Raymond walked from the bathroom and entered a side office. He sat on a deep purple Victorian chair, leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Five presidential staff members died the moment the news broke about the west coast incident. Three died from heart attacks, one succumbed to shock. One overdosed herself with Valium.
Those deaths angered him. Their weakness and fear became a black mark on his administration.
He remembered his CIA director. The big man grasped his chest, his face reddened before he collapsed to the thick carpet decorated with the Seal of the President of the United States.
The information came to them in pieces. As CNN reported the Los Angeles chaos on national television, more people killed themselves.
President Wallace ran a heavy hand through his steel gray hair. He wanted to scream and cuss as he read the reports printed on onionskin paper and stamped top secret. One report mentioned a mysterious black cloud above downtown Los Angeles, and monsters falling from the sky. Eyewitnesses recounted angels who fought these same creatures.
Demons and angels became nonsense to him. He surmised a gas line exploded or a hallucinogenic gas attack executed by terrorists disrupted the city.
Wallace ordered an emergency session and told his staff to give him fifteen minutes before they met in the war room. Within those fifteen minutes, he vomited up his fear and did his best to collect himself. He called in his beautician. She powdered his face with enough makeup to strengthen his appearance. Once complete, he left the Victorian chair and headed to the war room.
President Wallace, composed and ready, adjusted his dark blue Brooks Brother’s suit. His deep-set hazel eyes owned dark circles as if he endured a restless sleep. He stopped at the war room closed doors. He nodded towards two Secret Service agents who opened the double doors for their president.
President Wallace entered the crowded room and walked with confident strides to a high backed black leather chair. He opted to stand before the twenty men and woman who comprised his top aides from all the armed forces. Before him sat his presidential emergency team dressed in multicolored uniforms. Medals gleamed off the lights in the room. Their faces, etched with worry lines and tight in fear, revealed how horror ran among them.
“What’s going on?” Wallace said. “And what are those things attacking us?”
General Atkinson stood, his face paled as he held a red folder in one hand. “Sir, at this moment we are trying our best to answer those questions. We are calling up the California National Guard including the 75th Ranger Regiment. The Marines and Air Force are forming up as we speak. The Rangers will take some time to deploy from Fort Lewis, Washington. The Marines are ready to move in from Camp Pendleton.”
“What is the plan? CNN said monsters fought people wearing all white, and these people retreated. Did a gas main explode or some terrorist set off a chemical psychological attack?”
A man stood, dressed in a white shirt, black tie and black pants. Once he spoke, his voice trembled and conveyed what most experienced in the room. “Sir, the report in my hand, reads like some cheap magazine. Angels fighting against monsters in Los Angeles streets must be a hallucinogenic attack with gas.”
President Wallace turned to his scientific advisor. “Tell me, Morrison, what played on the CNN clip? What fell from the sky? The reports sitting before you are from reliable sources on the ground.”
“Maybe the Chinese are attacking us somehow. Give my staff a chance to verify all this apocalyptic stuff. These stories cannot be real.”
A tall brown-skinned woman at the table stood and rolled her eyes at the scientific advisor. “Sir, the Chinese are not attacking us. They are trying to figure out what is going on over here. Their satellite screens lit up as if we are about to launch a nuclear missile against them,” she said. “They are prepared to attack and we reassured them no nuclear attack is about to occur.”
Wallace faced his Presidential Advisor Patricia Jones. “What happened, Jones? What closed off our entire west coast and is making its way here?”
“A Globe Master is up, sir, to answer your question.”
President Wallace nodded. “Put them on.”
Patricia Jones pressed a button on the long table. Bose speakers embedded in the ceiling turned on with high definition clarity. “Sectarian One, you’re a go.”
Colonel Moss Lindsey and his entire crew sat buckled in a BOING 767 AWACS. The AWACS rattled from heavy turbulence as they headed towards the black clouds perched over Los Angeles.
