Dread Uprising

by Brian Fuller

  “It will fade, Trace,” Lear said consolingly, turning down the soundtrack to The Music Man, which had accompanied them for the last sixty miles. “Rapture is like a river. Give it enough time, and it can erode even the most stubborn stone. Focus forward, my friend. We’re about an hour from Phoenix now, so why don’t we review a bit? What are the six divisions of the Ash Angel Organization?”

  Trace appreciated the attempt to divert him from his painful ruminations. Lear had schooled him in Ash Angel basics during the trip, and Trace found his memory stickier than it had been in life. “The Archai is the leadership; the Scholus the researchers; the Michaels the fighters; the Gabriels the spies and undercover operatives; the Occulum the seers; and the Sanctus for spirituality, ritual, and outreach.”

  “Good. And which division is full of insufferable, paper-pushing bureaucrats?”

  “The Scholus. Your division, right? Can you quit the Ash Angel Organization or get fired or something?”

  Lear chuckled. “Yes, yes, you can. I’ve been close a couple of times.”

  “Fired or quitting?”

  “Both. Look, you need to really let this sink in: we might call ourselves angels, but we’re just as pathetically human as we were before. Sure, I think it’s a higher quality of person who earns the right to return as an Ash Angel, but those cursed individuals who don’t appreciate show tunes before they died tend not to appreciate them after. People who are tactless and stupid are still tactless and stupid, even though their hearts might be in the right place. Just don’t expect heavenly choirs and a hippy love-in when we get to Trevex.”

  Trace nodded, feeling a little better about his own misgivings, though he certainly wouldn’t have minded if Ash Angelhood had included a freedom from self-doubt.

  “Why a propane factory?”

  “Remember when I said we were being hunted?”

  “Yes,” Trace replied. “You were talking about glowing red and black smoke and ghosts hanging out of people.”

  “Right. Everything, you see, has its opposite. Just as there are Ash Angels, there are what we call Dreads, evil people revivified. We don’t like water; they don’t like fire. So desert, propane, potential gigantic explosions . . .”

  “Got it.”

  “Trevex doubles as a business front and a training facility. Lots of oblivious normal folk work there, and I think we’re actually profitable as a company, one of many the Ash Angel Organization owns.” Lear’s phone beeped, and he picked it up. “Hello? Yep. We’ll be there in an hour. When does the bus arrive with the rest of them? We should get there about the same time. Yes, I reported to Ramis that he was a Blank after I awakened him. That’s why she’s there. Okay! Bye!”

  Trace wondered who she was as Lear stashed the phone in one of his many pockets. “Sorry about that. Someone’s getting impatient. Anyway, Dreads are such shallow, selfish creatures that Ash Angels have always been able to crush and outmaneuver them. That all changed this summer.”

  “What happened?”

  “Around the time you died in June, there were 167 Ash Angels like you, Blanks with no aura. Most Blanks, as you can imagine, are assigned to reconnaissance and undercover operations missions because evil creatures can’t spot them easily. Well, from June 19 through July 14, the Dreads killed sixty-two Blanks and a handful of regular Ash Angels. Sixty-two! And most of those in a three-day span. That might not mean much to you until you consider that in the last decade, only two Blanks had been killed during a firefight. It’s the most Ash Angels that have been killed in recorded history. It was awful. Just sent the whole organization into a frenzy. Nobody went home for a week.”

  While Trace had no frame of reference with which to fully appreciate Lear’s feelings, the emotional chill in the man’s voice froze Trace’s spine. The Dreads’ plan was tactically simple. “They’re knocking out your eyes and ears, trying to blind you.”

  Lear raised his eyes in surprise. “Well, you’re smarter than you look. Your assessment is correct. But the most disturbing part is that pulling off a mass killing of unconnected Ash Angels in many different places means we have a leak—and a bad one—somewhere. I’m not really part of all that in the Scholus, but it’s office talk for sure. Phew! Makes me sick to think about it. Time for more music.”

  “How about a little rock and roll or something?” Trace suggested as offhandedly as he could. He’d toured Broadway a few too many times in the last twenty-four hours.

