by Brian Fuller
“Mrs. Walters, I am so sorry,” Athena apologized. “You have a bit of catching up to do before you can join the rest of the group. You’re the oldest Ash Angel we’ve awakened in quite some time. Please come with me, dear. Just leave the questionnaire.”
Prescilla left with Athena while Ramis crossed the room to chat with the severe-looking blonde in the corner who had crossed her arms beneath her breasts and was listening to whatever Ramis had to say with an apparent lack of interest. She glanced at Trace, and he began filling out his questionnaire in earnest.
The questions were clearly aimed at assessing skills and aptitudes, perhaps for some sort of placement, and he filled them out tersely. They also wanted a list of friends and relatives and where they lived. Lear had already drilled into him the importance of avoiding familiar places and people, mainly for their peace of mind.
“When you are done,” a returning Athena shouted at everyone, “please hand me your questionnaires, and we will head down to processing and get you all into the system. After that, you will watch a training film to answer all those questions rattling around in your heads.”
Processing. System. Training film. This really was like boot camp. It all felt wrong to Trace. He thought being an angel would entail something more religious and organic, but this felt like the first day on a job. What was next? Corporate policies and rules? A briefing on workplace etiquette? Sensitivity training?
His distracted thoughts and late arrival won him last place in finishing up, and by the time he stood to go, Athena had already left. Ramis and the blonde waited by the door. The woman had a thin face with unsympathetic blue eyes not unlike those of his unforgettable drill instructor at Parris Island. Her hair was pulled back from her face, adding to her serious demeanor. She wore expensive-looking black slacks and a silky purple button-down shirt.
Ramis’s face was just as serious but more businesslike than disapproving. He, too, dressed sharply, with perfectly pressed dark-gray pants, white shirt, and red power tie.
Trace found their gravity annoying. Shouldn’t angels be a little more happy and sweet, like Lavender? “So, what’s next?” Trace asked, thrusting his questionnaire toward Ramis. “W-4s and a tour of the break room?” Neither cracked a smile.
“This is Cassandra,” Ramis introduced.
Before Trace could even open his mouth, Cassandra whipped the questionnaire out of his hand and started leafing through it. “I sure hope you learn faster than you fill out questionnaires,” she mocked. “Your handwriting sucks. When’s the Scholus going to start doing this electronically, Ramis?”
Ramis ignored her question. “You won’t be joining the rest for processing, Trace. We’re keeping you out of the system. Did Lear tell you about the massacre?”
“Yes.”
“Good. We’re purging a lot of Gabriel information out of the database as a security precaution. Anyway, since we don’t require rest, training here happens around the clock. You’ll do half your training during the day with the other new Angels. The rest you’ll do at night with Cassandra, here. She’s a Blank like you and has extensive field experience as a Gabriel. There’s a lot you can learn from her, and you need to learn it fast. We need Blanks back in the field as soon as possible.”
Ramis finished, and they waited until Cassandra had her fill of Trace’s information. Once done, she sighed in apparent dissatisfaction and tossed the questionnaire in the garbage near the door. “So you’re a jarhead who can program and who was shot by a woman named Darcie. What did you do to deserve that?”
Ramis turned toward her. “I’ve read his Scholus file, Cassandra, and it wasn’t his fault. You need to show a little more sensitivity if you want to earn your quality trainer certification.”
“Oh, right! I wouldn’t want to screw that up. I mean, I’ve got the frame picked out and everything. Look, you bullied me into this, Ramis. I don’t want to train Cherubs. Besides, he’s a Marine and likes it raw. Isn’t that right, soldier? I’ll see you at twelve in the lobby. That’s a.m. Don’t be late. I hate that.”
She pushed her way through the double doors and walked down the hall at a stiff pace. Ramis and Trace watched her through the rectangular glass window in the doors until she turned the corner and passed out of sight.
“Charming,” Trace observed.
“Show her respect,” Ramis cautioned him sternly. “You don’t and she’ll chew you up, and afterward you’ll have me to deal with, understood?”