Colonel Lindsey steadied the heavy AWACS controls. He stared at his copilot, Captain Darleen Straton and shook his head. He faced storm clouds before, hundreds. After twenty years as an Air Force pilot, what he faced made him want to retire. The clouds in their path swelled. Lightening flickered like broken fingers within the dark mass they approached.
He blinked his eyes several times and rubbed them. He pointed out the cockpit window at what sat to their front. “What is that?”
She returned his gaze, her face ashen. “Are those people?”
Colonel Lindsey scrutinized the clouds for a solid minute. Twisted bodies appeared amongst the dark clouds. Fear dried his mouth. His heartbeat pounded hard in his ears and for a second his thoughts froze.
“Colonel Lindsey, this is the president speaking.”
“Hello, sir.”
“Don’t rush, colonel. What’s out there?”
“The clouds are breathing, swelling, and bodies are in the clouds, several thousand bodies. All bodies…some are fighting and being ripped apart by things.” Colonel Lindsey tried not to scream. Bodies floated outside the plane’s Perspex window.
Lindsey’s eyes beheld horned beasts, some fat and some skinny. Others moved hunched over. Their figures covered in shiny red liquid, while others scurried about adorned with several arms and legs attached to their forms.
“Monsters, sir,” he said. His tongue became cottony. He swallowed hard to force down his fear. “Sir, I’m going to get in closer, I can’t believe this.”
Colonel Lindsey pushed the controls forward, the AWACS eased ahead and buckled from the tremendous turbulence. Lightening flashed and the bodies became more frantic. They gyrated in horrible broken rhythms. The monsters wore dark grins. Some urged the pilots forward.
Colonel Lindsey sucked in air as the BOING 767 plunged into the black mass spread above the city. The AWACS shook hard from the turbulence, enough to jostle loose machine tightened rivets from the frame. Equipment sparked. An electrical fire ignited somewhere within the plane, filling the interior with its blue-arc scent.
Distant screams joined by horrific moans poured into the plane from outside as they flew deeper amongst the clouds and closer to the crater near downtown Los Angeles.
“What’s happening, Colonel Lindsey? Talk to me.”
“Sir,” he said.
Bodies bumped against the cockpit window. A naked woman hit the glass like a mosquito. She clawed at the thick Perspex, her nails created a high screech, leaving bloody scour marks against the surface. A grinning monster snatched her away. Lindsey broke into a sweat. The strong urge to pull up the plane and escape the madness overcame him.
“Darlene, we’re out of here. Go. Go.”
President Wallace leaned over the table. “Talk to me, son.”
“The bodies, sir. They’re everywhere.” He pulled back on the throttle, the huge turbine engines kicked out its thrust. The plane began its sluggish ascent while battered by sudden high winds. He clenched his teeth. The AWACS struggled upwards and rattled so hard a deep pain throbbed in his head.
A shadow formed before the plane. A rider mounted on a pale horse broke from the black clouds. In one hand, he held a tremendous black shield with a bloody pentagram painted on its front. In his right hand he held a rusty broad sword, the hilt wrapped in a blood stained cloth. The mounted horror drew back the sword and paused as the large plane approached. He swung down, the blade crashed into the cockpit. The AWACS turned into a fireball over t
he city.
President Raymond Wallace balled his hands into fists as distorted screams crackled over the speakers. “Call everyone. I want this thing stopped now. Now.”
12
Joan cleaned her home. She stared at the family portraits lined along the hallway wall. In one, she, Charles and William, posed for a Christmas portrait. Her boy wore his red sweater decorated with brown reindeers harnessed to a sled. His bright smile jumped out at her. Charles, who stood behind them, stared into the camera.
Joan made her bed and ran her hands over the white comforter to smooth out the lumps. Her spacious home appeared neat and perfect. The dishes in the kitchen cabinet placed the way she liked, organized. Her plants, soon to die, sat near the sunniest windows. She cleaned her office, dusted down the desk and computer, and emptied out the trash.
Joan tried to soak her world up and take a few good memories with her on the strange journey she faced. She also fought to hold tight to her sanity.
