“Abundantly, my lord.”
Wondering what in the hell I’d just witnessed, the echoing sound of a faint yet familiar voice calling out from somewhere in the deep corner of my mind caused the surreal vision to blur.
“Please tell me the phrase ‘Stick around’ isn’t about to come out of your mouth.”
“What?” I gasped, instantly snapping back to reality only to find Rooster and Erin standing alongside me in the Dreghorn.
Glancing downward at the impaled giant flailing around like a harpooned whale by my feet, he said, “You know, stick around? Because you kind of drove a big ass stick through that anakim and he’s kind of stuck to ground.”
“Oh, right. Frigg’n hilarious. Don’t quit your day job.”
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You sure? You look like you just saw a ghost.”
“Not a ghost. An asshole. Actually, it was two assholes.”
“Come again?”
“Never mind.”
“Right,” he muttered, shooting me a suspicious glare.
“That was quite a performance,” Erin chimed in, evidently commenting on my anakim slug fest.
“You saw that, eh?”
“The whole thing. Smack talking and all. I always knew you could fight but — damn. That was—”
“Unnatural. I know. Comes with the cloak.”
“I was going to say awesome.”
“Awesome is better. Let’s go with that. Now, not that I’m not happy to see you two but what the hell are you doing here?”
“Well, for starters, you’ve been here for hours. It’s like four in the morning.”
“What? It’s Saturday morning? Son of a bitch. I must’ve lost track of time.”
“You sure you’re okay?”
“I already told you, I’m fine. Just needed to blow off some steam before my trip to Paradise City, which is evidently not in paradise nor an actual city. Whooping up on giants is surprisingly therapeutic.”
“While you’re at it, I’d also recommend spending a little more time on your one liner material. Just saying.”
“Whatever. Is Stephen back?”
“No. No word yet. And the clock’s ticking. T minus seventeen hours and counting, until—”
“Don’t worry,” I muttered, secretly wondering what the hell was taking him so long. “He’ll be here.”
“Hope you’re right.”
“Of course I’m frigg’n right. This is Stephen we’re talking about. So, what else is going on?”
“Nothing good.”
“Meaning?”
“For starters, it’s basically widespread global panic fueled by every flavor of conspiracy theory blasting twenty-four-seven across all media outlets known to man. Seems that everyone’s trying to wrap their heads around how the entire world’s leadership was decimated in a single attack carried out by giant men.”
“What’s the prevailing theory?”
“Well, depends on the media source and the agenda they’re trying to push but it’s kind of a running stalemate between ecoterrorists, aliens, mutated super soldiers, and your run of the mill ‘end of days’ scenario. Although, I have noticed that ‘end of days’ resulting from alien ecoterrorism carried out by mutated super soldiers is gaining some traction with some of the more radical cliques.”
“Christ,” I grumbled.
“Yeppers. It’s a general dystopian shit show, and steadily devolving by the minute. What’s left of the world’s military is trying to enforce martial law, and there’s even rumors of ‘robotic soldiers’ popping up in random places.”
“Robotic soldiers? You wouldn’t have anything to do with that, would you?”
“Me? No. I haven’t built a robot since the late seventies. Shut it down after it developed a British accent and started making better beer than me.”
“Right,” I grumbled. “Well, any progress on locating Azazel’s new hideout?”
“Not as of yet. The entire Guild is mobilized — all seven realms. We’re sweeping the Earth with everything we got.”
“Well, thanks for that more than depressing report,” I said unsheathing the spatha, “Now, if you two don’t mind, I’m going to get back to taking out my frustration on simulated oversized miscreants until Stephen shows up.”
“Actually, I do mind,” Erin said with a detachable hint of annoyance. “In the event you’ve forgotten — Mariel said you would train me on the various species of nephilim.”
“It’s kind of a bad time, Doc.”
“Tough shit. I’m not giving you any opportunity to go off and get yourself killed again before I get any useful information out of you.”
“Ouch.”
“And, I can’t help if I don’t know what I’m up against.”
