Angel Burn

by L. A. Weatherly

  Willow looked as if she knew how much he missed the old days, when the AKs had all worked together. “Where’s your father now?” she asked. “Is he still an AK?”

  “He’s dead, too,” said Alex. “He died about five months before the Invasion.” He glanced at her, the corner of his mouth twisting. “Hey, aren’t you glad that you asked about all of this? It’s such a cheerful topic.”

  Willow shook her head mutely, looking stricken. “Alex, I . . . ”

  “Come on, this is depressing,” said Alex. He stood up. “So, you want to see my English textbook?”

  She hesitated, trying to smile. “You had an English textbook? I thought you didn’t do normal subjects.”

  “Yeah, let’s see if it’s still here.” Alex went over to a metal bookshelf that stood against one wall. He squatted and scanned the rusty shelves. “Yeah, look. Here you go.” He held up an old Sears catalog.

  Her smile became genuine. “You’re kidding!” She laughed.

  “Nope.” Alex flipped through it. “This was English, math . . . there’s even a map in the back, so we got some geography. Plus the lingerie section was pretty cool. The only girls Jake and I ever saw were always wearing combat gear.” Standing up again, he tossed the catalog back onto the shelf.

  “Were you two the only kids here?” asked Willow. She had turned on the bed to face him, drawing one knee up to her chest.

  “Yeah. And every so often, someone would realize, Hey, these boys aren’t in school. We better educate them! And the catalog would come out for a few days. We liked target practice a lot better.”

  Willow started to say something but abruptly fell silent. They both heard it: a vehicle approaching.

  Immediately, Alex’s expression turned taut, alert. He drew the gun out from the waistband of his jeans. “Get behind the door,” he ordered in a low voice.

  Willow did so without argument, hurrying across the room. Keeping close to the wall, Alex edged toward the open doorway, flanking it on the other side. He listened intently as the vehicle came to a stop. There was the slam of a car door. Only one. Good, he thought, pressing against the warm wall. If one of their friends from the panhandle had somehow caught up with them, then they were in for a surprise.

  Slow, uneven footsteps were approaching; they seemed to hang in the air. At the sound of them, Alex frowned in surprise. If he didn’t know any better —

  “All right, who the hell’s here?” bellowed a familiar voice. “I don’t like unexpected visitors, so you better come on out and show yourself. ’Cause I’ve got a gun, and I am not happy.”

  Alex’s shoulders relaxed as joy and relief leaped through him. “It’s Cully,” he said to Willow. “Cull!” he called through the doorway, putting his gun away. “Cull, it’s me, Alex!”

  Cully was peering into what used to be the rec room, a rifle held at the ready. He wore a sleeveless T-shirt and a pair of jeans that hid his prosthetic leg. At Alex’s voice, he spun awkwardly, surprise overcoming his broad features. At first he simply stared, looking startled . . . and then he started to smile. “Alex? Goddamn, it is you!”

  Leaving the bunkhouse, Alex strode toward him, smiling broadly. He and Cully embraced, pounding each other on the backs. Even after the accident that had cost him his leg, the big southerner was as muscular as ever. Cully squinted his blue eyes as the two pulled apart, pretending to appraise Alex. He shook his head. “You’ve gotten even uglier. How is it possible?”

  “Hey, I’m just trying to be like you,” said Alex with a grin. “Cully, what are you doing here? We thought —” Suddenly he remembered Willow. Turning back to the bunkhouse, he saw her standing in the doorway, watching them with an uncertain expression on her face.

  Cully turned, too. His eyebrows flew up. “Well, looky here,” he drawled. “Who’s this pretty little thing?”

  Willow came forward with her arms crossed over her chest, blinking in the sunshine. “Hi,” she said, lifting a hand. “I’m Willow Fields. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Willow Fields . . . now, isn’t that a pretty name,” said Cully. He glanced appreciatively at Willow’s figure. “You sure have got yourself a looker here, haven’t you, boy? Now, ma’am, what are you doing with this reprobate? He’ll lead you down the road to ruin, I promise you.”

  Alex felt heat creep across his face. “We’re not —”

  “We’re friends,” said Willow. Her smile looked slightly forced. Remembering her concerns about the AKs hating her, Alex wasn’t surprised.

