Archangel

by Mich Moore

blood-spattered floor, he turned his attention to the others. He pounced on Joe Mackey and began to hit the man without mercy. When it was Palladino's turn to twist under Pop's punishment, the officer made the mistake of fighting back. As the two men tussled, Mackey managed to escape the big man's grasp and half-ran, half-fell towards the door. Pop roared like an attacking grizzly bear. He stabbed a button on the belt's buckle with his thumb, causing the entire length of the weapon to go rigid. Then he held it aloft like a javelin with his right arm and fired it at Mackey's back while simultaneously rewarding Palladino with four rabbit punches to the abdomen with his left.

  Within minutes it was all over. The armory was pitch black now; the ceiling lights had been knocked out during the various scuffles. Frenetic whispers sprang up here and there.

  "Is he gone?"

  "I think my arm is broke."

  "I can't feel my face."

  "Move over. You're bleeding on me!"

  "Hey! Is he gone???"

  A match was struck and its light shone momentarily against Pop's sweaty head. His next words seemed disembodied and eerily distant. "Get your heads in the game."

  Twenty-four hours later ...

  In spite of the cold, the night air was moist on the skin. The moon was fat and riding low on the horizon. It was exactly seven p.m. Six soldiers, six DATS, and four horses, including the healed Vic, crept south along dank, fetid fields, all the while keeping within spitting distance of Highway 203. They wore the uniforms and identifications of the Illinois National Guard. The Guard was the only military force allowed to travel freely from county to county, or even from state to state in certain situations.

  Every man and every DAT was fully armed. However, the DATs' guns were locked inside their weapons bays. No one really expected any major trouble, so the DATs' primary function would be to help root out IEDs.

  After forty-five minutes they reached East Saint Louis, which lay on the border of Illinois and Missouri. Ghetto choppers brought in from Granite City hovered in the misty distance over a flattened field, lazily swinging their spotlights in wide arcs on the ground, searching for the upright creepy-crawlies in the tall grasses below. The unit progressed until the houses gave way to crumbling apartment buildings and steel fences. They were out in the open. Due to the curfew imposed by the real Guard, the city's streets were empty, but they could feel the restlessness of its populace. Explosive, mindless rage simmering under the heavy lid of night, just waiting for the freedom of daybreak. The HCs were arguably the most unfortunate result of the US-AS rebellion. When the country had split apart, chaos quickly rushed in to fill in the newly formed chasm between the two factions, and these individuals had suddenly found themselves truly in their own element. The soldiers, all veterans, would often remark how similar the murderous tension in East Saint Louis was to that of Ireland or Afghanistan. And when one considered that HCs weren't even the official enemy, it made the situation all the more depressing. And dangerous, because the regular rules of engagement did not apply.

  They were going to approach the target on a slant from the southeast. It was a good nine kilometers away. Luckily one-third of that real estate had reverted to grassland years ago, and they weren't likely to come across any coordinated resistance. On paper it was an absurd way to reconnoiter, but the best information about the enemy was usually gleaned from the ground up. Literally. And while it was unlikely that they would come across any Advance South troops in this neck of the woods, they would learn volumes about the gangs. It would take them one hour to make the rendezvous point with Clambake, their CIA contact. Clambake would then hand over the keys to a fifteen-meter big rig, and they would drive the rest of the way to the target.

  Suddenly three skeletal dogs sprinted from between two battered pickups and hobbled across the road no more than two meters in front of them. Everybody froze as the specter of a bloody DAT blitzkrieg suddenly threatened to knock the carefully crafted REFLA on its ass. Palladino slowly turned his head to survey the AIs. They were certainly curious, but nothing more. The canines slunk into the maw of a drainpipe.

  Palladino let out a sigh of relief and signaled the others to continue forward. Up ahead was some activity. Then he ordered that the horses be placed in flanking positions around the DATs. They crossed the street onto a long stretch of unlit pavement. They could make out five youngsters, all boys, on the opposite side. The air carried their excited chatter and mischievous laughter. A small fire bloomed four meters ahead, rolled away a bit, and then died. One of the soldiers grunted his disapproval. Catching rats and setting them on fire was a favorite child's game in this part of town. The men knew that if left to their own devices long enough, they would soon be lighting up bigger prey. One of the children spotted them and threw a chunk of brick at them. It hit Leo, Vic's wingman, squarely on his snout. The war horse shook off the pain and stood still, but there was a lot of blood. Bosely withdraw a pen light from his jacket to examine the wound. "The kid's got a good arm," he joked. "Pretty nasty gash. I'm going to need to clean it up and give him an antibiotic. Can we get some privacy?"

