Morning Sun

by Jeremy Flagg

  She finished her undergraduate degree online even if her grades faltered at the end. The sisters of the nunnery became family again, several apologizing for their doubts when she first arrived. Vanessa found her home within the stone walls of the convent. But she wanted more.

  Makeup may have sufficed for a while, but as wings emerged from her shoulders, she found it necessary to use her other talents to blend in. Training with Sister Muriel, she found herself able to hide her skin, her eyes, and her growing wings. With effort, she returned to the blonde college student she had once been, if only as a mirage. As days turned to weeks and weeks into months, she mastered her disguise—at least until he arrived.

  The priest had been relocated to a small house next to the convent. The sisters speculated behind closed doors why he had been removed from his station and exiled to be amongst them. While they speculated, Vanessa had no doubts. His sharp, angular features befitted a man capable of his type of atrocities. The sinister man abused his position, like he had abused them.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  A man’s voice snapped Vanessa back to the present. The Child, the storm, the ten men and three women, all crashed through her memories. In the shadows she couldn’t make out the weapon in his hand, but his faith in the gun oozed from his pores. His superiority rested within a piece of ammunition between gunpowder and an impending spark.

  “I asked you a fucking question, bitch.”

  Always the crass individuals. To the Neanderthal, Vanessa couldn’t be any less threatening: a woman with golden hair and bulky robes. The exterior she perfected in her youth served as one of her strongest assets.

  Merrick, they’re going to kill you. They think you’re weak.

  She didn’t move a muscle, but to the man, it appeared as if she vanished into nothingness. He peered over his shoulder, his movements jittery and uncertain. Whether because of the exposure to radiation or just the quality of prisoner dumped in the Outlands by the government, with such damaged individuals it oftentimes didn’t take more than planting the seed of an idea. Now, he speculated which of his compatriots plotted against him, the suggestion taking root as his paranoia grappled with the whispers.

  The man returned to the rest of the camp, his arm extended and his gun leading the charge. He pulled the trigger nine times and seven of the bullets found their targets. Tina, Paulie, Tigga, Cesar, Kenny, and Lauri died almost immediately, their voices snuffed from existence while Pickle struggled to crawl away from his one-time friend. CiCi fired the next shot and struck Merrick. The pain was just enough to bring him back to reality, leaving him screaming as he stared at his wound.

  Other than an injured Merrick and Pickle, one woman and two men remained. With each death, the remaining voices became clearer, free from the white noise produced by so many other thoughts.

  If she planned on freeing the Child from the confines of the squad car, she knew she must act now. The marauders weren’t known for their cohesive responses, but with enough fire power, they remained dangerous.

  “There’s a woman in robes,” Merrick shouted. Another squeeze of the trigger from CiCi, his on and off again girlfriend, put an end to his troubled existence.

  Abandoned by her birth parents, Vanessa received her name from Sister Muriel for her love of Greek art, but it was her given surname that spoke to the woman she grew into. Morrigan, or “phantom queen,” a name of lore in Ireland, a place Sister Muriel had once called home. Vanessa recognized the appropriateness of the title as she stepped out of the shadows.

  Their campsite had several barrels burning bright, either for warmth or to illuminate their encampment. The vehicles had been positioned in a circle, much like the old days of circling wagons. Across the strewn bodies and frantic shouting, the police car waited for her to tear the door off its hinges. CiCi barked orders. Vinnie, the man by the cruiser, had shambled to his feet while Louie stepped into the light close to Vanessa.

  Thought proceeded action. As she focused on Louie, the commands sent from his brain to his body were spoken with such a clarity they might have been said aloud. He was about to scream about an intruder.

  “Over here, intruder!” he shouted.

  He would raise his gun. He wouldn’t hesitate as he pulled the trigger. In his fear and confusion, the fight or flight response kicked in. As he raised the gun, Vanessa lunged at the man, tackling him. She pinned his wrist while he fired the weapon. She bounced his hand off the pavement, knocking the weapon away from him. Obscenities were about to pour out of his mouth.

