Artificial Light (Evolution of Angels Book 3)

by Wall, Nathan

  ... Devastating gun fights, explosions and mass displacement of the civilian population ruled the night in suburban Virginia and Maryland as battle lines from Manassas to Baltimore surrounded the American capital. There’s been no word on if Vice President Paulson, the remaining chiefs of staff, and members of congress who were left in Washington have escaped the wrath of the raging infected. President Cascade released a statement from an undisclosed location earlier this morning, encouraging the citizens of the United States, and the rest of the world, to remain calm during these trying times. As the rate of infection of this horrific disease grows, and cities all over the world prepare for mass inoculations in an event that is being labeled “Sundown”, protestors and advocates...

  “That’s enough nonsense,” she said, clicking the TV off with her remote. She looked at Parker, but he kept his head on the floor and moaned. “The Lord won’t let this go on for much longer. He’ll be back for us.”

  Parker sat up, rigid. His tail swept the floor, excitedly.

  “I’m sure you’re welcome too.” Her long fingers ran through Parker’s coat. “You like that, don’t you?”

  The wind picked up, pressing against the window screens. It swam through the bushes, causing the prickly leaves to brush against the side of the house. The trees and bushes rustled, and the collection of wind chimes on the back porch started singing. Parker stood on all fours, his body straight and his tail stiff as a board. He growled as the lights flickered and then went off.

  “I’ve got some candles somewhere,” Mrs. Rigby said, feeling her way through the living room. Several knocking sounds tumbled down the roof. She quickly knelt, feeling her heart jolt. She laughed it off, looking over at Parker who remained completely still.

  She peaked through the curtains. The Red Maple next to her barn looked like it was trying to do the limbo. Parker barked, and his agitation rubbed off on her. He continued to get louder.

  “I really wish you wouldn’t get loud if there’s nothing out there.” Her hands trembled.

  The wind huffed like an asthmatic. Parker moved to the door and scratched feverishly at its base. Mrs. Rigby sat under the window, her back pressed firmly against the white panel wall. Her left hand searched for a candle and matches while her eyes remained fixed on Parker. Finally, she found a large candle. She struck the match and illuminated her small living room.

  “Parker, what is it?” she asked quietly, her voice straining. Her aching bones twitched as a voice in her head called into question everything she believed in. She tried to bury her thoughts and prayers into God’s word, but at this very moment she found herself believing in the scared ramblings of former church members, and news reports about aliens, monsters and infectious diseases.

  Where is Christ in the world today? she thought, closing her eyes with her chin pressed into her folded hands. Father, I’m alone and scared. If you’re not bringing me to be with my Roland, show me what you’d have me do, Lord. Parker continued to howl in tune with the wind. Her eyes briefly snapped open. She wished he’d be quiet, but she was unable to speak. Give me a purpose. I don’t know how I can help fix this lost, sick world. But I’ll do it. Give me a sign. Send your angels to protect me.

  The windows shattered and the door swung open, throwing chairs, tables, and other furniture around the room. Mrs. Rigby fell flat onto the floor, pulling a blanket over her face. Through a fold in the blanket, she watched Parker rush outside. The sound of his barking grew fainter as he ran into the wind.

  “Parker, no!” she cried, stretching her fingers towards the door and then slowly dragging them back across the hardwood floor.

  High pitched squealing pinched her hearing aids and suffocated any other noise. A bright flash of light erupted and imposed itself on her vision until all that was left for her to see was thick pink flares. When the flash disappeared, the wind stopped and her hearing aids adjusted. Serenity returned to the night.

  The air chilled, yet everything seemed to be as it should. With a rug wrapped around her shoulders, she ventured onto the back porch. The tree next to the barn had crashed right through it. A flashlight from an overturned coffee table rolled to her feet.

  “Parker?” she yelled, scanning the cornfield a few yards from her back porch. She heard him bark in reply. “Parker, baby, stay where ya are. Mama’s coming to get you.”

  She walked by the destroyed barn and grabbed a shovel that had been thrown into her yard. The rows of corn towered over her, but she waded through them nonetheless whistling for Parker. He didn’t come running like normal, instead howling as if trapped. Her foot caught the edge of a drop off and she tumbled into a circular crater deep and wide enough to be a pool.

  Parker licked her face as her blurry sight slowly came into focus. To her left, steam hissed away from a shining red and silver armored figure. It wasn’t heat that gave off steam. The stranger’s frigid nature permeated the air and kissed her skin.