  “Friends,” repeated Cully, nodding his head as if tasting the word. “Gotcha. Well, in that case, why don’t we three friends go and sit down for a while, have something cool to drink?”

  “Great,” said Alex. “You got one of the generators going, then?”

  “Yeah, I’m staying in your dad’s old place,” said Cully as they started down the road. He walked stiffly, swinging his prosthetic leg with every step. “Can’t really be seen from outside the enclosure, even when I’ve got my truck inside.”

  “How come you’re out here on your own, instead of training new AKs somewhere?” asked Alex. “We thought the place was abandoned.”

  Cully’s rifle hung from his hand, moving in time with his steps. “It’s seen better days, and that’s a fact,” he said. Walking beside Alex, Willow remained silent, her arms still crossed over her chest. As Cully spoke, she turned her gaze to him, studying him.

  “As to what I’m doing out here, me and the CIA don’t get along,” Cully went on. “So I’m just holding down the old fort. Somebody’s got to.” They reached the house that Alex’s father had lived in — one of the smallest buildings in the enclosure but the only one offering any real privacy. Cully opened the door and switched on the light. Alex stepped inside the main room. It was like stepping back in time; the place was exactly the same as it had been the last time he’d seen it — the scuffed table and chairs; the beat-up sofa that doubled as a bed. His father’s maps on the wall were still the only decoration, with red pins showing suspected angel locations from over two years ago. The generator hummed faintly in the background.

  “Home, sweet home,” said Cully, propping the rifle against the cement block wall. “So what are y’all doing here, anyway? I had just gone on my monthly supply run; I swear I couldn’t believe it when I got back and saw that so-called car sitting there. Good God, how’d you even get that thing out here without blowing it up?”

  Alex laughed. “It wasn’t easy. I thought we were going to be buzzard food a few times.” He dropped onto one of the scuffed wooden chairs. Willow sat hesitantly next to him, watching Cully.

  “And as for what we’re doing here . . . ” Alex shook his head, not really sure where to begin. “It’s a long story.”

  “Well, in that case we need a drink to help it along,” said Cully. “Lemme see what I’ve got to wet our whistles.” He lurched his way into the small kitchen, humming to himself.

  The second he was out of sight, Willow leaned toward Alex. “Something’s not right,” she whispered urgently, her breath tickling at his ear. “I know that he’s your friend, but —”

  “What is it?” Alex whispered back in surprise.

  She shook her head. “I don’t know! He’s planning something, but I can’t —”

  She sat back quickly as Cully reappeared, holding a bottle and two glasses. There was a clinking noise as he set the glasses on the table. “You’re in luck, my friend, I still got some Mr. Beam. And how about you, ma’am? You up for a drink?”

  Willow gave a small smile. “Just water for me, thanks. Or a Coke, if you’ve got one.”

  “You sure?” He waggled the bottle enticingly. “Old friends and new friends, all together — deserves a little celebration, don’t you think?”

  “No, that’s OK.”

  Cully heaved a pretend sigh. “All righty, let me get you a Coke, then. But we’ll have you cuttin’ it with that bourbon before the day’s over, won’t we, boy?” He winked at Alex and headed into
the kitchen again.

  “What do you mean, he’s planning something?” muttered Alex. In the kitchen, there was the sound of the small fridge opening.

  Willow’s face looked strained. “I’m not sure. He’s glad we’re here, but . . . it’s not because he’s happy to see us. There’s something going on that he doesn’t want us to know.”

  Alex felt unease ripple through him. “Willow, I’ve known him for almost my entire life.”

  Sitting back in her seat, she nodded, her expression far from convinced.

  A few moments passed. Glancing toward the kitchen, Alex suddenly realized that Cully had been gone for longer than he should have been. Then he hated himself for even having the thought. Not looking at Willow, he quietly pushed his chair back and went into the kitchen.

  “Hey, Cully, do you want any —?”

  He broke off. Cully was leaning against the kitchen counter, looking down at his cell phone. “Just textin’ my mama,” he said cheerfully, tucking the phone into his breast pocket. He gave Alex a grin. “Funny how the service out here improved once the CIA poked their nose in, isn’t it?”