She stood in the kitchen and inhaled the sweet spicy scents. The oregano, cinnamon, and Spanish paprika created an aroma she loved. She touched a wine bottle perched in its rack, ran her thumb over the rough cork. Her eyes flitted over the rose bushes in the backyard ready to burst open for the spring. They would spill their brilliant pinks, yellows, and reds to the world within two months. She doubted she would be around to enjoy her private spring rose show.
She walked into William’s room and stared at his walls covered in glossy posters decorated with superheroes in various stances. His television stand sat in one corner with his Play Station 4 console tucked underneath and the controllers placed on top. She even made his bed, folded his clothes, and placed them away in his drawer. The room sat neat and clean. Real, she surmised, but not real to her.
Weirdness assaulted her as if she dwelled in another reality she found difficult to grasp. She walked toward his desk covered in toy soldiers. She picked one up and slipped the green plastic soldier into her blue jeans back pocket.
An hour ago they crashed into Los Angeles like a firebomb. The noise floored her, and she took a few minutes to reel in her senses after the shock wore off. Once she crawled to her feet, the name Daisy Lane popped into her head as if her mind opened an old yellow envelope filled with names scrawled on ancient paper. She goaded this angel to leave Los Angeles as quick as possible.
“We will get the chance to battle them, Daisy. But for now run. Run as fast as you can, girl. Tell them all to run for now,” she said to the air.
Joan left William’s room and went into the kitchen to stare out the window. Morning sunlight worked through the clouds fat with precipitant rain. Distant screams rose in her neighborhood. The horrific news worked its way to hometown America, the screams told her so.
Joan found herself unable to sleep once she left the Roaner Building and arrived home. Her conversation with Michael frightened her. Her past life turned into an event she found hard to believe.
She took a hot shower to both clear her mind and relax her enough to sleep. When she stepped out naked and slippery wet, she realized the changes in her body, changes on a scale to rival a Michael Angelo’s sculpture.
Her breasts, still small, became firm and perky. She stretched her arms out before her and smiled at the hard muscles in her shoulders. Her stomach muscles rippled like a washboard, the stretch marks from her pregnancy with William no longer visible. She would miss her stretch marks, a sign she once carried a precious life inside her.
The angel ran her fingers over her diamond-chiseled abdomen. Her leg muscles hardened like a mountain climber and her butt broke its friendship with gravity.
Joan’s mind drifted to her husband’s family. Her adopted parents, long dead, left her with no immediate family to claim as her own. She planned to visit Charles’s parents, her last link to her man and son.
She walked through her home and stepped into the living room. For a few seconds she gazed at Charles and William framed in a picture. She lifted one up, gave the portrait a tender kiss, and returned the silver frame to the coffee table. Joan plucked her iPhone off the coffee table and approached the front door.
Joan opened the door to face a street packed with neighbors in different states. Some gawked at the cloudy skies in huddled groups while others cried. Most stuffed luggage and personal items into cars to flee their homes. She shook her head, closed the front door, and walked through the house and into the backyard.
She thought about her wings and before the thought slipped away, they hung on her back huge and beautiful. With a steady hand, she reached out to touch her left wing.
Her fingers played over the silk soft feathers. Amazement caused her eyes to glitter. She reached back with her right hand and caressed the elbow on her wing covered in white downy feathers.
Joan stretched her wings behind her and admired their strength. She flapped them twice and recalled her childhood. As a child, she would flap her arms like some magnificent bird and leap into the air to land a second later on the grass lost in sweet laughter. Her wings resembled a huge dove. Above her, the clouds sat low and fat with rain. Sunlight began to wink out in the sky.
The loamy dampness in the yard perfumed the air as a cool breeze brushed her face. She turned around to give her home a long gaze.
“Before you go.”
Joan’s wings fluttered, her stomach lurched. She spun around to face the archangel Michael. “What now?” Her breath came out ragged, and her heartbeat quickened from the archangel’s sudden appearance.
