A Guardian Angel

by Williams, Phoenix

  The major smoked alone in a trailer on the south side of the compound. He was a tall man with sharp blond hair and a thick mustache that bristled over the top of his Swisher Sweet cigar. His features were etched onto his face like scars from constant furrowing of his brow and frowning of his lips. From where he smoked in the trailer, he had an excellent view of the snow tipped mountain peaks all the way from the foot of their valley. The trees of the surrounding forest framed the image beautifully, and the major couldn't help but gaze thoughtlessly. Still, he did not smile.

  A sharp rap on the door preceded the intrusion of a sergeant into the major's trailer. The man moved only to draw the cigar from his mouth as the sergeant approached him.

  “Sir,” she greeted, saluting. He gave a curt nod in response. “The current inventory count on the compound is finished for the night. What we have so far is twenty-six M16 assault rifles, along with eight M4s, ten MP5s, twelve Colt forty-fives, three Pythons, four SAW light machine guns – ”

  “Stop,” the major ordered. The woman stopped with her mouth unable to commit to shutting. The stoic man turned and looked at her, his dull eyes shaded by the bold eyebrows furrowed above them. “You know what we're here for. That's all I want to hear about.”

  The sergeant swallowed. “I can't confirm it for sure, but it looks like it,” she answered.

  “The artillery?” the major asked.

  “Definitely,” she nodded. “That we have found.”

  The major turned back to the window and watched the clouds as they began to drift into the tops of the mountains. “Come back when you know for sure,” he commanded. He dragged on the cigar.

  “Yes, sir,” the sergeant said. She saluted a second time, then took her leave. The smoke swirled around the doorway as she shut it behind her.

  The major squinted as he gazed through the forest. Something seemed wrong.

  With just a bit of a jolt, the men in the towers stood up and peered into the woods. Hot lead zipped out from between the trees. Bullets drummed and rattled on the metal siding of the guard towers. The Decree soldiers had only enough time to raise their weapons before rounds tore through their torsos and necks. Guns cracked from the forest in a rattling staccato and tore down into the facility.

  Mercenaries burst into motion, sprinting to cover or ducking down low. Some of the less experienced uniforms screamed at the commotion. Arms were raised as a line of Decree men positioned themselves along the southern wall. Bullets continued to rain at them from the woods, as if shot by no one at all. The trees were collected too thick to allow much sunlight to spill down upon the attackers. All anyone could see was the shine of sweat on the assailants' faces as muzzle flashes illuminated them.

  Return fire echoed the sound of deafening firefight, slinging their own barrage of lead into the trees. They shot blind, trying to hit brief bursts of light rather than the massive collection of silhouettes in the dark forest. With a calm gate, the major strutted out of his trailer toward the line of men.

  “Hold your fire!” he hollered, unholstering his Single Action Army. “Stop shooting, you idiots!”

  “We're under attack, sir!” one of the soldiers yelled back at the major.

  The superior officer's jaw tightened, his lips pursed. The return fire ceased. He pointed to the private that yelled at him. “Punch that soldier,” he ordered, which was obliged. “You take cover until they advance. Don't waste your goddamn ammo.”

  Everyone started moving to much safer holes of cover. They utilized the sides of the large metal crates or the short concrete walls that were seated in front of the towers. Bullets came in a constant rhythm, although much less rapid. The attackers had noticed the shift of position and came to the same conclusion about wasting ammunition. A small part of the major had hoped that they would continue firing while his men were safe, perhaps running short on rounds. But he knew it was a lot to ask for from fortune and he prepared for a lot worse luck.

  The major gestured at two officers on the line. “Eyes,” he ordered, throwing his thumb up to one of the towers. Nodding, the officers dropped the safety on their rifles and rushed to the stairs. Rounds hit the edges of the railing of the tower as the attackers spotted the men ascending it. They kept low and out of harm's way as hot sparks showered the bodies of the dead tower guards.

  “They're advancing!” one of them called down to the line after a moment in the tower. “They're coming out of the woods!”