  Alex’s scalp prickled. In all the years he’d known Cully, he’d never known him to keep in touch with his family. Hiding his thoughts, he picked up the cold Coke from the counter as they headed back into the other room. “Yeah . . . remember how everyone used to bitch at Dad to move the camp?” He handed the Coke to Willow; there was a hissing sound as she popped it open.

  Cully chuckled as he settled himself stiffly into a chair. “Boy, do I. Folks got a little tired of trying to call base and just getting static. Then here comes the CIA, and boom — we got service!” He poured splashes of bourbon into both the glasses; pushed one across the table to Alex. “So what’s your news, boy? You gonna tell me what’s going on?”

  Stalling for time, Alex took a swig of the bourbon, tasting its smoky burn as it went down. He never drank much when he was on the road — you never knew when you were going to get a text sending you halfway across the country — but back before the Invasion, there had been countless poker games with Cully and a bottle of Jim Beam.

  Alex had never thought, then, that he would ever have reason to doubt the man.

  He gave a casual shrug, keeping his expression neutral. “Nothing’s going on — I just don’t get along too well with the CIA, either. So I thought I’d take a break. Willow and I met in Maine — she felt like taking off for a while, too.”

  “You’re not a runaway, are you, Miss Willow?” asked Cully, propping his muscular forearms onto the table with a grin. He swirled the golden liquid around in its glass.

  “No, my parents don’t really care what I do,” said Willow with a tight smile. “They probably haven’t even noticed I’m gone yet.”

  “Well, I don’t blame you about the CIA,” said Cully to Alex. He drained half his glass in one gulp. “Cell phone service, yes — running an outfit like this, no. Buncha yahoos, if you ask me. What we need is your old man back, God rest his soul.”

  The words seemed to hang in the air as a memory came back to Alex: they had just buried his father out there in the blistering desert, a mound of rough, sandy soil the only marker. Cully had dropped his hand heavily on Alex’s shoulder as they trudged back to the Jeep. I know how you feel, boy, he’d said. I had to bury my mama when I was just a few years older than you. Hurts like hell.

  Now, sitting at his father’s old table, Alex nodded at Cully’s comment — but he could feel the adrenaline surging through him. Cully’s mother was dead. Who the hell had he been texting, then?

  “So what’s your plan?” asked Cully. “You wanna stay out here for a while, show Miss Willow the sights?” He winked at her. “Man, we got some good ones. We got lizards and buzzards . . . coupla coyotes . . . plenty of sand, if you like to sunbathe . . . ”

  Willow’s hand clenched the Coke. “Maybe. I don’t know what our plans are yet.”

  “Ah, you can’t come out here all this way and not stay awhile,” said Cully easily, sloshing another few fingers of bourbon into Alex’s glass. “’Sides, be nice for me to have the company. Gets sort of lonesome out here, and that’s a fact.”

  “Yeah, I bet.” Alex took another swig of his drink, leaned forward on his elbows. His voice sounded like it was echoing in his ears as he said, “So how’s your mom doing?”

  Cully chuckled. “Oh, you know, the old gal’s still going strong — plays bridge like a fiend down there in Mobile. Think I’m gonna have to sign her up to Gamblers Anonymous. Or else take her to Vegas, let her clean up on the slot machines.”

  “I thought your mother was dead,” said Alex.

  There was a beat. Cully’s mouth was still curved in a smile, but the laughter had left his eyes. “No, that’s my stepmama. She died of cancer when I was about sixteen; cut my old man up plenty.”

  Cully’s father had been a Baptist preacher; Cull had often made jokes about how he himself had broken practically every one of the Ten Commandments by the time he was a teenager. Alex remembered him laughing, shaking his head: My poor old daddy, I almost drove him to drink. There he was, a preacher who lived by the good book; had been with the same woman his whole life — and somehow he got a hell-raiser like me for a son. Man, he almost used to cry as he was whalin’ on me with the flat of his Bible.

  The same woman his whole life. There had been no stepmother.

  Hardly able to believe he was doing it, Alex reached for his gun. In one fluid motion, he’d pulled it from its holster and flicked the safety off. He pointed it at Cully. “Who did you text, Cull?”

