A Congress of Angels (The Collective)

by Fore, Jon

  Maria looked at Vega, then back at Jackson, then hauled her pack over the railing. He caught it neatly and stuffed it into the open flap of the raft. Two more times, and he had all three of their packs in the raft. The case of grenades she heaved out into the water with a loud splash. She didn't want to take them, and she didn't want William to find them either. She caught the others looking at her curiously, and she shrugged at them. Then Vega climbed down the rope ladder, followed closely by Maria, and they were able to get into the raft without getting wet. The center of the raft had a small puddle of seawater, but not enough to be a problem. Then Jackson tried to climb in and almost tipped the raft over.

  "Wait," Vega said, "Maria, to the other side."

  Vega and Maria collected at the back of the raft, if there was a back in a hexagonal raft, and Jackson tried again. The raft threatened to flip, but in the end didn't and allowed Jackson to climb aboard, shivering.

  Maria went to him and helped remove his wet pants and socks and underwear. The shivering made it nearly impossible to do it himself.

  Vega went to the opening and looked out towards the shore, at least while it was in view. The boat was spinning lazily as they drifted shoreward. She knew they were still heading toward shore because as each time it was in view, it was closer, and each time she saw the boat, it was further. She realized they hadn't brought down the sails, and wondered if the boat would catch a gust and break free of the sandbar, and found herself hoping not. He was an asshole, but she just didn't think he deserved that. Then she remembered he tried to kidnap her and Maria, do whatever he was going to do with Jackson, and changed her mind.

  She felt the sand smudge under her butt and the raft spun slightly, and stopped. It leaned towards land, and then settled. For the first time in a month or so, she was on land. She peeked out the hole and saw there was about eight feet of water left, but this undulated in and out. She turned back to Maria and saw Jackson was still barefoot, "We're here."

  Vega caught site of a pillow like package attached to the roof near her head. When she pulled this down, Velcro hissed at her and the pack rolled open. Survival gear splayed out in a rolled mat. It included a flare pistol and three flares, a mirror, a water purifier, compass, first aid kit, and some food items, among others. She rolled this back up and attached the Velcro straps to her own pack, and let hang. Then she put her arm through the pack's straps, knelt, and stepped out into the water.

  Her boots were not water resistant. In fact, these boots were designed for desert wear, so they were actually designed to vent. This venting worked perfectly with water as well, and they filled quickly with the piercingly cold water. At first, her feet felt like they were burning, then quickly began to go numb. She walked as fast as she could to shore and up on the dry beach.

  Across the width of the sanded area was an old fashioned wooden boardwalk lined with shops and food stands, all either damaged or destroyed, scorched or burned. The place was a ghost town, devoid of life and eerily silent. Then she heard the splashing of one of her friends as they rushed to the beach beside her.

  It was Jackson, and he was carrying Maria in his arms, as if she was a baby, and she cradled her backpack.

  He put her down gently. "Thanks big guy, " she said, and put her pack on.

  "Belmar.” Vega said.

  "It's Belmar? I knew it," Maria said.

  "Yeah, look.” She pointed to a sign hanging from the railing of the board walk. It read, "Please Keep Our Beach Clean!" and in smaller text, "Belmar City Council."

  Chapter 22

  Gabriel felt as though he were about to slide dead from the saddle. Nearly three days without sleep brought him to the Delaware Water Gap and into the northern part of New Jersey. Skirting the more denser populated areas, he found himself in a town called Secaucus. The place seemed more industrial than residential, and it smelled like rendered hog fat and swamp. Still, the spaces between the buildings were generally wide, providing shortcuts and pathways to his goal, the Jersey Turnpike. He knew this road led generally south, and he intended to pick up the Parkway somewhere around the middle of the state and cut south to Interstate 95.

  He had never been in New Jersey before, which was to say he had driven through it a few times heading to South Carolina, but had never stopped. That was fine with him. He carried no endearment for the state, and actually found it overcrowded and permeated with a foul odor the residents seemed used to. That and he couldn't transport a firearm through the state. Legally he could, but the hoops that had to be jumped through made it too much of a hassle. He had good luck shipping his weapons to his destination, and even timing their arrival with his. It was just easier that way.