  “How many?” the major asked.

  “Too many to count,” replied the officer. The two of them in the tower ducked down when lead start flying at them.

  Pulling back the hammer on his gun, the major took his position. “Fire at will!” he commanded to all of the soldiers on the line.

  There was about a hundred feet between the edge of the forest and the southern wall of the compound. Those hundred feet of clearing and lush grass became a war zone for about three minutes. Smoke rose from the discharging weapons both on the clearing and behind the wall. Bullets zipped through the air in long streaks of hot yellow light and tore through combatants on both sides. The attackers looked rugged. They wore nothing of a uniform, dressed in simple street wear. The only identifying thing that they wore were brown bandanas over their faces. The weapons they used were varied and their tactics were similar to those of guerrilla warriors. They rushed quick for cover, using the natural landscape and the elevation of the sloping foothills to match the soldiers trained fighting skills.

  Before any of the Decree men on the line had time to realize it, the attackers were upon the compound. Charges were placed and detonated, shredding a hole through the concrete wall and blasting back several mercenaries in the radius. Militia with automatic weapons piled through the hole and sprayed lead into the soldiers on the line. Two of the invaders were felled by the mercenaries, but far more of their own numbers were left heaped over their bleeding bodies.

  The major shot one of them as they came through the wall. “Fall back!” he yelled over the ring of gunpowder. “Retreat! Fall back!” He lined up another shot and blew an attacker off his feet.

  Orange uniforms darted backwards, stopping at intervals to return fire at their relentless pursuers. The invaders were so close behind them that the soldiers couldn't remain in the open line of fire before them.

  “Take cover!” the commanding officer hollered to his men. He could see the terror in their eyes. He did what he could to diminish the fear with the confidence of his orders and the aloofness of his body language. The assault never lessened.

  He peeked over the crate he crouched behind and watched a hulking black man with dreadlocks climb through the demolished portion of wall. Despite his gigantic form, the man moved quickly, darting from cover to cover as the soldiers fired at him. There were few of the mercenaries left standing. They held their ground with as much patience and organization as they could. In the end, it wasn't enough.

  A flash grenade detonated and everything went white. No sound could penetrate the ringing in the major's ears, no image in his eyes. When his senses began to creep back to him, his men were dead. Guillotine stood before him, holstering his gun. The major searched for his firearm and realized with despair that he had dropped it. Defeated, he turned and stared into the face of his captor.

  “On your knees,” the voice of Guillotine hissed. He drew an oversized and terrifying looking machete and gestured to the ground at his captive.

  The major obliged with his face upwards. His mustache frowned along with his lips. “You're the Guillotine, aren't you?” he asked the monster before him.

  Guillotine grinned. “Swine,” he said before he struck the man down.

  -Chapter Thirty-Three-

  Davey

  Davey Tolmes sat in an off-the-road diner that stood untouched by time in the desert of Nevada, early Friday morning. The coffee he had ordered first had gone cold, and the eggs sat uneaten at the mercy of his fork. He watched the entire place out of the sid
es of his eyes as he nibbled on his toast. Two women ate at the other end of the bar, speaking loud and giggling as they drank their iced teas, waiting for their food. The cook was the only staff in the building. He was also the waiter, having taken the orders and brought out Davey's eggs. He was back in the kitchen cooking the ladies' meals.

  The rest of the restaurant was empty. There were only about four tables and six booths, all sitting lifelessly in thin rays of light. The windows to the place were small and closed up to avoid getting dust in the air. One window faced the parking lot on the table side of the room, the largest source of natural light. There were rustic art deco lighting fixtures along the wall that illuminated local art. Each piece appeared unique and characteristic. The variety between abstract and lifelike was balanced and oriented to create the cozy, dark atmosphere that smothered the diner.

  Sipping on his coffee, Davey recalled the previous few days and how he came to sit here.