Michael tapped a forefinger against his full lips. “Follow me. I almost forgot one last thing.” He spread his powerful wings from behind him and took flight into the air. Dead leaves rustled in his wake, swept up in a tiny dust devil.
Joan admired Michael’s speed and power. Michael took to the air with a controlled burst and smoothness she wanted to master. Within seconds her golden armor covered her body. She deployed her wings. The gray skies packed with storm clouds thickened overhead as she moved her wings to loosen her muscles. She bent her knees, and gave her wings two hard flaps.
Her feet left the ground. She took flight with a powerful burst.
Joan sucked in breath as her body hurtled upwards. The world beneath her dropped away fast. Her house, her colorful rose bushes, her neighbors who stood outside their homes, all miniaturized. Her body jetted skyward like an uncontrolled bottle-rocket.
Up and up she went. Her jump off the Roaner Building’s roof involved an easy downward float. She drove her car home after her talk with Michael. This new method to get around excited her. She needed to stop her ascent and follow the archangel. In short, she needed to learn how to fly.
Joan slowed her speed. By the time she gained control, Georgia resembled a greenish brown carpet beneath her caligae-covered feet. The cool clouds sat just above her head. White lightening flickered behind her. She set her jaw and pressed her thick lips together in concentration.
The angel inhaled a deep breath laced with blue electricity. She dropped towards the earth fast, with her wings out at her sides. Joan pulled her wings back and dove like a hawk from the skies. The speed exhilarated her and pumped adrenalin through her veins as she followed the path Michael left for her.
Joan became a silver flash against the gray rain fattened clouds. Michael raced ahead, southwest over Atlanta. The scene below took her breath. Atlanta, Georgia captivated her. The architecture built to symmetrical perfection blended with the hill country on the city’s edge. Her heart pounded hard in her chest as she trailed the archangel, he, a bright golden streak over the city like a comet. Michael blasted past the CNN Headquarters and dove towards the Georgia Dome and through its roof like a ghost.
Joan closed her eyes and rushed towards the dome. Within seconds she slipped through the roof. She opened her eyes and sped by metal support beams and hot spotlights. Green artificial turf spread out beneath her. She never thought she would ever experience the Georgia Dome from this angle. The flight down from its curved roof
towards the gridiron made her giddy.
The archangel Michael stood on the fifty-yard line dressed in full armor. His sword in hand, every light in the dome gleamed against his golden armor.
Joan landed before the archangel, folded in her white wings. She faced him. He studied his beautiful sword as if to inspect its honed edge. She glanced around at the massive arena. The Georgia Dome remained empty save for a gray haired guard slumped in a seat high above the field.
She reminisced about the games she attended in the dome. The salty hot dogs, the crowd’s fanatical roar and the hot buttered popcorn brought back teary memories. At a game, William once wiped the grease from his tiny hands on her Atlanta Falcons jersey. She missed the ice-cold sting from soda in her throat. She remembered with fondness Charles’s stale beer breath. Memories.
Memories she took for granted and soon may become distant good memories to her and many other people if she did not get her head together.
Michael smiled at Joan. “God ordered me to come down here and make sure you understood how to fight.” He twirled the sword in his right hand. “Do you remember the art, Joan?”
Joan turned away from the guard and focused on Michael’s face. His eagle helmet glowed against the spotlights. “I’m not sure.”
She drew her sword with her right hand, the blade hissed against the scabbard’s leather interior as she brought the gladius out to light.
She readied the Heaven made steel. Her pulse raced so fast her ears started to ring.
Joan began to conjure up the days when she did fight. How many years passed since her last battle? She played her thumb along the jewels embedded in the hilt, purple, and green, yellow, red, and sky blues, along with many others. The Georgia Dome brought back feint memories when she fought in the Roman Coliseum. Ancient bloody battles echoed in her mind just enough to send a fresh chill down her spine.
Angels of War (Angels of War Trilogy Book 1) Page 5