  Lear threw him a sour look, and his voice took on a snotty tone. “Rock and roll? Really? That bastion of fine art and finer feelings? Thirty-three percent of rock is ‘I’m angry at authority,’ the next thirty-three is ‘Jump in the sack with me, baby,’ and the last thirty-three is ‘Why’d you leave me, baby?’ The one percent left over is Rush. I wasted my teenage years at arena concerts full of drugged-up, screaming maniacs that wouldn’t know good music from constipated grunting. Then I saw the light, Trace, bright and clear, like a rising—”

  “So no rock, then?”

  “Absolutely not, my friend. I’ve got a nice collection of Disney tunes on my MP3 player to tide us over.”

  The Phoenix skyline slid into view while Lear sang a tonally flawless duet with Pocahontas’s “Just Around the Riverbend.” They took I-10 toward the city and then veered north, the traffic thinning as the gleaming buildings of the city and early morning rush hour faded behind them. As the beautiful tans and browns of the desert engulfed them, an industrial complex popped into view ahead of them in the midst of sparse green trees dotting the sterile landscape.

  “Is that it?” he asked.

  “Yep. Almost there, my boy. Oh, and just so you know, in Ash Angel culture, I am considered your father since I performed the Awakening ceremony. Always wanted to have a white boy and hit one with a car, so two birds with one stone. And look, the Cherub bus is right behind us.”

  Trace craned his neck to see a gray passenger bus with large front windows coming up behind them. Even at a distance, Trace could make out the white auras surrounding the passengers along the center aisle.

  “Wait. Why am I not on the bus? Is it because I’m a Blank or whatever?”

  “Yes and no. To be honest, the Ash Angel Organization wasn’t even going to send someone out to awaken you, but, like I said, I had a hunch. Won a few bets, too. Thanks to you, I don’t have to do news scrubbing for a week now. So they weren’t expecting you for the bus ride. But really, Blanks are valuable, and given our recent misfortunes, Archon Ramis wanted you hand delivered, just to be safe.”

  “Archon Ramis?”

  “Archon is a title for a section leader. Archons work under Archuses, who work under the Grand Archus. Archon Ramis heads up training for the Scholus division. Remember those paper-pushing bureaucrats I mentioned? Well, he’s their king and sits upon a throne of reports and paperwork, frowning at the peasants. He hates me. He’ll probably hate you, too. In fact, I think he hates everyone except . . . well, best not to pass on idle gossip at this point. And hate is really too strong a word. Call it ‘chronically dissatisfied.’”

  The car slowed as they approached Trevex Drive. Lear shoved his hand in several coat pockets before finding a clip-on badge and fastening it to his lapel. It said he was “David Crane, Assistant Facilities Coordinator.” After another foray into his shabby coat, Lear produced a “Guest” badge and handed it to Trace. His Ash Angel father had purchased new clothes for him during one of their stops, since Lear’s vehicular introduction to Ash Angel durability had graced the last set with rips and tire tracks.

  As they approached the guard shack, Lear silenced the Disney music for good. The young security guard on duty lacked the friendly aura of an Ash Angel, his emaciated, haunted face a stark contrast to health and vitality. Stringy, dark hair hung down below his security guard’s cap, and the rumpled, iron-gray uniform did nothing to aid his sallow, uneven complexion. Small dark eyes regarded them with a dull, clock-puncher stare.

  “Badge,” he said with all the enthus
iasm of a funeral home.

  Lear stretched out the window and handed it to him, smiling in spite of the less-than-friendly greeting from the guardsman. “Any ghosts today, Ed?”

  “There’s always ghosts,” Ed replied, typing in some numbers. “Is your guest part of today’s special tour?”

  “Yep.”

  Ed returned the badge. “Blank, then, huh?”

  “You got it,” Lear confirmed as he waited for the gate to slide back.

  “Well, he’ll probably be dead soon, like the others. Move along.”

  The chain-link gate slid back, and they sped forward into a city of pipes, valves, tanks, and cylinders.

  “And I thought I was miserable,” Trace commented. “Is he a Blank?”

