by Susan Ee
Page 40
He practically howls with fury. Glass shatters. Water erupts.
Things flop on the floor and screech as the scorpion monsters are separated from their victims. I can’t tell which explosions and screams are from upstairs and which are from Raffe’s rampage as he demolishes the lab.
Finally, after there’s nothing left to smash, he stands surrounded by rubble, chest heaving, looking around for more things to break.
He kicks broken glass and lab supplies aside and stares down at something. He bends to grab it. Instead of picking it up, he drags it over to me.
It’s his sword. He maneuvers me so he can slide it into the scabbard that’s still on my back. I expect the weight of the blade to pull against me, but it’s barely perceptible as it slides into the scabbard.
Then he picks me up in his arms. The pain has plateaued, but I’m completely paralyzed. My head and arms dangle limply like a fresh corpse’s.
He shoves his way out through the door to the stairs and we head up toward the explosions.
CHAPTER 44
At first Raffe staggers, always on the verge of collapsing. I can’t tell if his stumbling is from recovering from surgery or from the adrenaline crash from his rampage.
He has cuts on his neck and ear that have already stopped bleeding; healing before my eyes. He should be getting stronger with every step, but his breathing is labored and uneven.
At one point, he leans against the side of the stairs and pulls me up into an embrace. “Why didn’t you run like I told you?” He whispers against my hair. “I knew from the start that your loyalty would get you killed. I just never thought it would be your loyalty to me that would do it. ”
Another explosion rocks the stairs and we move on.
He steps over the contorted railing that lies on the stairs. It’s been torn out of the wall. The walls on both sides are punched and shredded with ragged holes.
We finally reach the top. Raffe leans into the door and we push out onto the ground floor.
It’s a war zone.
Everyone who isn’t shooting seems to be dodging bullets.
Angels are ripping off their dress coats at one end of the foyer, getting a running start to the front door and leaping into the air as soon as they get outside. But one out of every three comes down again in a bloody heap of feathers, as bullets find their marks. It’s a little like shooting angels in a barrel since there’s only the one big exit on this side.
Chunks of marble and light fixtures come tumbling down as something explodes.
Dust and debris shower us as the building is riddled with gunshots.
People scatter in every direction. Many of the women run in high heels, slipping and stumbling over broken glass. I swear some of the people who ran one way a minute ago are now running the other way. They’re having to step over people and angels who are lying limp on the ground.
Raffe is much more noticeable now with his new wings spread out to keep them from shredding us. Even in their panic, everyone stares at us as they run by.
More than a few angels stop and stare for a moment, particularly the warrior types. I see the light of recognition and shock in some of their faces. Whatever campaign Uriel is running against Raffe, it’s getting a major boost in the polls. Raffe and I are like a demonic campaign poster on legs. I worry about what will happen to him, how he’ll be treated if and when we get out of this madness.
I try to look for my family but it’s hard to see anything in this chaos when I still can’t move my eyes.
A number of angels decide to take their chances at being trapped indoors and run away from the front doors. They’re probably headed to the elevator area where they can fly up and out from a higher part of the building. It gives me some satisfaction to see the party literally disintegrating, to see these aliens stripping off their highbrow costumes and running for their lives.
What’s left of the front doors blows apart in an blast of shrapnel.
Everything sounds muffled after that. The floor is covered in shattered glass, and several of the people running in robes and bare feet are having a hard time of it.
I want to run to the doors and shout that we’re human. Tell them to stop shooting so we can get out of there, just like hostages on TV. But even if I could, there’s not a cell in my body that thinks the resistance fighters are going to pause their attack just so we can go free. The days of bending over backward to preserve life for its own sake have been over for weeks. Human life is now the cheapest commodity around, with one exception. Angels lie side by side with humans, like rag dolls strewn about the scene.
We move into the bowels of the building. Everyone gives us a wide berth.
At the elevator lobby, there is a carpet of discarded formal jackets and ripped dress shirts. They must be able to fly better without being bound by clothes, even if those clothes were custom-made for them.
Above us, the air is filled with angels. The majestic spirals of angelic grace are gone, and it’s a free-for-all of flapping wings.
Our shattered reflections flow along a wall of broken mirrors, making the scene seem even more chaotic. Raffe, with his demon wings and dead girl in his arms, dominates the lobby as he glides through the pandemonium.
Although my throat feels torn out, I can hardly see the red mark where the stinger pierced me. I’d assumed there would be bloody strips of flesh from where the stinger erupted, but instead, it looks no worse than a bad bug bite.
Despite the chaos, I start to see a pattern. The angels are generally running in one direction, while the majority of humans head another way. We follow the stream of humans. Like a zipper, the crowd opens up before us.