Trace felt like executing a mock salute but settled for a nearly sincere, “Yes, sir!” instead.
“She really is one of the best,” Ramis said as he turned to go. “Check your ego at the door and you might learn something. Take this seriously. We’re in a war, Trace, and for the first time, we’ve lost a major battle.”
Ramis held Trace’s eyes for a moment and then strode out. The door clanked shut, and Trace found himself alone in the cafeteria wondering what he had gotten himself into. Lear was right. The heavenly host this certainly wasn’t. Perhaps peace on earth and goodwill toward men would come later. Or he would bail. But for now and for Lear’s sake, he would just go with the flow, which meant finding the more accommodating Lavender and asking her for directions to wherever they were showing the training film.
Chapter 5
The Possessed
12:06 a.m. Cassandra was late despite her professed hatred of the practice.
Trace loitered in the lonely lobby of what he now knew as the Trevex B building, the same place he had filled out his short-lived questionnaire earlier that day. Lavender had shepherded him and the rest of the Cherubs to the Trevex D building where they spent the day watching orientation films and listening to pep talks about their new lives, abilities, and opportunities.
Some of the poor Cherubs still hadn’t accepted their Awakening, and Trace caught one bewildered woman pinching the flesh on the back of her hand in an attempt to rouse herself from a dream. The subject of Dreads and other minions of evil didn’t make the training docket that day. They probably wanted to pump up the newbies before scaring them out of their wits.
One thing Archon Ramis made crystal clear that day was that no one was to leave the Trevex complex until they were ordered to, the only intimation from the Ash Angel leadership that things on the outside had turned dangerous. In his brief conversations with the other Cherubs, Trace kept Lear’s information about the Blank Massacre to himself, though the topic of his auralessness left little room for much else in his small talk with his training group.
The best news, though, was that Ash Angels received divine gifts, seven of them, during their second life, though Blanks only received six. Some were gifted visions, some strength or speed. Some Ash Angels could hallow places and exorcise evil spirits, and some could actually blast dark creatures with divine light.
Most Ash Angels received their first gift during the first month, though Blanks, for some unknown reason, had to wait much longer, usually over a year. For every gift—officially called a Bestowal—they received, they achieved a level of Ascendancy, an unofficial rank of sorts. Once an Ash Angel received all their Bestowals, they would live out one more year and then ascend from the earth as a real angel. Gasps of wonderment and scrunched faces of skepticism greeted the news.
Perhaps the disbelievers just needed a brief encounter with the front bumper of a speeding Buick.
Trace glanced at his watch and checked the parking lot again. No Cassandra. He snatched a Trevex brochure from the rack at the information desk and headed over to a kiosk near a single humming light that provided the only illumination in the darkened lobby. He’d learned that Trevex was a fully functional and prosperous propane company with regional branches all over the United States and Canada. Offices and warehouses spread far and wide provided convenient bases of operation near every major population center. From some of the training films, Trace learned that Trevex wasn’t the only Ash Angel enterprise in operation. The Ash Angel Organization had infiltrated numerous groups
and companies, including law enforcement and government.
A silver Cadillac Sports Coupe sped into the parking lot and screeched to a halt in front of the double glass doors. Trace returned the brochure to its slot and walked out as Cassandra rolled down the passenger-side window. She was dressed to kill, hair down and curled, makeup expertly applied. “Hurry up, Jarhead. We’re late! I hate being late.”
Trace jogged over and hopped in, Cassandra flooring it before he could get the door closed. “You told me to meet you in the lobby at twelve. I was there.”
“You were supposed to be at Trevex D with the rest of the Cherubs.”
“Sorry. We were in B when you gave me the order to meet you at the lobby.”
The tight red dress and high heels Cassandra wore brought back memories of Terissa. And Cassandra seemed significantly bustier than she had that morning.
“Eyes front, Marine,” she scolded. “Speaking of Bs and Ds, we can make them bigger and smaller by moving fat around. Didn’t they do body transformation training today?”
