasts and her nostrils flared. It was all futile display to salve her ego. He was right. She knew it.

  "There is something...unexpected going on here," he said. She wondered briefly if he was driving at random through the mountains and foothills or had some plan in mind. She decided she'd just as soon not know right now.

  "That's an understatement," she said.

  "I have uncovered evidence of a secret research project being carried out in this vicinity. One of many, of course. But my interest is attracted by rumors my contacts in the counterterror and mercenary communities whisper in my shell-like ear. The security contract is held by a man with whom I am professionally familiar, a certain Colonel Thompson. He is a former U.S. Army Ranger and Delta Force operator. He is known for being very expensive and very good at what he does.

  "He is also known as Mad Jack. He is well named. He's got a taste for methamphetamines, to give an edge to himself and his men. He has also, let us be candid, a taste for atrocity. To such an extent he was fired as a private contractor by U.S. occupation forces in Iraq for mysterious incidents late in 2003. Rumor has it he ambushed a patrol of SAS men dressed as Arabs near Ramadi and killed two of them. The U.S. command, which as you know seldom admits culpability for any misdeed or accident, would take no official corrective action. But the SAS swore vengeance. He was removed for his own safety."

  "Lovely," Annja said.

  "Some people believe times of great peril call for such men. Myself – having known many such – I feel the peril they themselves pose outweighs any benefit they incidentally confer on mankind. But leave that.

  "The point is, if he is employed by this facility, it is doing something big. And whoever is in charge will go to literally any lengths to keep it secret."

  "You mean to the extent of breaking the law," Annja said.

  His only answer was a laugh.

  "And you think this mysterious research may have something to do with these monster sightings?"

  He turned his head toward her far enough to show her a raised eyebrow. "Sightings?"

  "All right. These monsters?"

  "Yes."

  She shook her head. "Sounds like your typical antigovernment conspiracy theory."

  "True enough," he acknowledged. "You yourself have clearly been targeted by a particularly pernicious conspiracy these past few weeks."

  "What on earth do you mean?" she asked. Although she knew too well already.

  "You have suffered some highly coincidental attacks recently. And I don't mean just the remarkably determined onslaught by street gangsters near that most delightful art gallery. Indeed, you seem to have appeared on the periphery of a pair of very violent, if not intrinsically common, incidents at what we might call the far ends of the Earth. Or, indeed, the former Spanish empire."

  She blinked at him. She felt as if her flesh had grown chill beneath her skin. "How do you know about that?"

  "I am here with the knowledge of your Department of Homeland Security. They tend to take an interest when American citizens are involved in possible terrorist incidents abroad, even peripherally. Fortunately they seemed willing to accept that you were merely an extraordinarily unlucky young woman, to turn up twice in the wrong place at such wrong times, in Mexico City and Cebu. Or perhaps they have knowledge they didn't care to share. Who can know?"

  She uttered a shaky sigh. "Those aren't the only attacks," she said in a small voice. As concisely – and steadily – as she could she described the near kidnapping on the UNM campus.

  "Aha," he said. "That is the most revealing incident of all."

  "What do you mean?"

  "That syringe likely contained a substance known as succinylcholine," he said, "or something most closely analogous. Its object is to stop your heart of an apparent heart attack. It is quite undetectable unless looked for by a forensic procedure done only in Sweden."

  He glanced at her again. "A highly professional hit. And one favored by certain...official agencies engaged in unofficial activities."

  She shook her head. "I can't believe my government would do such things."

  "If it is any consolation, they may not be members of your government," he said. "Not directly, although acting on what they believe is its behalf. But do not deceive yourself."

  He nodded his chin in a direction she thought was west. She had a reasonably good sense of direction, but the seemingly random twists and turns among the nighttime hills, and the eerie dissociative effects of coming off a colossal adrenaline jag – not to mention the totally unreal nature of the night's events – had totally scrambled it.

  "Not so many miles away across these mountains they design and build devices to take the lives of millions – to extinguish, quite possibly, all life on Earth. Do you think such men would hesitate to snuff your life, if they believed – or could convince themselves – some national interest lay at stake?"

  "You speak as a man with lots of experience at rationalizing acts of violence," Annja said.

  His smile was sad. "Because I am, dear lady," he said. "Because I am."

  ****

  "What do you mean it wasn't a demon?" Annja almost screamed.

  "What I said, as is my custom," Godin said, "is it wasn't even evil. Hold still, please."

  "But I felt it," she said, gritting her teeth briefly at the stinging as he poured the hydrogen peroxide they'd bought at a Walgreen's along the gouges torn in the back of Annja's thigh. She lay on her belly on the bed of a no-name motel room dressed in a long T-shirt to allow the Jesuit to minister to her wounds. "I felt its evil. It was almost tangible."

  "It felt like evil," he said. "I felt it, too. That was mostly its wrongness. But it was no demon. Believe me. It was just a frightened animal. Vicious but not evil. But it did not belong here."

  "You sound like you're defending it."

  "No. It attacked people. It had to die. But what we experienced was its own fear and anger at finding itself surrounded by creatures strange and doubtless horrific to it. It was clearly a predator. We may have resembled prey. And it
certainly felt as horrible a sense of wrongness from us as we did from it. That, I think, is what you perceived as evil. First, empathetically, the terrible intensity of its emotion. Second, your sense of things being horribly wrong, resonating with its own."

  "What do you mean, wrong? Ow."

  He had given the peroxide time to work. Now he dabbed the pink-tinged white froth up with cotton balls.

  "It wasn't from around here. That was surely obvious, yes?"

  "But not demonic?"

  "Not in the customary understanding of demonic. Although there are entities that might properly be so characterized who likewise sometimes penetrate our dimensions from their own."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Look at it this way. This at least is less unsettling to your faith in skepticism. What we fought tonight was not what you would call a supernatural entity. Although I would argue there is no such thing as supernatural, since all that exists in this world must surely be natural. However unanticipated it may be. But this creature's presence in our world was thoroughly unnatural. This will sting."

  He poured alcohol on the tooth marks. She winced and clutched the bedspread.

  "I hope that stuff kills any extradimensional microbes that thing may've left behind," Annja said.

  "I suspect you have little to fear from such things," he said, daubing up the alcohol with more cotton balls. "They would be as likely to die from biting you as to do you harm, non? It is more terrestrial pathogens which concern me. Especially since you were not the first person the creature bit."

  "True enough." She knew the diseases she most had to fear were those that might be transmitted from her fellow humans.

  He put his hands on her thigh, manipulated the wound. She bit her lip. It hurt.

  She was also aware that his hands were very strong. And very high up on her thigh. She felt extremely awkward and a little too vulnerable at that moment.

  He's an old man, she reminded herself.

  She was relieved when, with utterly clinical detachment, he told her to sit up so he could tend the claw marks on her cheek.