“Help?” I scoffed. “You mean fighting? Look, I know you’re tough as nails but I’m not so sure that’s a good—”
“Do you want me to kick your ass in front of Rooster?” She said, bowing up to me with all of her five foot two petite frame.
“Ah, no,” I said, somewhat comically looking down at the top of her head which barely reached my pecs.
“Then let’s do this.”
“Okay. Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Sweet,” Rooster chimed in. “Nepher 101?”
“Evidently so,” I grumbled, jumping backward as my skewered gigantic buddy swatted at my feet apparently reminding me he was still there. “First we need to get rid of Moby Dickhead.”
“Allow me,” Rooster said, glancing upward. “Please end the simulation, sweetie.”
“Combat simulation concluded, Cleric O’Dargan,” the disembodied voice of Skyphos responded as the anakim instantly vanished in a flash of brilliant light. “And please refrain from calling me sweetie.”
“Who the hell said that?” Erin asked.
“I said that, Doctor Kelly,” boomed from the ether.
“Doc, meet Skyphos,” I muttered. “She’s our eye in the sky, so to speak.”
“Is she like a super computer or something?” Erin asked in a whispered voice.
“I am neither a computer nor a ‘something,’ Doctor Kelly,” Skyphos answered, rather amenably. “I am Skyphos of Galgalin — an ophanim class angel of Tenth Heaven and the sentient eye of the Guild.”
“I’ll explain later,” I whispered back to Erin. “Just say hi and don’t piss her off.”
“Got it,” she replied. “Ah, hello, Skyphos. It’s very nice to meet you.”
“Thank you, Doctor. The pleasure is most certainly mine.”
Turning her attention to Rooster, Erin said, “So that giant wasn’t actually real? It was one of the battle simulation things you were telling me about on the way here.”
“Yeppers,” Rooster affirmed. “Although simulation is a bit of an misnomer. Leveraging some Skyphos tech that powers the arena, we’re able to create fully autonomous physical constructs of each and every class of nepher that’s ever laid a cursed foot on God’s green Earth. Closest thing you can get to the real thing without actually having to fight the real thing.”
“That’s freaking cool.”
“Right up until one of the bastards hits you in the mouth … or runs a claw along your face … or whacks you with a big-ass sword,” I grumbled. “Then it’s not so cool.”
Ignoring my commentary, Erin simply gazed in awe around the vast, white stoned structure completely devoid of people.
“And this place — it sure as hell looks like the Coliseum but something tells me we’re not in Rome.”
“No. No we’re not,” Rooster replied. “Technically, we’re somewhere on the far northern border of the Seventh Realm of Third Heaven.”
When Erin had absolutely nothing to offer in response but a blank stare, Rooster added, “We call it the Dreghorn. It’s where we train — and occasionally drink … excessively. It may not be in Rome but it is a full scale replica of the actual Coliseum. As it appeared in the—”
<
br /> “Second century I’m guessing,” Erin said, rather matter-of-factly studying the mind blowing architecture.
“That’s right,” Rooster acknowledged, rather impressed. “I knew I liked her.”
“Yeah, well,” I grumbled, “Don’t like her too much. I may get whiny and have to hurt you.”
“Whiny?” Erin asked.
“Yeah, never mind. Back to Nepher 101. You sure you’re ready for this?”
“I spent three years in Bosnia, another fourteen fending off drunk Bostonians, and I’m now standing with my undead boyfriend in a fake Coliseum somewhere in Third Heaven,” she replied. “Not sure anything else could surprise me at this point.”
“I’m your boyfriend? When did that happen?”
“Really?” She said, in a manner that made me instantly regret asking.
“Real smooth,” Rooster grumbled.
“Right,” I muttered, making the mental note that regardless of the fact I could slay unnatural giant beasties without breaking a sweat, I evidently still lacked the ability to coherently converse with women. “Let’s get started. But first, you’ll need a weapon — or several.”
“Got that covered,” Rooster chimed in, unslinging the olive drab duffel bag from his shoulder and placing it on the ground.