“I think they are doing that right now,” Trace explained. “Maybe you should take me over to Building D, and you can take off and go dancing or whatever.”
“I’d love to get rid of you for the evening, but Ramis told me to train you, so here we are.” She braked hard at the guard shack and waited for the bar to go up before gunning it again. “Look, here’s the thing. You can change the way your body looks at will within the general confines of your own genetics. You can be fat. You can be skinny. Long hair, short hair, stubbly or clean-shaven. You can even be a child or an old man. You can generate and move fat around and tone muscle to change your appearance. Unfortunately, that leaves the fellas out when it comes to male enhancement. Sorry. You can fart at will, though. Most guys enjoy that better.”
He decided not to try that immediately. The training had alluded to these tricks of appearance earlier, but not in detail. Trace was impressed and wondered if his time wouldn’t be better spent with the rest of the incoming Cherubs. Cassandra was dressed for a date, and not with him. Unlike Lear, she was a compulsive speeder, whipping down the lonely two-lane highway at near three-digit speeds.
“So where exactly are you taking me?” Trace asked. “Rules said that Cherubs weren’t allowed outside the complex for at least a month.”
“You a rules kind of guy? Salute and obey orders? Well, whatever. Look, half of those Cherubs in there will spend their time sitting in offices or pretending to have average, normal lives. You will spend your time out here, out in the dark. Have you seen one yet?”
“One what?”
“A Dread.”
“No. Lear just drove me straight to—”
“Right. You need to see one. Traditionally, they’ve been solitary creatures, but these days, we might find two or three or four together. You might have heard that they’ve suddenly learned organization and group tactics.”
The danger of Dreads had occupied his thoughts during the empty stretches of time between films and lectures. Since the instructors hadn’t addressed the issue of evil creatures, Trace could only speculate on what threat they actually posed. Ash Angel life appeared full of purpose. What did awakened evil creatures do with their time? Hunt Ash Angels? Play the slots at Las Vegas? Tangle extension cords?
“So where does one go to find Dreads?” Trace asked.
“That should be easy to figure out, Jarhead,” Cassandra answered. “Though I’m afraid it will require some actual thought on your part, so good luck.”
“Walmart on Black Friday?” he joked. Her expression remained as frosty as ever.
“Great. A jarhead comedian,” she replied.
“The name is Trace,” he said. Was annoying him with a Marine nickname some kind of test? Or was she just trying to piss him off? Once they graduated from training, all the Cherubs would choose an Ash Angel name and receive a cover name to use when mixing with normals. But till then, they referred to each other by their first names.
She didn’t blink. “So, Jarhead, you gonna tell me why Darcie shot you? I’m guessing you were protecting someone from Darcie. So who was it? Your lover? You cheating on Darcie or with Darcie or something?”
Trace frowned. Cassandra was helping him learn that an Ash Angel could have feelings far from divine. The military had acquainted him with the tough trainer bit, and he expected no less. But he suspected her abrasive attitude came from an abrasive personality rather than the artifice of some teaching technique. Bringing up Darcie crossed the line.
“None of your damn business,” he said.
“Still hurts, huh?” Cassandra said, and not like she cared. “Look, why don’t you practice trying to make your fingernails grow and shrink. That’s where they usually start in class. It takes most Ash Angels a couple months to be able to transform with any kind of speed. In your case, it will probably take longer.”
“Why? Are Blanks at a disadvantage?”
“No. Just you.”
Trace decided not to engage Cassandra in conversation any more than he had to and focused on his fingernails. How did one make fingernails grow, much less move fat around the body or age oneself? He concentrated on his fingers for a full five minutes as if trying to burn holes in them with lasers in his eyes while Cassandra drove closer to the bright lights of the beckoning city. Not so much as a sliver of growth.
“Look, Jarhead . . .” Cassandra said.
“Trace.”