  Now, though, he carried his weapons and didn't even make an attempt to conceal them.

  It was a new world.

  He was out of food for the horses, and they were pretty much forced to fend for themselves when they stopped. The grasses were blond, but turning dark. Still, the animals seemed to find enough to eat. They were both a bit skinnier, but they weren't lagging much. It even seemed Big Guy was becoming stronger and more apt to handle the weariness of the road, which was a surprise for his age.

  Still, New Jersey was the Garden State, or at least that's what the sign said as they passed through the Water Gap, 'Welcome to New Jersey, the Garden State.' This gave him hope of finding a farm with young corn, still earless, and Lance's favorite. That or wheat or barley, whatever. Garden State, right? It had to have a garden in it somewhere.

  Gabriel also knew that there was horse racing somewhere in New Jersey, and he thought it was a place called Serf-Hold or Free-Hold or Peasant-Hold, something like that. Something 'hold' anyway. A horse track meant horse food, and maybe even horse medicine. With any luck, maybe a saddle for Amelia.

  The girl hadn't complained. Hell, she hadn't said much at all. Just enough to get her needs taken care of and that was all. Gabriel was pretty certain the girl would want to talk about his encounter with the talking demon-thing, especially at the end when he shot the thing dead, but she didn't.

  He wished now that he had taken some time to inspect the corpse before they left. He had good reason for not being there anymore, and not being there in a hurry, but still. He shot the thing as though it was a human, aiming for center mass, going for the old blood-pumper in the center of its chest, which seemed to work. But he wanted to know more about the anatomy of his enemy. He would never have thought he would need to learn the anatomy of an enemy.

  One thing about the encounter he hadn't missed was how the metal wings had deflected one of the bullets. It pinged off the metal plating, then whined sharply into the forest. This wasn't a good sign for anyone but the monsters. If what Gabriel had seen so far was no more than the initial invasion force--which he had to consider with this winged Neanderthal--what else did the enemy have in store? Were there other, more intelligent monsters than the winged ones?

  In inventory, Gabriel had the beetle things, the dogs in need of orthodontia, the lizard looking things that changed colors, the floating bags of whatever with the winged and clawed bat things hanging upside down beneath, and that large blob like lantern fish thing. Now he had the talking ones. The ones that looked almost human. In fact, he remembered coming across a couple of bikers in South Carolina that looked a lot like that one. They spoke better than the monster, but didn't look much better. Then again, how in all the hell did the thing know how to speak English in the first place?

  All of this culminated in a glass-shard headache behind Gabriel's right eye, and he clenched both of them closed against the pain.

  One thing he had become thankful for was the drill instructor falling so silent recently. That guy, the one that always preceded his murderous blackouts, hadn't said much since waking up in that tree, sniper ready. He figured it was the fact that such horrible things had become such real things. That, and the stress of keeping himself (and now a little girl) alive didn't leave room for the shouting voice in his head. Considering everythin
g, it might have been a pretty fair trade. Close at least.

  The state seemed empty. They had seen the one refugee heading toward upstate New York, the only other human Gabriel had seen since leaving his home. There were industrial plants, manufacturing and storage facilities, even enormous fuel storage tanks. But no people peered out at them as they traveled, but then again, they had not passed through a residential area yet. It added creepy to the creepiness.

  It took them nearly the entire day to find the Parkway, but Gabriel didn't want to stop yet. From memory, the Parkway was wooded for the most part, and there would be a much better chance of finding a place to camp for the night in and among the trees than out here in an industrial area. Perhaps it was the memory of the last industrial facility he ventured into in Vermont, but the why didn't matter. The Marine in him wanted the safety of the trees, even if they were, for the most part, leafless. He chocked it up to training, conditioning, and surviving.