We push through a swinging door into an enormous kitchen full of stainless steel and industrial appliances. Dark smoke swirls through the air. The walls near the stoves rage with flames.
Smoke stings my throat and makes my eyes water. It’s a special kind of torture not to be able to cough and blink. But I take it as a sign that the pain from the stinger must be receding if there’s room for me to feel other sensations like smoke irritation.
At the far end of the kitchen, a stream of people shove through a delivery door. Several people move back against the wall, letting us through.
Raffe stays silent. I can’t see his expression but the humans look at him as though they are seeing the Devil himself.
Another blast rips through the building and the walls shift. People scream behind us in the kitchen. Someone is shouting, “Get out! Get out! The gas is going to blow!”
We burst through the door into the cool, night air.
The screams and explosions are even louder outside as we walk into the combat zone. All my senses fill with the rat-tat-tat of gunfire. The acrid smells of overheated machinery and gunsmoke fill my lungs.
Ahead of us, there is a convoy of trucks surrounded by a small crowd of civilians and soldiers. Beyond them, I catch a glimpse of the apocalypse.
Now that the angels have taken to the air, the battle has taken a turn. Soldiers still lob grenades from inside retreating trucks, but the building is already on fire and the grenades only seem to add noise to the mayhem.
They also shoot machine guns in the air at the flying enemies, but in doing so they risk being targeted by them as well. A gang of angels lift two of the trucks into the air and drop them on top of other trucks that are trying to speed away.
Humans scatter down every alley, both on foot and by car. Angels swoop down seemingly at random and tear apart soldiers and civilians alike.
Raffe does not change his steady pace as he walks away from the building and toward the group of people crowding around the trucks.
What is he doing? The last thing we need is some berserker citizen-soldier strafing us with his machine gun just because he sees something that makes him nervous.
The soldiers seem to have been cramming civilians into the ba
cks of large military trucks. Resistance soldiers in camouflage uniforms kneel in the truck beds with their guns pointed up. They’re shooting in the air at circling angels. One of the soldiers has stopped yelling commands and is looking at us. Another truck’s headlights sweep over him, giving me a glimpse of his face. It’s Obi, the resistance leader.
The shooting and yelling stop the way conversation might stop at a party when you walk in with a police officer. They all freeze and stare at us. Their faces reflect the fire’s glow as the kitchen behind us pours flames out the door and windows.
“What the hell is that?” asks one of the soldiers. There is deep fear in his voice. Another soldier crosses himself, completely unaware of the irony of such a gesture from a soldier fighting angels.
A third man lifts his gun and points it at us.
The soldiers in the truck beds, apparently spooked and on hair-triggers, swing their machine guns toward us.
“Hold your fire,” says Obi. Another truck’s headlights sweep across him and I can see his curiosity fighting his adrenaline. For now, curiosity keeps us alive, but it will only hold the bullets back for so long.
Raffe keeps moving toward them. I want to yell at him to stop, that he’s going to get us killed, but of course, I can’t. He thinks I’m dead already, and as for his safety, it’s as if he doesn’t care anymore.
A woman screams in absolute hysterics. Something about it makes me think of my mother.
Then I see the woman who is screaming. Of course, she is my mother. Her face glows red in the firelight, showing me the full force of her horror. She screams and screams and looks as if she’ll never stop.
I can just imagine what we must look like through her eyes. Raffe’s wings are spread out around him like a demonic bat out of hell. I’m sure the firelight emphasizes the sharp scythes at their edges. Behind him, the building burns with malevolent flames against the smoke-blackened sky, shrouding his face in flickering shadows. I have no doubt that he looms dark and menacing in classic demon form.
My mother doesn’t know that he’s probably holding the wings that way to avoid slicing us. To her, he must look like the Thing That Hunts Her. And her worst nightmare has come true tonight. Here is the devil, walking out of flames, carrying her dead daughter in its arms.
She must have recognized me by my clothes for her to start screaming so soon. Or maybe she’s imagined this scene so many times that she just has no doubt that it must be me in this demon’s arms. Her horror is so genuine and so deep that I cringe inside to hear it.
A soldier twitches with his gun aimed at us. I don’t know how long they’ll restrain themselves. I realize that if they shoot, I won’t even be able to shut my eyes.
Raffe kneels down and places me on the asphalt. He lifts my hair to one side and lets it run through his fingers as it slowly cascades over my shoulder.
His head is haloed in firelight above me, his face in shadow. He runs his fingers across my lips in a slow, gentle touch.
Then he pulls away stiffly as if every muscle is fighting him.