“Jarhead, it’s a matter of visualization and imagination, not just a matter of will. You have to envision what you want them to look like and then bend your will to the vision. Forget morphing for a minute. Let’s try something all the boys like. Reach under the seat. There’s a gun there.”
Trace leaned over and jammed his arm under the seat, feeling the cold metal beneath it. He pulled out an odd-looking gun that looked like a .44 mag revolver on steroids. The metal was blued, weighed a ton, and was loaded with some of the biggest bullets he had ever seen in a handgun. He turned it over and inspected it.
“This must have a hell of a kickback. What caliber is this?” Trace asked.
“Fifty.”
“Nice.”
“Yep. It’s loud and kicks like an ornery mule. Doesn’t have a great range, either, but that’s not the point. Dreads and Ash Angels are hardly fazed by small-caliber weapons. Our bodies are tougher than mortals’ bodies. Tissue damage is nothing. Lungs, heart, organs, and blood vessels don’t matter. You’ve got to break bones and shred muscles. You’d be better off fighting a Dread with a medieval battle-ax or even a garden-variety sledgehammer than most handguns and rifles out there.
“What you’ve got there we call a BBG. It means Big Blessed Gun. Not sure who thought up that stupid name, but here we are. It also comes in rifle and shotgun varieties. The weapons nuts at research have made a variety of these things with different calibers and configurations, trying to find the sweet spot for hurting Dreads. The guns are at their best when they use blessed ammunition, but you’ve got to submit a special requisition to get that.”
“Blessed ammunition?” Trace asked.
“Yeah. There are Ash Angels who have a gift that allows them to bless objects, including bullets. There aren’t many Ash Angels with the gift, and they can only Bless a few objects a day. Let me tell you, though. Blessed bullets really shred the Dreads.”
“Why not just Bless the gun?”
“Wow,” she replied. “A decent question. Blessing the gun makes the shooter more accurate but doesn’t help do more damage. Anyway, shooting these guns can take some getting used to.”
He could believe it.
“Can’t exactly stick this thing in the back of your pants.”
“Nope. We typically use backpacks or gym bags or old lady purses. That gun is yours. You’re welcome.”
“Thanks.”
She turned off the highway and down onto the surface streets. It was half past midnight. Festive Christmas garlands and bows hung from streetlamps and
glowed in the darkness along with storefront signs stating “Closed.” Few vehicles and fewer people frequented the roads, but Cassandra navigated toward a more industrial side of town with boxy buildings and ruined sidewalks. Trash clung to chain-link fences shot through with weeds, and wooden poles supported dim streetlights and bowing wires. After another turn, they neared a two-story brick building where the street was unexpectedly lined with cars—nice cars—parked thickly. A sagging fence separated the sidewalk and the street from empty railroad tracks.
“Where are we going?”
She deftly parallel parked in an impossible space between a Mercedes and a Toyota RX8 and dropped the mirror from the sun visor, checking her makeup.
“Okay. When you think about religious stories and teachings, you’ll notice some words pop up a lot, regardless of the culture they come from. Words like light, love, peace. If you’re not on that road, where are you going? Dark. Lust. Loud. God is about ‘peace be still.’ The devil is about ‘peace be gone.’ Around the corner there is a club called the Orient. It’s exclusive, it’s poorly lit, and it’s for rich men and women who are bored with each other. Got it?”
“I’m not dressed for this.”
“No, you’re not. That’s why I parked here. See that metal door on the side? Wait there. I go in the front, then I let you in the service entrance. Then we both have a nice look around. Don’t do anything stupid.”
Trace had no idea what constituted stupid in this situation.
She hopped out after grabbing a tiny, fashionable purse from the console.
Trace jumped out and crossed the street, leaving the gun in the car—he didn’t have anywhere to put it. Cassandra didn’t look back, strutting with a practiced air in her high heels as she turned the corner toward the front entrance. Her figure and flattering dress kept his attention. She wouldn’t encounter any difficulties getting in the door, though she might have problems peeling the men off her to get clear enough to let him into the side door.