“Thanks, but I’m good,” Erin replied, pulling back her black leather jacket to reveal a shoulder holster strapped over her rather delightfully tight, royal blue tee shirt. “Brought my own.”
“Damn, Doc,” I said, eyeballing the apparent short barreled .44 Magnum. “Does Dirty Harry know you stole his hand cannon?”
“Not sure,” she shot back. “Does Darth Vader know you stole his cape?”
“It’s not a cape. It’s a cloak.”
“Not that it’s not a good look,” she said, giving my combination of arcane black cloak, white RoosterBragh tee, faded Levi’s, and scuffed up jungle boots a curious once over, “But you’re like a pair of tights away from being a low budget comic book character.”
“Oh snap,” Rooster said, fully enjoying the brow beating.
“Thanks for that,” I grumbled. “Now, if we can kindly move off the topic of my wardrobe and get back to business—”
“Wardrobe?” She happily scoffed. “That is so not a wardrobe. It looks like you raided Rambo’s dirty laundry then mugged a Jedi knight on the way over here.”
As Rooster heartily chuckled in the backdrop, she added, “And when’s the last time you had a haircut?”
“What the hell’s wrong with my hair?” I grumbled, running a hand through the atypical shaggy poof on the top of my head.
“Nothing at all — if you’re going for the ‘creepy older guy in a nineties boy band’ look. If not, I’d highly recommend a trim. And you should probably get reacquainted with a razor at some point in the near future. That scruff on you face is—”
“Okay, Doc,” I griped, “I get it already.”
“And this would be him being whiny,” Rooster said.
“Whiny,” Erin acknowledged. “Got it.”
“I’m gonna punch both of you,” I muttered. “Really frigg’n hard.”
“Back to Nepher 101?” Erin quipped, with a shit eating grin.
“Yes. Please,” I replied, rather snidely. “First thing you need to do is get rid of that six shooter. It’s useless.”
“Like hell,” she said, pulling the stout pistol free of its holster. “This thing will stop an elephant dead in its tracks.”
“Maybe so. But we’re not hunting elephants. You’ve entered a world where weapons of man won’t do shit beside piss somebody or something off.”
“He’s right, Erin,” Rooster added.
“Is that a fact?” She said, cocking the hammer and pointing the Magnum at me. “So this bullet won’t have any effect on you?”
“None at all,” I replied, with an air of confidence. “Go ahead. Try it.”
As her mouth curled into a mischievous grin, she then proceeded to squeeze off a round and blast me square in the damn chest. Although the bullet slammed into the cloak and harmlessly disintegrated, the complete and utter shock factor of being shot at point blank range caused me to topple backwards and awkwardly fall on my ass.
Making the mental note that I just lost a gazillion cool points, I said, “See. Told ya.”
“Impressive,” she muttered, lowering the revolver and offering a hand to pull me up. “I stand corrected.”
Quickly getting back on my feet and dusting myself off, I said, “Ah, for the record — You just shot me.”
“Did not.”
And there was just something about the way she said it that made me not want to argue the point any further.
Chapter 8
“Yeah, I totally shot you,” Doc said, holstering her hand cannon.
“And?”
And when she offered nothing further than a content smile, I muttered, “Okay, so that happened. Moving on then. Rooster?”
“Yeppers,” he said, grinning ear to ear as he fished through his duffel bag. “Understanding that Erin seems to be more proficient with hand guns versus rifles and figuring the need for concealment and stopping power was more of a priority than stand off distance — I’ve put together the following ensemble.”
“How exactly do you know that about me?” Erin asked.
“They have files,” I replied. “Very — detailed — files.”
“That’s awkward.”
“You have no idea.”
“And the first offering,” Rooster said, trying to move the conversation along, “Is a pair of semi-automatic Heckler & Koch USP Compacts with twelve round magazines of .45 caliber, barzel tipped rounds. I’ve also taken the liberty of decking them out with some snazzy tac lights.”
“Barzel tipped rounds?” Erin asked, as Rooster slammed home a magazine and handed her one of the pistolas.
