Kill All Angels

by Robert Brockway

  The implications of that didn’t really occur to either of us until we stood at the bottom of it, gaping up at the barbed wire atop the chain-link. It was only ten feet high. It may as well have been a thousand for Randall.

  “Okay,” I said, hoping that if I just talked fast enough and kept moving my momentum would stumble me onto a plan. “I’m gonna climb up first and throw my jacket, then come back down and boost you up.”

  “Sure,” Randall said, “or you can just think happy thoughts and we’ll both fucking fly out of here on our magic fairy dust.”

  “Well, what then? What’s your plan?” I snapped.

  “I don’t know!” He lowered himself back against the fence. “We look for another opening, or we stay and fight. I took one of the bastard’s heads off with one leg. I still got three more limbs; by math that means I can take at least three. You got four on you—then we start head-butting.”

  I laughed, despite everything.

  We both thought hard for a minute, but it wasn’t exactly a strength for either of us.

  “All right,” he finally ceded. “Start climbing.”

  I slid out of my jacket and looped it around my neck, holding it in place with my teeth. I hooked my Chucks into the chain-links and started up. The climb was easy enough, but wrangling the jacket up and over the barbed wire with one hand was way more awkward than I’d thought. It took me a few swings to get it to catch, but it caught wrong—most of the fabric on this side of the fence—and I had to wrench it free and start again.

  “Carey,” Randall warned.

  I looked down at him. He was staring up at the roller coaster. I could see five dark shapes crotch-sliding into the dip.

  “I’m moving!” I said, and flipped the jacket over again.

  Didn’t catch. Caught wrong. Didn’t catch. Didn’t catch.

  “Fuck!”

  “Any time now,” Randall said.

  I didn’t need to look to figure out that they had made the lowest point by now and started climbing down.

  I wadded up my jacket and threw again, starting wide and releasing at the top: it floated up and over, folded in on itself, seemed about to fall back toward me … and then the sleeve caught a barb and it settled over the bulk of the barbed wire just like a tablecloth.

  I jumped down immediately, without looking, and nearly drop-kicked Randall in the face. I glanced back at the roller coaster—one of the Unnoticeables had just made the jump to the ground, another right behind him, three more still sliding down the dip.

  I ducked down in the front of the fence, looped my hands together, and lowered them between my legs. Randall set his good foot in them, groaned at the pain as his weight momentarily shifted to his busted leg, but then pushed up into the saddle. I heaved upward as hard as I could, right when he jumped, and he caught the links high, just below the crest. He pulled himself up the last few feet, tried to throw his body over the jacket-covered barbs, but didn’t make it. He just hung there.

  “Get moving!” I yelled.

  “I can’t get the leverage,” he said. “Come up here and pull me over from the other side.”

  “You goddamned wimp!” I said.

  “No seriously,” he answered, not playing the game. “It’s not happening. Get up here.”

  I scrambled up the fence like a squirrel on coke. Randall was right—getting over the hump was harder than it looked. The barbed wire bulged out on either side, and there was no place to grab. You had to reach over the hump to the far side of the fence, and that meant momentarily balancing on both legs while you stretched for purchase. I went for it, and got a grip. I tried to pull myself over, but my legs flipped up above my head. I snatched at my jacket, but it gave way and I fell the full ten feet down the far side, straight onto my back. The air went out of me. I wheezed like a career smoker and watched little Christmas lights flash across my field of vision. Randall was saying something, but I couldn’t make out the words. Could only focus on vainly gasping for air like a landed fish.

  “You all right?!” he said, when I could finally focus enough to understand him.

  My breath came thin and ragged. I barely got to my feet.

  “Yeff,” I said, trying to say “yes,” but merely panting out the last half syllable.

  Weak as I was, I immediately looped my fingers through the chain-link and started climbing. I didn’t even make it off the ground before I fell. I got up and tried again, not doing much better.

  “Carey,” Randall said, and something in his voice stopped me. He was climbing down.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I said.