  Lear chuckled. “No. If you ever think you’ve got it bad, visit Edward Grain. He’s a mortal, but a special one we call an ‘Afflicted.’ He can see evil spirits, and they torment him, so have pity. Even Ash Angels can’t see spirits until they possess a human. Those are the ghosts hanging out of people I mentioned. Edward can always see them. Just imagine! He has lived much of his life in terror. Working here provides him some relief.”

  Lear wound around the road until it exited the industrial section and crossed over into a business park to the south of the propane infrastructure. They parked by the first office building, a drab, three-story, brown-brick affair with some age on it. Behind them, the bus pulled up. As the bus squealed and hissed to a stop, three Ash Angels dressed in business casual emerged from the building’s glass doors to greet the new angels.

  Lear killed the engine on the Buick. “Let’s go, my friend. I’ll make sure they know who you are before I leave.”

  Trace felt strangely self-conscious as he clambered out of the car. The glow from the collective aura of the new Ash Angels filled the bus with a divine light, the interior darkening as they flowed out. He felt like the one birthday candle that wouldn’t light. It all reminded him of filing off the bus at boot camp. The new Ash Angels appeared as bewildered as he was.

  “Is attempted vehicular homicide standard training procedure?” Trace asked.

  Lear slapped him on the back. “No. Half those Cherubs think they’re still dreaming. The other half think they’re in heaven. You’re at, like, a PhD level thanks to my advanced instruction. You can thank me later. Here’s a quick heads-up: the graying, severe-looking guy in the middle is Archon Ramis, head of the training facility. To his left, the squat, beefy dude with the square haircut is Archus Mars, head of the entire Michaels division.

  “The matronly lady is Athena. She works with Ramis and oversees all the scheduling and provisioning. And is a witch. Don’t be fooled. You’ll meet the leaders of the other groups and divisions later this week. The Michaels come early and pick out all the Cherubs with a military background and take them off for their own version of the training. You’re a Blank, so you won’t be going with them.”

  Archon Ramis raised his arms and hushed the crowd of confused Ash Angels. “Welcome, everybody. We want to keep this as orderly as possible. I am Archon Ramis, Director of Training, and I and my staff will take good care of you. Many of you have not accepted who you are yet, and that’s okay. We’ll help you figure things out. Now, I need each of you to come forward and grab a form from my assistant. Her name is Athena. There are 103 questions for you to answer. Please be complete and truthful. Take one form and head inside to the cafeteria to fill it out. Then we’ll get you processed.”

  “Forms?” Trace asked incredulously. “Angels have to fill out forms?”

  “Just what I thought too!” Lear said. “Bureaucracy persists beyond the grave, I’m afraid. Taxes don’t, thankfully, unless you’re on a deep-cover op. Look, if you’re training with the Ash Angel I think you’re training with, it might be a little rough.”

  Trace smirked. “Rougher than basic training in the Marines?”

  “Maybe,” Lear said. “Promise me you’ll stick with it. I’ll be the first to say that a lot of the forms and rules and people make me crazy, but the Ash Angel Organization can help you, Trace. Give it a fair shake.”

  “I will.”

  They waited until the rest of the group filed inside before approaching Archon Ramis. The director was checking something on his oversized phone and made them wait while he finished. “Looks like we have forty-two new ones, total,” he said to Mars standing nearby. “At least six are military.” Finally he turned to Lear, his expression and tone void of pleasure. “What do you need?”

  “This is Trace, the Blank,” Lear announced.

  “I knew that. Get him a form and get him in there.”

  “Let me have him, Ramis,” Mars said. “We haven’t had a Blank in the Michaels for nearly a decade. We could use—”

  “Absolutely not,” Ramis interrupted decisively. “The Blanks find them, you grind them. You know what happened six months ago. A Blank behind a gun is a waste.”

  Mars backed down and went inside without a protest.

  “Well, Trace,” Lear said, “I’ve got to get over to the Scholus office. You take care. Remember, I’m your father. You need anything, you call . . . whenever it is they let you have a phone.”

  “I’ll be watching my back for that Buick.”

  “You do that. Just remember, Trace, Rapture comes every morning. All you have to do is survive one day at a time.”