“Barzel is the metal of Heaven,” I said. “Created in the angelic forges and pretty much the only thing that makes a divine being say ‘ow.’ So please think twice before shooting me with one of these, eh?”
“Behave yourself and we shouldn’t have an issue,” she replied, eagerly grabbing the sleek gat and balancing it in her hand. “It’s got a good weight to it. I’ve never seen a tac light like that before though. Looks like something out of an old Star Trek episode.”
“That’s a little something new I’ve been working on in my lab,” Rooster boasted. “You’ll find that anakim have a sensitivity to bright light so this little puppy allows you to hit them with a focused ray of spectral radiation and temporarily blind the bastards. All in all, it emits a beam equivalent to roughly a million lumen per square foot.”
“Is that a lot?” I asked.
“Ah, yeah,” he scoffed. “It’s basically like staring at the sun — If it was an inch from your face.”
“Does it frigg’n work?”
“Of course it works. I mean, it should. Initial test results were very favorable.”
“Sweet,” Erin said, as I made the mental note to not be standing anywhere in the general vicinity when she tried it out. “How do I turn it on?”
“The pistol grip acts as a pressure switch that’s perfectly calibrated to your hand strength and contour. All you have to do is squeeze it a little tighter and voilà — Rooster Ray.”
“Rooster Ray,” I muttered. “Good grief …”
“Excellent,” Erin replied, ignoring my snideness. “What else you got for me?”
Handing her the other H&K accompanied by a slick looking dual shoulder harness, he reached into his bag o’ tricks like a little demented Rooster Claus on Christmas morning.
“Okay, so aside from fire power — you’re gonna need some cutlery. Bullets will slow nephers down but the only way to truly end them is to cut their heads off. Standard issue is a barzel sword but I figured something like this would be more your style.”
Pulling what looked like a serrated machete from a black sheath, he handed it to Doc with a shit eatin
g grin on his face.
“Oh hell yeah,” Erin said, upon accepting the oversized steak knife and flicking it around like a seasoned zombie killer.
“That’s disturbing on many levels, Doc,” I muttered, taking a healthy step backward to avoid being eviscerated. “Where the hell’d you learn to do that?”
Giving me a ‘Shut the hell up’ glare, she turned to Rooster.
“Anything else?”
“One more,” he replied, more than pleased that his handiwork was being appreciated. “Check this out.”
He then proceeded to hand Erin a pistol belt laden with several small cylindrical containers held securely in velcro pouches.
“Is that a utility belt loaded down with cans of mace?” I asked.
“Kind of,” he replied. “But much, much cooler.”
“Here we go,” I grumbled, figuring I’d just opened the door for a bloviation opportunity.
“By combining some fringe elements of epigenetics, molecular biology, and elemental alchemy, I created a nasty little anti-nepher serum that I concentrated and weaponized using a high velocity aerosol delivery system.”
“Let me guess,” I said, taking another step or two backward. “Rooster Spray?”
“Rooster Spray? Come on, man,” he muttered. “It’s called Nepheralyzer.”
“Because that’s so much better.”
“What does it do?” Erin asked pulling one of the canisters from the belt.
“Well, as the name so cleverly implies, it temporarily paralyzes any and all type of nephers on contact — at least that’s the theory.”
“And how exactly does it do that?” I asked, more than a bit skeptical. “In layman’s terms, please.”
“Simply stated, it essentially alters their hybrid physiology for a good couple minutes by ossifying muscular tissue and fusing it to their skeletal structure.”
“So it basically induces fibrodysplasia ossificans progressiva,” Erin said like it was common knowledge.
“Exactly,” Rooster replied.
“Fiberdiswhat?” I asked.
“Fibrodysplasia,” she said, like I was a total dumbass. “It’s a very rare genetic disorder in humans caused by a mutation of the body’s repair mechanism resulting in the ossification, or extreme hardening of fibrous tissue when it becomes damaged.”
Wrath of the Fallen: The Guild of Deacons, Book 2 Page 6