  On Wednesday, he stood in a sea of refugees at a camp set up outside of Los Angeles. The city had been evacuated because of the heavy crossfire that could be encountered in any of the hundreds of battles that had broken out since the Decree Tower Attack. Everyone was directed to one of the dozens of refugee camps that had been installed at a radius from the city. Davey was at Camp Roosevelt.

  The crowd he found himself in on that night gathered before a stage. A comedian had just wrapped up his routine for the refugees, stepping off of the stage to the side and into the crowd. A military man came up and introduced the next band as the musicians finished setting up their instruments. Everyone in the audience still chuckled at the last line of the comic's set. The air buzzed with positive energy. There was an aura of community and collective worth.

  Davey felt sick. Unpleasant feelings washed over him and he bounced anxiously, waiting for the show to be over and the tents to be assigned. He looked all around but took none of the images in. Everyone else seemed upbeat and the energy smothered him.

  A man who tried to move his way through the herd of people stopped when he saw Davey. He almost continued on, but he looked a second time and recognized the face as Davey noticed him staring. “Whoa, are you Davey Tolmes?” the man asked with disbelief. The former late night talk show host didn't respond. “Wow, dude, it's really you! Holy shit, I'm a huge fan, man! I watch your show all the time.”

  “Hi,” Davey replied.

  “What are you doing here?” the man asked, the awe modifying his tone. The man shook his head with realization. “Right, yeah, my bad. I mean, like why aren't you up there?” He gestured to the stage.

  “No one asked me,” Davey answered.

  “No one asked you?” the man was shocked. “They have Davey Tolmes in their camp and they don't ask you to tell some jokes? Those idiots, man.”

  “They don't know that I'm here,” the celebrity said. “I don't think so at least.”

  The fan's grin stretched from ear to ear as he looked deep into Davey's eyes. An awkward moment of silence passed before the man noticed. “Well, hey, when we get our tents, would you like to join me and my wife for dinner?” he asked, rubbing the roots of his hair. “We brought up a couple of steaks I think we could spare for a guest.”

  For a moment, Davey thought about it. An idiotic, expecting grin rested on the fan's face as he waited for a response. He was honestly going to decline and stick with the rationed meals. But, he had thought, when will be the next time I ever have fresh meat again?

  The food was excellent. Ever since the beginning of the war, it had been hard to come across such tender delicacies. It had been seasoned by the man's talented wife, who ate with her husband across from Davey. There was a glow in both of their eyes of excitement at having such a well known and respected guest with them, even if it had to be in a refugee tent. The celebrity himself kept almost silent as the man told their tale. He introduced himself as Jack and his beautiful wife's name was Macy. They were some of the last people to evacuate Los Angeles.

  “It was pretty terrifying, cutting it that close,” Jack explained. “Three different groups were trying to seize the eastern portion of the freeway, where we were just trying to get out. The road was clogged like nothing I'd ever seen before. People were getting kinda crazy, not able to handle waiting on the freeway. As soon as the first Knights' attack began, everyone jumped out of their cars and either ran for the hills or joined the lunatics. The soldiers did their best to organize us all and send us in a safe direction, but as soon as we were off of that freeway, we were on our own.” Jack took a sip of his beer and opened another for Davey. “The military guys totally lost track of us. All we had to go on was a handful of rumors about how far the camps were and where the Army had initially told us to head. It was such a vague direction that we actually had to stay two nights out there in the hills. We had no idea how well the camps had been concealed in order to divert unwanted attention. When we finally got here this afternoon, we had to go through a hell of a hassle trying to prove our allegiance and our citizenship. We thought we were going to get turned away, didn't we, Macy?”

  His wife nodded, gulping from her drink. Davey couldn't keep his eyes off of her as he listened to the story. Her eyes were either kept low or darted from each man's shoulders. It was apparent and notable to Davey that she found it difficult to maintain eye contact with anyone. At first, Davey had suspected that she disagreed with what Jack said. Like she had a much different recollection of how events unfolded. After a while of listening to the stories though, Davey realized it was because she had seen some things in their journey that were difficult to witness. Macy was distracted by those images for too long to look elsewhere. She avoided looking anybody in the eye for too long, afraid that they would be able to witness the things through the reflection of her pupil. Davey understood the feeling. He didn't get out of Los Angeles unscathed either.