  Lear turned away, singing a cheerful song about sunny tomorrows as he headed back to the car. Trace stepped toward Athena, who smiled at him in a motherly way and handed him the questionnaire. “Pencils are inside, dear,” she said, hand extended toward the door.

  Trace pulled it open and went inside, finding a plain-looking lobby with brown tile floors, fake plants layered in dust, and an information kiosk with Trevex propane brochures and a map of the building. Near a sitting area, a scraggly Christmas tree stood with worn tinsel and sparsely placed lights, a testament that Trevex Propane remembered the season, though not in style. A curvaceous, well-dressed Ash Angel woman stood behind an information desk arranging some papers. She glanced up, eyes narrowing for a moment.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m supposed to go somewhere and fill out this questionnaire,” Trace explained, holding up the form as evidence.

  She cocked her head. “You arrived on the bus just now?”

  “Well, no,” he continued. “Lear brought me in.”

  The woman relaxed. “Oh! You’re the Blank.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  She laughed. “I’m so sorry. I thought we had a normal wander in here by mistake. Welcome. My tag says I am Janice Kilgore, but you can call me Lavender. The rest of your group went to the cafeteria, down the hall and to the right. Good luck! If you need anything, I’ll be right here.”

  Trace thanked her and turned the corner. The Ash Angels certainly spared no effort in making the office seem ordinary and even out of date. A fluorescent bulb blinked and buzzed in a hallway lined with company slogans and motivational posters. A beat-up water fountain hummed as he walked by. Despite not feeling thirsty, he instinctively took a drink, the stream barely rising above the nozzle and forcing him to practically make out with it to get any water. The dingy-white cinder-block walls of the hallway terminated in the worn blue double doors of the cafeteria, which a youthful Ash Angel girl opened for him with a doubtful look.

  Trace knew what it meant. “Blank,” he said, and she smiled and nodded. Inside, the Ash Angels from the bus dutifully scribbled away on the questionnaire, a few regarding him as he entered, a questioning look on their faces. Another group of Ash Angels stood by the serving line of the cafeteria. Their confident, comfortable laughter amongst themselves indicated they weren’t new. A blonde woman without an aura stood a little apart from them, regarding the whole assembly and now him with a cold expression.

  From a box on the table, he grabbed a pencil and sat down next to a plump, nervous woman with short hair and big eyes. She appeared troubled,
scanning the questionnaire as if it were written in a language she didn’t understand.

  Trace glanced at the first few questions: name, birth, death, parents’ names, last place of residence. The first substantial question read, “Describe how you died in detail, including the date and how you were killed, if you know.” Trace really had no desire to relive it, but he exhaled and set pencil to paper.

  “I beg your pardon,” the woman next to him said sheepishly in an English accent. “But may I put a question to you?”

  Here we go again. “I’m a Blank,” he explained preemptively. “I don’t have an aura.”

  “I’m afraid that is not what I intended to ask,” she returned.

  “I’m sorry,” Trace said. “It’s just that people, well, never mind. What’s the question?”

  “Yes, well,” she said, pushing her questionnaire in front of him. “This question isn’t clear to me. I can’t quite understand what it means.”

  Trace glanced at it. “List any proficiencies you have with computers and mobile devices beyond normal usage. List any programming, hacking, networking, repair, or other skills that are relevant.”

  “What is it you don’t understand?” he asked.

  “What’s a computer?”

  Trace was stunned. “Where are you from?”

  “Albany, originally. When I married, I moved to my husband’s plantation in Charleston.”

  Trace nodded, then flipped back a page. Death date: August 14, 1853.

  She snatched the paper from him. “I beg your pardon!”

  Trace regarded her with wonderment. “Sorry. They did tell you what year this is, right?”

  “Believe me, sir, I’ve been nothing but a fountain of questions for the last twenty-four hours. What a loud, blinking mess the world has become. And no time for tea, apparently.”

  Athena and Ramis strode through the doors. “Is there a Prescilla Mary Walters here?” Athena asked.

  “Oh, dear. I hope I’m not in any sort of trouble,” the woman whispered to Trace, raising her hand. Athena strode over, smile sympathetic.