  With a square punch to his jaw, the man stopped moving. His thoughts silenced and a dull buzz emitted from his brain, signaling he had slipped into a state of unconsciousness before his mind conjured dreams. Vanessa could hear the thoughts of the two remaining gunmen in the camp. Before CiCi could make out her shape in the shadows, Vanessa scurried along the ground, jumped over the hood of a car, and retreated into the darkness.

  Only two more before she reached her intended target. Being a mentalist gave her the ability to infiltrate the mind, and being a Child of Nostradamus allowed her body to transcend the limitations of man. Despite these two uncanny weapons at her disposal, she believed her greatest strength came from the faith of nuns praying to their deity.

  The memory swept over her again.

  While cleaning the alter in the chapel, she sensed his tainted presence. He had his belt in hand, folded in half, as if prepared to start flogging her. She avoided his thoughts whenever she could, not wanting to relive his moments of depravity. Yet they didn’t just roll off him, they filled the chapel, their revolting stench invading all her senses.

  “Your demons must be exorcised, child,” he muttered.

  He held a cross in his free hand, extending it as if it might somehow keep her at bay. Between the two of them, his acts of atrocity made him the demon. The worst part: he believed he performed God’s work, an extension of the Lord himself. He imagined himself an angel sent to Earth, a vessel cleansing the unclean.

  “You don’t want to do this, Father,” Vanessa warned.

  As he walked down the aisle between pews, he raised the cross, muttering the Lord’s prayer in Latin. He imagined her in tears as he struck her repeatedly with the belt. He’d beat her until she craved release from her mortal coil. As she lay there bloody, begging for forgiveness, then he’d descend upon her, rescuing her with the love of God. Life had thrown far too many curves for her to worry about being beaten and raped by this filthy old man.

  Stop.

  He paused an arm’s length from her. Confusion caused by telepathic intrusion was normal, but believing the devil tempted him, that was new. “She-devil, you cannot use your tricks on me.”

  “With God as my—”

  She knocked the belt aside and grabbed his throat. Her muscles strained as she lifted him off the ground, letting the tips of his toes barely touch the floor. She wanted to pull the collar from his neck and throw it along with his cross, removing items far too holy for him.

  “No more,” she whispered.

  The words transported them from the small chapel to the steps leading to a grand cathedral.. She had only ever shared her mind with Sister Muriel while they experimented with her abilities. Vanessa had to work to filter out his depraved thoughts, louder now that she brought his consciousness into her mind.

  “You shall harm no one again.”

  “Demon!” he cried. “The power of God protects me.”

  In an act of defiance, a single thought transformed her being. Fire burned bright blue about her body, tearing away her clothes, revealing a metal chest plate underneath the fabric. The skirt draped around her legs inspired by the Greek warriors Sister Muriel was fond of. The armored boots completed the look of a Greek soldier. The blade on her hip was formed from interwoven light and she placed her hand on the hilt, comforted by its weight.

  “What are you, devil?”

  “You are mistaken, Father.”

  Behind her, the Rose window hi
gh above the doors of the cathedral shattered in an explosion of ethereal light. The radiance framed her slender form, and from her back, where scaled wings existed in reality, she produced the appearance of appendages covered in the brightest white feathers. The horror on the man’s face was its own reward.

  “God has forsaken you,” she shouted.

  “This is trickery!” She could sense his conviction wavering as he tried to grasp what was happening in this foreign world. Between blinks, they returned to the chapel. He fell to his knees, thanking God for rescuing him from the she-demon. A gripping terror returned, shattering his conviction. As he looked down the aisle, to the woman in armor, he realized Vanessa’s angelic form had followed him from the other place.

  “Dear God...”

  Her wings almost touched the walls of the modest chapel. Her hand clutched the sword, drawing it out slowly, letting the low light of the room catch the metal. As she held the blade with both hands, she recognized the phantom weight, the impression her telepathy gave her that the item was “real.” She didn’t know how to swing it, let alone use it as a weapon. She wouldn’t have to as the Father fell to the ground, clutching his chest in agony.