  Macy had a round, silky face. It was shaded like a brown egg, but even smoother. Her chin was delicate and her eyes large and childlike. Brown lochs of hair dangled down past her soft features and draped over her sloping shoulders. Davey was drawn to every bit of her. His heart beat just a little faster whenever he glanced over at her as they ate. His fingers would get warm and numb. He felt like he did something he shouldn't every time he looked into her face.

  He left once the meal was finished, thanking his hosts. In the dark, he managed to find his way back to his small tent.

  Inside was nothing more than a cot, which he laid upon and sought sleep.

  On Thursday, sometime in the still hours of morning, the nightmares woke Davey up. He gasped for air in pitch darkness. There was only the hum of some people around the campground's fire pit chattering ringing in his ears, the night otherwise silent. The air was damp and humid with springtime.

  Once the horrible images faded away and consciousness gripped the man, he sat up and thought. What came to his mind was the angelic face of Macy, smiling through the grime of the world. When he thought of her, the fear went away. All the regret and shame that he felt so overwhelmingly was quelled for the time being as her bright eyes burned in his mind.

  He grabbed his coat and made his way out of his tent. With a little hesitation, he found his way back to Jack and Macy's tent. His eyes adapted to the darkness by the time he sneaked in through the flap. Jack snored and itched his beard, turning onto his side. Davey almost panicked but managed to keep himself quiet with his own fist. Macy was on her back, lips parted as she slept like a creature.

  Davey stepped with as much care as possible over the dirt floor, as slow as he could. When he was by Macy's side, he slipped his hand over her mouth. She stirred as he began pushing his other hand down into her pajama pants. He watched over her with a sad, longing look. How much he wished that she could be his for real. His heart hurt for her as a survivor, both connected by life-changing terror. We should be together, he thought as he moved his fingers about. We could console each other.

  Macy's eyes bolted open a
s Davey touched her. Without hesitation, she started panicking and struggling against Davey's hands. Her cries were muffled only a little by his palm, which he had trouble keeping held over her face. His grip tightened as he pushed back down on her head into the cot in order to hold her down better. Still, he tried to move the offending hand around her underwear. She kicked and tossed about, made a terrible amount of commotion. The noise grated on Davey's mind like chalk on a board, creeping along his spine in a strange sensation. He could tell he hurt her, but it didn't matter. Now she needed to be quiet and enjoy his company.

  “What the hell are you doing?!” Jack cried, woken up by the racket. Davey turned around in time to see the man stumble upwards, lunging after him. Without any hesitation, Davey pulled out the knife from his jacket and brought it up hard into Jack's stomach. The husband stopped cold in his lunge and Davey caught him, supporting him. Eyes wide and lips stone cold, Davey pulled the knife out and relished in Jack's pained grunts as the metal slid out of his abdomen. The celebrity stabbed the knife into his fan's torso again. And again. And again. Over and over, Davey stabbed until all he did was coat his pants in a dead man's blood.

  “Jack!” Macy cried as she managed to sit upwards, tangled in her bedding. Davey watched Jack drop from his hands and fall over, gurgling in the dirt. No time passed after the body hit the ground before Davey turned around, ripped the pillow out from under Macy and pushed it down over her face. Her screams were tiny and quiet from below the fabric as Davey pushed harder and harder on the pillow. Macy's limbs flailed and tried desperately to throw her assailant off of her, but his grip was iron. The noises faded and the struggling transitioned into light twitching, then complete stillness.

  He stood in the tent with the corpses, breathing deep from activity. Blood trickled around his shoes from the draining man. For a few moments, Davey didn't know what to do. All he could do was stare at what he had done and clean off his knife. Then, as sudden as he had arrived, he was gone.