  He lowered himself the last few feet and dropped to the ground, managing to put most of his weight on his good leg.

  I stopped and looked at him, the diamond patterns of the chain-link casting shadowy X’s across his face.

  “You got to go,” Randall said.

  “Bullshit!” I said, and slapped the fence. “Just give me a second, I’ll get over there—”

  He just gestured backward with his head. I looked over his shoulder and saw that all five of the Unnoticeables had made it to the ground now and were jogging in his direction. Maybe a hundred feet away. They’d get to him way before I could.

  “Well then fuck it, let’s go with your plan. I’ll climb back over there and we’ll kick their asses.”

  “Oh yeah? Let’s see you do it, then.”

  I jumped up as high as I could and seized the fence, but I couldn’t support myself. I slipped down and kicked dirt at Randall in frustration.

  “You fuckin’ wimp.” He laughed.

  “No way,” I said. “We aren’t going out like this.”

  “We’re not,” he agreed.

  Fifty feet now. Probably less.

  “Tell them I died how I lived,” Randall said, twisting on a wry smile. “Punting some chump’s head clean off his body.”

  He turned away from me, and hobbled out to meet the crowd.

  Three of the Unnoticeables broke off, surrounding him, but keeping their distance for now. The other two cut Randall a wide berth and kept right on running toward the fence. They leapt up and hit it high, then started climbing. They didn’t need a jacket-bridge; they didn’t care. They just wrapped their fists around the barbs and started pulling. The one closest to me got his loose blouse-shirt thing caught up in the tangles, so I guess ’80s fashion did one thing right. The other one was only a bit farther away, and though I could see his hands shredding as he pulled himself through, it wasn’t slowing him down much.

  One of the three surrounding Randall lunged. Randall danced to the side and clocked him hard. The Unnoticeable went down, but Randall stumbled on the follow-through and limped a bit. The other two saw it—saw him favoring that leg. One charged before Randall could recover, while the other circled around and kicked out his knee. Randall went down with a scream, then all three were on him, and the screaming stopped.

  The Unnoticeable climbing the fence nearest me had his chest and arms through the barbed wire already. Thin streams of blood poured from multiple cuts across his face and torso, but he was still steadily wriggling through. Even the blouse-wearing bastard was shimmying out of his fancy top and starting to make headway.

  Where Randall had stood, I could see three silhouetted shapes flailing at a dark lump on the ground that offered no resistance.

  Shit.

  Torn Blouse Guy was almost through now, his black leather pants shielding his lower half from the worst of the barbs. The other one was just kicking his boot free from the tangles and getting ready to jump.

  Fuck.

  The silhouettes bashed and wailed, tore and gouged. The lump did not move. Did not cry out.

  The Unnoticeables dropped from the fence to either side of me.

  I ran.

  I ran like the miserable fucking coward that I am, and I have deserved every single thing that has happened to me since.

  SIX

  }}}Kaitlyn. 2013. Los Angeles, California. West L.A.}}}}
}}}}}

  Have you ever gone on a vacation or something for a few weeks, then came back to your own house and found it smelled kind of funny? Maybe not bad, necessarily, but it’s a noticeable odor. It takes you a few hours to get used to it, and then you won’t smell it again until you leave for another good length of time.

  My apartment smelled of pretzels and tequila. To my recollection, I hadn’t had either in here in a long time. I had no idea where the smell came from, but it was strangely comforting. Every time I smelled it and thought what the hell is that? my mind filled in the answer: home.

  I took in my belongings with fresh eyes. I memorized every inch of them, all too aware they could be taken away again in an instant. My mismatched thrift store mugs, still set out to dry on the kitchen towel by the sink. My pile o’ jeans, hunched in the hallway between the living room and bedroom. My ceramic owl toothbrush holder. My gargantuan, extravagantly comfortable bed.