  “Where you at, ho?” CiCi’s well-articulated insult brought her back to reality. Vanessa shook her head, pushing away the image of the dead priest. Being so close to one of her own kind, somebody who might understand her plight, her struggles, continued to break her focus. Soon, she would meet a person who could contemplate the power at her beck and call. Only CiCi and a hungover Vinnie stood in her way.

  “I know you’re there.”

  In the small chapel, the Angel had been born. Now in a radiated wasteland, she continued the role of protector. As the Angel of the Outlands, her only fears came from within. CiCi stood on the hood of a car, the gun pointed at a crouched Vanessa. She motioned for Vanessa to stand, the “slowly” implied.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Do you not recognize me, child?”

  In the woman’s moment of confusion, Vanessa let her angelic wings spread out wide. God save me, CiCi thought. The guile Vanessa wrapped around herself had become her most threatening weapon. Even these lost souls, abandoned to die in an urban wasteland, still hoped, still prayed, still believed. Vanessa knew she only had moments to act before CiCi believed herself not worth saving by an angel sent by God and opened fire on anything that moved.

  Vanessa pushed off with her legs, jumping just above the woman’s eye level. A hard flap of the wings took her several feet higher. Both her feet launched forward to slam the heathen in the chest. CiCi flew through the air, plowing through a barrel filled with fire. Vanessa ignored the woman’s pain, the broken ribs that may eventually kill her.

  “CiCi,” yelled a man.

  Vanessa landed on the hood of the car and ran toward the remaining Outlander. She hurled herself into the air, catching a slight breeze and lifting her. Her hands latched on to his shoulders and dragged him backward. Her wings pulled in tightly and the man fell to the ground, her feet firmly planted on his chest. Before he could speak, she kicked, her toes catching under his chin and striking with enough force that he slid several feet. If he died of a concussion, it’d be one less man gunning for her later.

  She reached the car, the Child inside pressed against the far side. Her foot braced against the vehicle’s frame, she strained her muscles yanking on the door. The handle tore off, and its hinges groaned in resistance. With a roar of victory, it tore loose and she tossed the scrap to the side.

  “I’m here to save you.”

  Telepathy was not needed to tell her he was uncertain of her motives. The expression on his face gave away his emotions. The man wore only a pair of pants, no shirt and no shoes. He wasn’t terrified, but he was reluctant. Vanessa held out her hand, trying to be as non-threatening as possible.

  “I’ll kill you.” Merrick. Regret for not previously killing the man filled her head.

  She turned about, her hands raised. The moment she made visual contact, his thoughts came rushing in. Unlike the others, his mind was a jumble—perhaps drugs or a mental illness allowed him to think in the whirlwind of stray ideas. He pointed the gun, motioning her to step away from the car.

  “I ain’t ever killed an angel before.”

  At a burst of searing heat, she leaned away from the cop car, shielding her face as much as possible. The darkness surrounding the camp vanished in a flash of white. A loud snapping sounded as if tree branches were breaking only a few feet away. There were no thoughts for her to read, nobody’s eyes to look through. Rarely did she feel this isolated around people.

  Once the heat vanished, her skin welcomed the cool rush of the night’s air. Her vision returned bit by bit, bright orbs dancing peripherally. The Child stood next to his former prison, steam rising off his bare chest. His face appeared almost as alien as her own, his hair, eyebrows, and even eyelashes gone, burned away by his abilities.

  Vanessa followed his line of sight to Merrick. Where the Outlander had stood holding his gun now lay a charred corpse. Spots nearby had similar burnt markings, and chunks of cement had been torn from the ground where heat radiated into the air.

  The man must be used to the confusion on her face. Holding up his right hand, he touched his pointer finger to his thumb. As he separated his fingers, sparks shot between them until his hand glowed. The sparks turned to miniature bolts of lightning, each snapping as it jumped from one appendage to the other.