  The Parkway was well maintained, and barren of cars. He couldn't see very far, perhaps a couple of hundred yards in this light, but in either direction, the road was empty. Trying to think back to the news he was able to get, if his memory was good, the Event started in certain states, and he guessed that New Jersey had declared a state of Emergency and closed all the roads. Come to think of it, he hadn't seen a car parked anywhere except in the long term parking at Newark Airport. He could just see the cars from his vantage on the Turnpike, but that was all. They must have tried to keep non-combatants in their homes, and soldier in the field. Odd he hadn't come across discarded military hardware yet. As the thought entered his head, he caught site of a large group of tanks.

  He reined Lance in and stared at them. He couldn't tell how many there were, but from here, he counted twelve. They were in a tight formation, M-1 Abrams, clustered and clearly with a purpose. But now they were just sleek shaped hulks resting silently, as if waiting for weathering to slowly bring them to ruin. What had always brought hope and pride to a Marine seemed oddly impudent.

  Gabriel remembered, in both Iraq and Afghanistan, whenever the shit got heavy an Abrams would appear like some mammoth big brother to save the day. Roaring and clanking, firing and obliterating, they were the brutes of the battlefield. There was also the Apache Longbows, those things were like winged vipers, and when they showed up, all sorts of shit exploded, all sorts of threats were eliminated. It was like he and his fellow Marines were out to find the shit, and then the Abrams and Longbows would come in and clean it up. Not a bad job to have, he guessed, especially since he observed most of this playing out through the crosshairs of a sniper's scope.

  But why would the military, even the Army, leave a pack of mobile hurt like this abandoned on the road?

  He hefted a leg over his mount and hooked his boot heel on the edge of the saddle, bending his knee before him. It was uncomfortable, but stable. He drew out his rifle, laid it over his knees, and then began to search the tanks through the rifle's scope.

  They looked as though they weren't even damaged. Their barrels were all pointed in the same direction, which was the direction they were heading in when the drivers decided to stop and leave them. The shadows between them were deep, but they also seemed to be empty. None of the hatches on the turrets were open. None of the chaff tubes looked fired. It was like they ran out of gas, and the soldiers said 'oh well,' then walked away. Had to be Army.

  After spending enough time staring at the tanks to allow Amelia to scuttle off to the bushes to do her 'potty' business, they continued. This time, she was able to gain the saddle without help, which told Gabriel she was becoming a horsemen. Or was that horsewomen, horse girl, whatever. What was important to him was she was learning to handle a horse. Good girl.

  They rode up to the tanks and the smell of diesel and oil, the smell of machinery, filled his nostrils. This also told him they were more than likely not out of gas. Still, somehow, they were rendered useless. He wondered if it was that earth quake thing that made his wrist watch stop. Maybe it killed watches and tanks alike. No, that didn't make sense, but neither did the monsters roaming the Earth.

  From here he could count a total of thirty tanks, just sitting here, waiting. Useless tanks being useless. This thought scared him for some reason.

  "What's wrong with the tanks?” Amelia asked.

  "I don't know."

  "Seems like a waste to leave them here."

  "Yeah.” Gabriel had nothing else he could say. In her child's simplicity, she was absolutely correct. But why did they leave them?

  "This place is scary. Can we go?” Her voice held a pale whine.

  "Sure," he said, "we'll go a little further then stop for the night." He hauled Lances head away from a tangle of weed he was eating from under one of the tanks tracks, and urged him forward at a reasonable pace. They were two or three minutes passing the convoy of Abrams. In each shadow, there seemed to be a menace, or at least that is what his mind told him. He worked hard to relax, keep his breathing under control. If something did leap out at them from between two of the tanks, he would need to be able to draw and shoot. That was hard to do when you weren't breathing right.

  As they cleared the column of tanks, the creep eased, but not the eerie. The whole landscape was like some orchestrated Halloween decoration; dark, cold, wispy with black and white smokes and fogs; the whole scene as silent as death. All they needed were jack-o-lanterns and the maniacal laughter of a witch. That and bodies. Lots of bloody bodies scattered about like some harvested graveyard of the recently dead and not embalmed. Then a thought slide into place like a bullet finding its breech. Where were the bodies?