  It filled every inch of my room with memory foam goodness. My big, pillowy down comforter was bundled up into a little Kaitlyn nest in the far corner. I kicked off my shoes, crawled into my favorite part of every day, pulled the door shut behind me, and made myself into the smallest ball possible. I did nothing but breathe bed-smell and value every inch of its contact with my body. Weeks of scratchy motel sheets, formless airy pillows, strangers fucking overhead or fighting next door, and now, to be back in my most private den of comfort, I just couldn’t help it.

  I started crying.

  It began as a happy cry, my body overwhelmed by pure endorphins. Then it became one of relief, as all the binding stress wrapped around me began to loosen. Then it took a wrong turn and became a deep, wracking sob of stupid self pity.

  Why the hell am I involved in this? Why me? I just wanted to race cars and see movie sets and—

  No, that’s not even it. I didn’t want those things. Jackie wanted those things for me. I wanted to … I wanted to …

  Okay, so I don’t know what I wanted to do. I wasn’t happy waiting tables in Barstow, where everybody knew every inch of your business; I wasn’t happy waiting tables in L.A., where everybody follows up the question “what do you do?” with the question “okay, but what do you really do?” I went along with Jackie when she moved to L.A. because she was my only friend—my only connection to any living thing, really—and that made her home. Then came L.A. and improv classes and yoga and Jackie shining with the light of purpose fulfilled while I sat there like a lump. Wondering what was for me.

  And now, I had my answer.

  Marco, the former teen heartthrob that wanted to eat my insides. Faceless goons that did his twisted bidding. Hulking black monsters that melted flesh like butter. Static-screaming angels that simplified the algorithms of humanity just to keep an uncaring universe turning.

  Jackie was meant to live a hip and bohemian life in Los Angeles, networking with minor celebrities and doing sketch comedy. I was meant to battle a multidimensional parasite and its attendant cult at the expense of my self and, most likely, my life.

  I feel like I got the slightly shorter end of the stick here, Jackie.

  And with that, the tears shut off like a switch.

  I’m being stupid. Selfish. Sullen. Like a kid that doesn’t get what they want at Christmas so they start yelling at Grandma. That’s not me, and it’s not helping.

  I wiped my runny mascara on my bedsheets.

  Why not? I don’t sleep anymore. Won’t be needing my comfort nest ever again.

  I sat up and stared blankly out my window, looking down toward the bottom of the hill—the bodega and the taco cart, the Mexican family that ran the donut shop sitting on their stoop, laughing and barbecuing.

  Not for you. Not anymore.

  I giggled bitterly to myself.

  There was a knock at my door. From the other side, Jackie said, “K? You all right in there? It sounded like you were crying.…”

  I leaned over to twist the knob, and let the door creak open on its own. When it did, Jackie saw the streaked, puffy mess of my face and frowned. She didn’t come in from the hallway. There was literally not an inch of standing space in my bedroom—it was fully consumed by the massive bed—so to “come in” would be de facto cuddling, and I guess she wasn’t up for a snuggle. Instead, she awkwardly sat at the border of my mattress and twisted to face me.

  “What’s up?” she said.

  I laughed.

  “That’s such an inadequate question, Jackie.”

  “I know, I’m sorry,” she said. She looked at me with platitudinous eyes.

  “And that’s such an inadequate response.”

  “Look, I know what you’re going through but there’s no need to take it out on—”

  “You … know what I’m going through?” I barked out an ugly laugh. “Nobody has ever known what I’m going through. I don’t know what I’m going through.”

  “But you have friends who are here for you.…”

  “Oh, cool,” I said, giving Jackie a big thumbs-up. “The power of friendship will surely see me through any challenge!”

  I expected her to snap back at me, but instead she mimed spreading out a rainbow with her hands and sang the old “The More You Know” PSA jingle.

  I laughed, earnestly this time, and that shut me right down. Even when I’m being a total bitch, Jackie makes me laugh.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, and scooted across the bed toward her. “I’m just so … I don’t know if tired is the right word. Weary, maybe. I’ve been running on nothing but momentum for weeks now, and this is the first time I’ve had to stop, even for a second. Everything caught up to me.”