  “Name’s Dwayne.”

  Years ago, Sister Muriel had parked just beyond the metal fence being erected to separate a radiated New England affectionately called the Outlands from the rest of the world. They embraced one last time. Vanessa elected to exile herself while she learned to cope with her newfound powers. Having separated herself from society as a nun, Sister Muriel respected the girl’s wishes. With the cops inquiring into the death of a priest in their chapel, they both knew it was for the best. Before they separated, Sister Muriel reached into her pocket and bequeathed, an item, the Nun’s last secret, into Vanessa’s possession.

  “Dwayne,” Vanessa said calmly, eyeing the bare-chested Child of Nostradamus, “I have a letter for you.”

  Skits

  February 13, 1992

  My Dearest Skits,

  Trust. Through the actions of many, you have lost the ability to trust. We are alike in this regard. The world has been harsh, unforgiving, and we’ve learned there is always further to fall. I will be dead when you read this. I died fighting for something in which I believe. Skits, I am asking you believe once more.

  I have seen a future wrought with pain and suffering. Underneath the callous exterior life has demanded you grow, there is a heart of a hero. As sure as the blood pulses in your veins, you will experience the death of doubt. Reborn in a single moment of determination, you will find a cause. Within your darkest moment, you’ll find purpose. Be what they need, my Child.

  I have no words that convey my sorrow over the loss of your parents. Had my gifts allowed me, I would have set into motion events to spare their endings and your heartache. Yet when you said your farewells, you were not the only Ayer paying their respects. He’s coming.

  Wounds heal. Scars fade. Survive. Both of you.

  With Regards,

  Eleanor P. Valentine

  April 22, 2026

  If she loosened the restraints, she’d have the knife. Nestled deep in her right boot, a switchblade lay waiting, six inches from being wielded. If she reached it, the rope holding her to the rusty pipe wouldn’t be a problem. She’d get free, make sure Sasha was still breathing, and then hunt down Miguel. It didn’t matter how many guards were in the warehouse, she’d kill them all. One by one, they would die. The thought of laughing while Miguel pleaded for his life fueled her.

  “Sasha,” she whispered.

  The girl, no older than her own fifteen years of age, lay on a filthy mattress across the small room. Skits reached out with her foot and tapped on the
girl’s leg. She groaned. She didn’t stir, still unconscious from the smack of a pistol across her skull. Skits worried her friend needed medical attention. The fact they decided not to rape the poor girl provided little comfort.

  Two weeks had passed since she met Sasha. In a narrow back alley, her pimp decided his girl made a better punching bag than a whore. Like many of the young girls coming to New York looking for a new life, she’d found one. Roped into drugs and prostitution, Sasha became a piece of property, working the roughest sections of Brooklyn. Law enforcement attempted to rally against the increase in crime but they seemed to be losing the battle. Synthetics, robotic police, took to the streets, eliminating gang warfare, but the dealers and Johns found their actions, if discreet, went unnoticed.

  Skits noticed. She accompanied Sister Muriel, Saint of the Street, as the nun handed out condoms and sandwiches to the working girls. The Sister treated her like an adult, ignoring the date of her birth and acknowledging the experiences she accumulated. Skits appreciated the nun for many reasons, but the sight of a woman in a habit walking in the middle of the night amid a sea of fishnets and mascara was priceless.

  “Destiny, looking fine,” Skits said as she gave the talk black drag queen a pack of gum. From the knee down, the queen’s left leg consisted of a metallic prosthetic. Destiny had saved for months to afford the costly upgrade, something typically reserved for the social elite. “I like the enhancements.”

  “Why thank you, sweet thang.”

  “Peanut butter and jelly, Amber?”

  “Thanks, I’ll save it for Anthony when I get home.” The veteran tucked away the sandwich in her oversized purse. Skits tried to remember if Anthony was her boyfriend or her little boy.