  A hard wariness came over Cully’s face. He lowered his glass. “Now, Alex —”

  Alex stood up, never taking his eyes off him. “Answer me.”

  Cully’s gaze narrowed; he hefted himself out of his chair. “Alex, bud, there’s some sorta mistake here. . . .”

  “Get your hands up,” said Alex. Cully did so in slow motion. Alex’s eyes stayed locked on his. “Willow, reach into his breast pocket and get his cell phone. Cully, if you move an inch, I swear to God I’ll shoot you.”

  Swallowing hard, Willow pushed her chair back and did so, her hand fumbling in the pocket. She got the cell phone and moved quickly away as she fiddled with the buttons.

  Her face paled. Her eyes flew to Alex’s face. “It says, They’re here. I’ll hold them till you arrive.”

  “You want to explain that, Cull?” said Alex quietly.

  Cully gave a slight shake of his head. “Now, Alex, I’ve known you for a lot of years. Hell, you’re like a brother to me. So you’ve got to believe me when I say this is for the best.”

  Alex motioned for Willow to start toward the door. He snapped up Cully’s car keys from the table and shoved them in his jeans pocket. “What are you talking about?”

  “You,” said Cully. He jerked his head at Willow. “You and that — creature you’ve picked up. Alex, listen to me, you don’t know what you’re doing. The angels say that girl’s gotta go, and so she’s gotta go.”

  “The angels, right.” Trepidation slithered down Alex’s spine. He moved a few steps backward, still holding the gun on Cully as he grabbed up the rifle from where it stood against the wall. He handed it to Willow. “Cully, we kill angels, remember?”

  “Not anymore.” Cully started to take a step forward.

  “Stop right there,” said Alex. “Don’t make me shoot, Cully.”

  Cully stopped. His hands moved in supplication. “Alex, truly, I thought I was doing the best thing all those years, but I was wrong — we all were. You gotta listen to me, boy. The angels have a plan for us. They love us. We gotta do what they say, so that we’re deserving of their love —”

  Jesus, no. Not angel burn; not Cully. Alex felt sick. “What are you really doing out here?” he interrupted.

  “I live here, like I told you. I’m doing the angels’ work, Alex.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  Cully shrugged, his hands still up. “There m
ight be a couple of AKs still left outstanding; if they turn up here, I can hold them till the angels come, to show them how they’ve gone astray. And as for right now — boy, every Church of Angels member in the country’s been keeping a lookout for y’all. I’ve been thinking you might turn up here for days. I wouldn’t have budged an inch if I hadn’t been flat out of food and water.”

  Alex stared at him, his thoughts reeling. A couple of AKs still outstanding? Christ, what had happened to all the rest of them? But he had a terrible feeling that he knew.

  “Who’s left?” he said in a low voice.

  Cully snorted. “No one, probably; I’ve been here for months. Now, I’m begging you, bud: you’ve gotta shoot that thing like they want, before she hurts the angels. Just do it now, and this’ll all be over with. Hell, I’ll even do it for you; just give me the gun. I can tell you’ve got feelings for her —”

  Alex had heard enough. “Come on, Willow. Let’s get out of here.”

  Standing near the door, Willow seemed frozen, staring at Cully with her arms wrapped tightly around herself. At Alex’s words, she turned toward him — and suddenly Cully reached under his T-shirt and yanked out a pistol, aiming it at Willow. No! Alex fired at the same moment Cully did, their shots echoing through the room like the backfiring of a car. Time slowed, sharpened. Alex heard Willow cry out. Cully staggered and fell backward, his gun clattering to the floor; a red bloom of blood burst from his shoulder.

  Alex sprang across the room; time snapped back to normal speed as he grabbed Cully’s gun. The man was struggling to sit up, grimacing as he clutched his shoulder. “Lemme finish her off!” he gasped out. “By the angels, lemme finish her off!”

  As Alex turned back to Willow, his heart constricted; she was sitting slumped against the wall, her face the color of paper. Blood stained her bare arm, and darkened her lilac T-shirt.

  “Willow!” He was at her side in seconds, trying to shove down the pulsing fear as he scanned her slim figure. “Where were you hit? Are you —?”