Angel Fever

by L. A. Weatherly

Page 34

 

  Every half-hour or so, I checked psychically on Alex, feeling briefly soothed by his energy. He’d stopped around six p. m. to sleep for a few hours; otherwise he was on the move, though Sam and I had closed the gap and were only about half an hour behind him now. When I drove I found myself edging the speedometer higher, desperate to catch up with him – to physically grab hold and refuse to let go if I had to, so that he couldn’t do whatever he was planning alone.

  We entered New Mexico just before midnight. Four hours later, Albuquerque Eden rose before us with its concrete and barbed wire – and its distant packs of circling angels, their wings silver in the moonlight.

  It wasn’t a sight I really wanted to see, just then.

  The roads worsened again as we turned off and headed south. A few hours later the rising sun lit the rugged landscape that Alex loved – the endless desert, the bare, brown mountains. We were in the southern part of the state by then, with Sam at the wheel as I stared tensely at the highway, trying to remember the turn-off for his father’s old camp. Finally I spotted the dirt road.

  “Here,” I said quickly. “We drove about twenty miles down this way – then Alex turned off directly into the desert. ”

  Sam glanced at me. “Can you find it?”

  I nodded. Even if I hadn’t remembered the road, I sensed Alex so strongly now, leading me to him like a beacon.

  My fingernails gouged into my palms. We had to get there in time – we had to. Alex, I don’t know what you’re planning, but you can’t do it. Please. You’re my life, too.

  THE LAST TIME ALEX HAD made his way across the New Mexico desert, he’d been driving a stolen car: a boatlike thing from the eighties that had bucked and shivered across the sandy soil. He’d spent the entire journey expecting the thing to overheat – that, and being seriously distracted by Willow. They hadn’t so much as kissed at that point; the physical tension between them had been almost painful. He could still see exactly how she’d looked as she’d asked him a question about the camp: her green eyes large, her blonde hair tied in an untidy knot at the back of her neck.

  He wondered if she’d ever forgive him.

  He pushed all thoughts of her away harshly. Maybe Cully was delusional, he thought as the 4 × 4 trundled over unmarked desert. But if this is true, there’s got to be at least a chance I’ll survive – or I wouldn’t even be doing it.

  He’d made the journey in good time, given the state of some of the roads. Only about thirty hours had passed since he’d left – and now, advancing through the desert, Alex could make out the place where he’d grown up: a cluster of white cement buildings wavering in the morning sun, with low mountains rising on the horizon behind them.

  Nearing the chain-link fence with its razor coils flashing at the top, he did a quick scan. No sign of life. He could have figured that out anyway: one of the gates sagged limply on its hinges, with no vehicles in sight. As the sun burned down on the silent white buildings, Alex stopped the truck, eyes narrowing as he studied them. He took out his rifle just in case, swung the backpack over one shoulder, and got out.

  Small brown lizards scuttled away as he walked to the gate. He squeezed through the gap and the chain link rattled. Another memory: Willow standing at this gate, fingers hooked loosely around a metal diamond as she looked back with that pixieish smile. I’d just really like to see where you grew up.

  Do not think about her again.

  Though it was late November, the heat streamed down as Alex crossed the enclosure. It was the only thing that still felt familiar. The camp’s unnatural silence weighed on him as he made his way past the mess hall and the dorm he and his brother had shared with a dozen other AKs.

  Ahead lay the plain, square house where his father – and then later Cully – had lived. A grey roof, no shutters or frills. When he was little, he thought all houses looked like this. The first time he saw homes with door knockers and welcome mats, he hadn’t been able to stop staring.

  Alex reached the door and scanned again, just to make sure. Nothing. The knob was sun-warm to the touch; it didn’t give when he tried to turn it.

  Feeling as if he were desecrating a tomb, Alex stepped back and pressed the rifle against his shoulder. A short burst of gunfire and rapid holes appeared, obliterating the lock. He kicked the door, and it swung open.

  He stepped in and groped for the light switch out of habit, but nothing happened, of course; the generators weren’t on. Then he stopped short. In the semi-gloom he could see an angel staring at him – dark, burning eyes, its giant wings outspread. Adrenalin gripped him until he realized what it was.

  Oh Christ, Cully, he thought sadly.

  The walls were covered with drawings of angels.

  They crowded every available space – watching, beckoning to him. Alex turned and found another on the back of the door; bullet holes scorched through its wing. He traced his hand over it. Cully had drawn each feather individually.

  What hit him most was the utter loneliness of the place. Cully, probably sick already by then, alone out here in the desert, drawing the beautiful creatures that had destroyed him. Alex dropped his hand. “I’m glad you’re dead, Cull,” he said in a low voice. “You’re free now. ”

  Enough. He had to do what he’d come for. Alex crossed to the table and propped his rifle against the worn wood. With a glance at the rickety chairs, he remembered how his father would angle one sideways and sit hunched for hours, glaring as he tried to bore his way through the ether with his consciousness.

  Imagining himself doing the same, Alex grimaced. He crouched on his haunches instead and studied the air in front of him. What he’d told Willow hadn’t been a complete lie: Martin’s idea to defeat the angels did have to do with using a world’s energy field.

  Just not the one in this world.

  Alex moved his awareness up through his chakras and kept it poised, hovering outside of himself. As he viewed the room from the ethereal level, his pulse skipped.

  He straightened in a daze as he stared. Jesus. Cully had nearly done it all right. Where there had once been nothing, there was now a slight wavering in the air facing him, like rippling water.

  Relief and dread rushed through Alex. He mentally reached out and explored the wavering. It felt like a section of flimsy paper in the midst of solid plaster. Cully must have been so damn weak, to have come this close and then stopped.

  Alex let out a breath. Okay, so…it was true, then. Instinctively, he knew what had to come next.

  Slowly, he cautioned himself.

  He focused his awareness as tightly as possible, until it was needle-thin. The sensation brought a rush of light-headedness; he ignored it. Tracing the needle carefully over the shimmering wall, back and forth, he found a tiny section that gave more than the rest. He pushed at it, but the wall felt elastic; the needle pressed harmlessly.

  Fine – let’s try this another way, he thought after a frustrating few minutes. He drew back and stabbed hard.

  His awareness pierced the wall. Suddenly it felt like a hurricane was shaking the tiny needle. He gritted his teeth, hanging on for dear life. Do it now or get out, he told himself.

  He steadied himself – and began to make the needle larger.

  Muscles trembling, Alex sank to the ground, eyes closed as he strained. He could sense the pinpoint growing to the size of a tennis ball…a car tyre. With his fists clenched on his thighs, he felt a sudden release of resistance that sent him sprawling to the floor.