  Palladino cursed beneath his breath. Delays threw his timing off. "Okay." The team moved on, once again melting into the decay of tilting shacks and weeds.

  Up ahead, near a snake bed of rusted railroad tracks, they ducked into an abandoned church to tend to the injured horse. The place of worship sat obliquely atop a barren knoll, indifferent to the rot at its feet. Inside, the place was unreasonably dark and fetid; the chipped stained glass images offered no hope that things would get better. Light from outside sneaked in and gave the structure a creepy feel. The DATs, uneasy in the ugly surroundings, began to jostle one another. Sharon, usually the meekest of the lot, suddenly lunged forward and clipped Daniel's foreleg. Daniel retaliated by sticking out his left hind leg and sweeping Sharon off all four feet. Palladino grabbed Daniel by the DAT's neck armor and was attempting to drag him away when Pete violently knocked Palladino into a bank of pews and snatched Daniel out of his grasp. Pete tossed Daniel high into the air, grabbed him by his thighs on the way down, and then flattened him on the floor with a picture-perfect body slam. The other soldiers rushed in to quell the brawl. Thanks to the extra padding beneath his own body armor, Palladino was able to get up and walk away. It took five minutes of wordless grappling to calm the DATs down to the point where they could be trusted not to attack anyone off the fly. The colonel mumbled to himself. "Maybe we ought to cut out the wrestling shows."

  Then Bosely froze. The black eye that Pop had given him the night before was bulbous in the chancy light.

  "What's wrong?" Flemish asked.

  And then he and the rest heard it. Muffled voices. Almost right on top of them. Before they had a chance to react, the church's two doors were flung open and two women and a man carrying flashlights entered. They were so busy joking and laughing with each other that they failed to notice six soldiers, four horses, and six robots crowded around the altar.

  The trio collapsed into a pew and produced bagged beers, talking nonstop. The smell of marijuana soon hit the air. A radio began to play R&B, and with the soft glow from the flashlights casting a cozy intimacy around them, the little party was in full swing. Vic, perhaps bothered by the pungent smoke, began to whinny. The three intruders jumped.

  As if on cue, all of the horses abruptly moved themselves in tandem down both aisles, towards the doors, leaving the six DATs fully exposed.

  The man carrying the boom box started with anger, but that shut down quickly as he and his companions began to absorb and then frantically delete from memory the scene in front of them. Six creatures were now watching them with scary intensity.

  He raised his hands high but deliberately looked down at his feet. "Look, this is obviously none of our business." The three stood up and began to hastily gather their things. "We didn't see nothing. We didn't hear nothing."

  Palladino gave a hand signal to Clayton, who stepped forward, rifle drawn. He motioned towards the door behind t
he choir's section. "Please come this way."

  When they hesitated, their gaunt faces boiling with panic, he said, "Don't worry. It's just a precaution." They reluctantly followed him out. Palladino supervised as Bosely finished bandaging Leo. After a short while, Clayton rejoined them and gave Palladino the all-clear sign. Smith then went out back and tagged the heavily sedated individuals for the Patriot wake-up crew that would conduct a sweep the next morning.

  They left the church at eight o'clock and found an injured Clambake and the big rig parked on Clarendon Street sixteen blocks away. The agent had a large hole blown through his pants and tiny cuts on his face and hands.

  "Ammo type?" Palladino wanted to know right away.

  "Nothing exotic," Clambake responded with clenched jaws. "Feels like standard street issue."

  "You see the shooters?" Flemish asked.

  "No. But I've got some ideas. I was being tailed on the way over. Three sport cars with front-mounted turrets."

  Palladino motioned to Flemish and the sniper vanished only to reappear a few seconds later atop the roof of an abandoned house.

  "Sounds like a cartel deputy," Mackey said. "They're the only ones around here carrying that much bling."

  Clambake nodded. "You got a doc on