  Mrs. Rigby clenched her shovel and walked around the tall figure, whose silver plated armor was rigid and boxy. She swore the red parts underneath the silver portion watched her as she moved. The figure’s helmet mimicked the look of a tiger.

  Suddenly, the armor retracted, folding into itself until it formed a large, slate-grey egg, leaving the blonde man naked. The stone floated into the air and stopped. The bottom of the stone split open and a white beam shot out. It pierced through the man’s back, causing him to wake and scream. Light emanated from his eyes, mouth, fingers and ears, until finally the stone vanished into thin air.

  The man grimaced, grabbing his ribs as he shrieked in pain. He cried out, speaking in hundreds of different languages. Some of them Mrs. Rigby recognized, others seemed to be little more than random whistling sounds. The man sighed, his body finally relaxing. She shone her flashlight across his face. His blue eyes turned in her direction and she fell in shock.

  “Bùyào pà,” he said in some Asian sounding tongue she didn’t understand.

  “I’m sorry.” Her body trembled as she pulled the shovel up to her face. “English. Afrikaans?”

  “Inglés? Un momento, por favor,” he replied. He squinted, as if trying to get it right. “Est-ce qu'il?”

  “No. Sounded like French there. Were you a part of what happened in Paris?”

  “Ich versuche zu erinnern.” He grabbed his head, rubbed his temples, and then hit the ground. He roared with frustration and tried again. “Where am I?”

  “Polokwane,” she replied. “Who are you?”

  “I am Gabriel, the messenger of God.”

  “Oh, that’s nice.” Her eyes rolled back and she fainted.

  Thank You

  Without the following, this novel would not have come to fruition or been its absolute possible best. I am deeply thankful for their assistance, support, feedback, comments and help. Thank you for believing in me and casting your strength upon my back to help prop me up. I am nothing but the shell of an aspiring artist and author. Because of you I evolved into something greater.

  My wife, for the hours of reading with me looking over her shoulder, the many more to come, being a loving, wonderful mother to our two children and keeping track of the funds. You’re my PIC, my one and only, my best friend and I’d be hopelessly lost without you.

  My parents, for their annoying support, love and affection and for always telling people I’m writer, which made me work harder so I didn’t look like a wanna-be-shlub when those they told looked me up.

  Clare Kauter, for meticulously inspecting 120+K words for consistencies, tone shifts, correct spelling and punctuation, verb usage, and making suggestions and being all around awesome.

  My BETAs, Michael, Ginette and Gretchen for putting up with my endless emails and questions. For sometimes giving way-too-brutal of opinions and saying more than “I liked it” when you found scenes that worked.

  Jamie Nobel, for awesome artwork which brought my vision to life and told the novel’s story without having to crack a book. You delivered that M
ona Lisa.

  Seth Small and Josh Johnson, for your amazing work on the book trailer and theme song respectively. You’re masters of constructive criticism and refining work.

  To my translators, Noe, Ginette, Ike, Olga and Chrisje.

  About the Author

  So, you made it. Congratulations. Was it because you really liked it, or because you know me personally and don’t want to look like a douche who didn’t care enough to support a friend? That’s OK. You actually cracked the book. You’ve already done better than about 95% of my other friends—especially the ones who create shitty indie films and beg me to spend $5 to go see it, and then are somehow absent when asked to reciprocate the favor. But I’m not bitter.

  You may have noticed my growing, and successful, use of the em dash in this novel. I know. I was so excited to show off my skillz using keyboard shortcuts. Did it improve your opinion of me?

  You may be surprised to find out—or incredibly thankful, depending on your opinion of this book—that Artificial Light was actually intended to be much longer. However, in order to try and keep it in-line with series norms (novel, novella, novel…) I decided to cut about 25k words and expand on that to make the next installment. Those of you deeply depressed fan favorite Oreios didn’t make it into the main portion of this novel (and not just the After Credits…oops, I let it slip) will be pleased to learn he makes it back for a very interesting adventure in the next book. If you were hoping to find out immediately what happens with Jarrod, Lian and the rest, you’ll have to hold on. Depending on how things shake up, I have the new Oreios and Zeus buddy novel to get out, a dystopian thriller featuring Gabriel and then a horror novella set to destroy Manassas Virginia—because fuck that place and their shitty roads and traffic.