  “I get it, K.” She wrapped her arm around my back and laid her head on my shoulder. “If you’d asked me what the weirdest, scariest thing in the world was two months ago, I probably would’ve said Danzig. Now it’s like we’re trapped in a nightmare world. I wish I could say something comforting to you but … well, we saw how that worked out just now.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “It helps to know somebody else is as screwed as I am.”

  “Ha, well, I’m not quite there yet. I haven’t started hallucinating space whales.”

  I pulled away from her so I could see her face.

  “What do you mean, hallucinate?” I asked.

  “What do you mean, what do I mean?” She pulled away a little herself.

  “You think I hallucinated all of that? Jackie, that was real. It was showing me something…”

  “You still think that? K, I figured if we got you out of the sun, got you someplace to unwind, you’d reset back to normal.…”

  “I am normal! Or as close as I get anymore. Jackie, it’s seriously important that you believe me about this.”

  “So you’re still going to follow through with this crazy fucking plan?” she said, and pushed off from the bed. She frowned down at me from the hallway. “You’re still going after another angel?”

  “It’s the only way to—”

  “Fuck that!” Jackie’s voice cracked when she yelled. “Look around, there’s nobody here! Marco is dead. His little cult scattered to the wind. Nobody is looking for us. We won. We’re out! Let’s just go back to living.”

  “It’s not over. Marco was nothing to these things—less than nothing. There are so many more and they’ll never stop, unless we stop them.”

  “Ease up on this ‘we,’ stuff, K. Back in Mexico, I told you I was with you until the end. Well, here it is: the end. I’m with you. I’m not with you starting it all up again because you got heatstroke while meditating in the desert and talked to Shamu the fucking astronaut.”

  I tried to rev up my anger, but I’d already started and stopped too many times. I couldn’t muster the energy.

  “I’m not going to keep begging you to stay,” I said, my voice flat.

  “Nobody asked you to—no, you know what?” Jackie ran her hands through her hair, blew out all her breath. “We’re tired, we’re stressed, we shouldn’t be doing this right
now. I love you, K. I do. We’ve got some shit to talk about, though, all right? And I think we both need a little time to be normal first.”

  I smiled weakly.

  “So, I’m going to go and check in on my parents. They’re used to me disappearing for a while, and even occasionally maxing out Dad’s credit card—but they generally expect a visit afterward and some kind of explanation. Plus, I just really need to go to a nice, big house right now, sit on a couch that costs more than my car, eat some overpriced Whole Foods kale chips, and watch like sixteen hours of reality TV.”

  I nodded. Jackie’s parents had followed her from Barstow (yes, they were that kind of parents), where they’d owned like half the town. They lived in an intimidating mansion out in Brentwood. I could sure understand wanting to be there, instead of here.

  “Hey, say something?” Jackie said. She reached out and touched me on the shoulder.

  “Something,” I said. It didn’t even get a chuckle. “No, seriously. That’s good. You take a break, Jackie. You deserve it. In fact, I’m going to see if I can convince Carey to take off for a while so I can have a ridiculously long shower without worrying about him peeking through the keyhole.”

  “Okay, I’ll be back tomorrow—probably kinda late. Promise me you two won’t do anything … space-whale related until then?”

  “I promise,” I said.

  She squeezed my shoulder, and I squeezed her hand, then she turned to leave. I could hear Carey snoring out on the living room couch. I was thinking of ways to wake him up politely, when Jackie slammed the door behind her as hard as she could.

  You’re the best, girl.

  “Whu fuggin’ Jeezis.” Carey flailed and mumbled in sleep-addled confusion.

  I’d been sharing hotel rooms with the guy for weeks. I knew he’d drop right back to sleep in a matter of seconds unless I moved fast. I jumped up from the bed and hit the ground running. I slid into the living room—socks coasting across smooth wood—and screamed, “CAREY! EMERGENCY!”

  He made more half-conscious noises of concern.

  I stepped forward and slapped him across the back of the head.

  “What?! Damn it, I’m up. What?”