  In his transit he had seen bodies once, those burnt in the small town Amelia lived in, whatever that was called. And her parent, father or mother he couldn't tell, obliterated on the stairs of her house. There should have been a shitload more bodies lying around. A butt ton. Where were they all? Considering the bodies in Amelia's home town, that counted six, maybe eight people. That town was big enough to support more like five thousand.

  Here he was in New Jersey, population way too much, and he had yet to see a dead body. They should be everywhere. There was no way the entire populace of New Jersey could have evacuated south. In fact, the refugee he saw heading from New York City proved that. At least to the extent of including everybody. So where were all the bodies?

  Then he understood. It dawned on him with a slow nausea. The monsters were eating them. They weren't just invading, they were harvesting. Gabriel suddenly felt sick, and fought his stomach for control. Images of bloody naked bodies stacked or hung up with metal hooks flashed through his head, and it put a sharper edge on the headache. A wave of desperation went through him as well as hopelessness. The world really was coming to an end, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Then, like some cosmic joke, he saw the bisected corpse of a soldier on the side of the road, stripped of pack, weapons, and dignity.

  Amelia whimpered behind him, but he just let her deal with it. He was having his own emotional issues right now, thank you very much. She was a kid, a tough kid, and would come to terms or not, all in her own time. What Gabriel was focused on was killing. Again. He wanted to kill more of those monster things with the wings, the thinking ones. The ones that could talk and realize they were dead as they died. That would feel down right fucking awesome right now.

  "Gabriel?"

  Her voice was small again, and lacked any of the past whine. To Gabriel, he was sure this is what it would sound like to talk to a damn fairy or something. He attempted to ignore her and focus on getting control of his rage like his therapist had taught him.

  "Gabriel?"

  He forced his jaws to open, the muscles behind each cheek burning with use, "Yes, Amelia?" He was surprised his voice was so steady.

  "Are you okay?"

  Her voice wasn't just small, it was afraid. She was talking in such a tiny way because she was utterly and completely terrified. "I'm okay. You?"

  "Why do you l
ook so mad?"

  "Because I am, Amelia. I am very, very, angry."

  "At me?"

  "No, of course not. I'm angry at the monsters. Why would I be angry with you?"

  "I don't know."

  "Can I share a secret with you, Amelia?"

  She answered with a noise, "Uh huh."

  "Promise not to tell anyone?"

  Again, "Uh huh."

  "You're about the only thing left I do care about. So I can't be angry with you.” He said honestly, and voicing this truth made him feel immensely better.

  "Okay," She said. After a number of clomps of the horses hooves, "Thanks, Gabriel."

  "You got it, kid."

  Chapter 23

  Gabriel and Amelia rode on in silence for another hour, and the wilderness thickened around them. Between the North and South bound lanes, a median of thick forest grew. In one, Gabriel sighted a clearing. He steered Lance up a short fat trail and found tire tracks, a lot of tire tracks in the long dried mud. It looked like a popular hangout for cops hunting speeders, but every time Gabriel had been on the Parkway, there were way too many cars for a cop to come flying out of this little nest to give chase. He guessed it was just a clearing where they setup radar, the radar that was easily detectable, and forced the drivers with radar detectors to slow, which would slow those who didn't have a detector. Speed control without citations.

  In the clearing, his suspicion was all but confirmed by the amount of food trash and cigarette butts everywhere. The cops came here to eat their dinners or lunches, then smoked their smokes, drank their drinks, the whole time restricting the speed of traffic. A clever ruse, he supposed, but they really didn't have to just toss their garbage everywhere like this.

  Most of the garbage was blown to the edges of the clearing and became hung-up in the low lying brush, choking all but the two entrances to the clearing. It left the center empty and acceptable as a place to sleep, but it seemed conflictive for a cop to toss aside trash like this, and ticket others for doing the same. Not that Gabriel every got a citation for littering, it was just the dual standard that annoyed him. How many times had he seen a cop speeding with no fear of being ticketed?