  You can plainly see that this royally screws up my intended novel-novella-novel outline. Whatever. As long as you’re entertained, and the series doesn’t seem needlessly bloated to try and coax out more sales, who cares? It’s not like I’m giving you 18 novels of school lessons and fights with the same reoccurring villain who shall not be named or maybe I should because it’d help my sales. The point is, my first novel didn’t come out in 1996 and you’re not still waiting for the 6th installment…or maybe that too would help my sales. Fuck.

  My whole goal is to create an intriguing universe and explore all aspects of it to give you, my friends and family guilt tripped into buying this book the loyal reader, a comprehensive outlook on everything that’s happened in the plot so that when the final end comes you know all the little quirks and what’s at stake. When I’m done with this series I want to be done. I don’t want to go and create a second shared world series about where to find hiding monsters, under a different pen name, and then divulge it was me all along and that yes it shares a world with Jarrod and Oreios all in the name of boosting sales…unless it would help sell more books. Dammit.

  To end it all, I had a lot of fun writing this book. It was more challenging than I’d hoped, but it took many different forms and I’m very confident in the end product. I wrote a large portion of it while in the hospital with my wife as she recovered from giving birth to our gigantic baby boy and his 98 percentile sized head. The really gory and bloody parts in this novel had real-world inspiration. Yeah…

  Thanks again to all of you. If you’re a continued fan of this series, you’ve my upmost gratitude. If you’re new to the world of E.o.A, I hope you check out the previous books even though you know Sanderson dies. But it’s still good!

  After Credits

  Windswept sand permeated the cracks along the walls and roof, replenishing his form. The rumble of spectators, cheering for the release of Loki’s next prized fighter, caused the ground beneath him to rattle.

  “Y—Mir. Y—Mir,” they chanted in sync.

  Oreios had heard stories. A frozen giant with a literal axe to grind, Ymir was a ferocious warrior from realms unknown. The legends were supposed to be myth. Of course, most of the things in his life were supposed to be myth. Oreios, however, knew they were all too real.

  A pod-drone lowered into sight, beaming a search light over him through the window. “Away,” he huffed, waving the drone off. The lens in the middle of the spherical pod elongated, presumably focusing on him for the entertainment of those at home. “Seriously.”

  Oreios clenched a fist. The sand in the air formed jagged spikes and sliced into the turbines on each side of the pod-drone. The flying camera sputtered about and finally fell, bouncing off the ground. The sand seeped out of the pod through the cracks along the baseboards and rejoined with Oreios’ frame.

  The floor bounced again. It was a heftier thud and obviously not caused by the crowd. The vibration through his feet quickened and grew stronger. He peered through the door, into the fake alley made to look like something resembling urban life on earth, and watched the lifeless corpses of the other gladiators fly through the air.

  A fellow fighter stabbed Oreios through the shoulder blade. The weapon pierced through his chest. “Found you,” the man boasted.

  Oreios yanked the spear through his chest and out of the other gladiators’ grasp. A slow trickle of dirt wept from the gash before it sealed. He swiped the blunt end of the spear off the Centaur’s face, knocking him cold.

  “Quiet, you fucking idiot.” He knelt, pressing against the wall as a shadow fell over the room. The streetlights were blocked out by an enormous figure. His hands froze against the wall behind him. Ice swirls formed along the floor, latching onto this pants and shoes. Ymir, he thought.

  Did the frost giant see him? Could he smell the body odor of the Centaur Oreios had just cold-cocked?

  Ymir’s plodding footsteps headed away, growing fainter each second. The Centaur, in a daze, groaned loudly as he woke. The giant’s steps halted. The Centaur spit out a few teeth and griped.

  “My mouth.”

  “Seriously, shut up.” Thunder in the walls jolted him. His body turned as loose and thin as possible, pressing into the walls.

  A gigantic, translucent hand of ice bashed through the ceiling to the high pitched, feminine screams of the Centaur. The gladiator wailed like a dying pig, pleading to be spared. Oreios felt a miniscule sense of relief and quietly made his escape, crawling towards the back door.

  “The Ourea,” the Centaur sobbed. Suddenly, the ruckus caused by Ymir halted. His attention must’ve been snared. “He’s in there.”

  “Damn it.” Oreios jumped into a full-on sprint just as Ymir burst into the building, discarding the Centaur’s ripped off head