Conspiracy of Angels

by Laurence MacNaughton

  “Oh. You’re right. Only for how many years?”

  Geneva rolled her eyes. “Look, guys, I’m going.”

  “No, just wait.” Mitch held out a hand. “Bryce, listen—”

  “I’m not doing this again. If you get convicted of anything, I am not rotting here in podunkville for you. I don’t care if they build a Micro Center across the street with its own Starbucks. That’s it. I quit.”

  “Bryce.”

  “What?” Bryce folded his arms.

  Mitch squinted up at him. “Are you gonna please, please, just gimme some aspirin? And a beer?”

  Bryce opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He shut his mouth again and walked into the kitchen. He knocked something, it sounded like the toaster, onto the floor. Apparently that wasn’t loud enough, so he emptied the dish rack with a crash.

  Mitch turned to Geneva. “You can see we like to settle disputes logically around here.”

  She nodded once. “Look, you’re going to be okay.” It wasn’t a question.

  “You going to tell me what that thing was that clobbered me? Or am I going to have to track you down again?”

  “You won’t find me.”

  “Want to bet? And if I can find you, I’m sure your friends in the van won’t be far behind.”

  “They’re not my friends.”

  “You don’t say. Not sure exactly what clued me in. Maybe the AK-47.” He took the cold pack off, thought better of it and settled it back on his head. “You can let go of the gun. I’m not going to hurt you. Neither is Bryce.”

  “It’s not you I’m worried about.”

  “What, you think that thing will come crashing in here?”

  She didn’t say anything. Just glanced around at the windows. All the shades were closed.

  She looked a little shaky, like she’d gone through too much adrenaline and was about ready to fold, despite the tough act. Her shoulders were hunched under her leather jacket. Her knees were shaking a little. She was about stretched to the limit.

  He took a closer look. Her jacket was too big for her. The way it hung on her, she’d been wearing it a long time, and Mitch was willing to bet she’d gotten it from someone special. Her makeup was harsh and dark, like she was using it as a defense against the world. He hadn’t noticed that before, the first time she’d been here.

  “Geneva. You want some coffee or something?”

  She looked at him with sad eyes. God, she was too young to have eyes like that. When Mitch was a kid, his next door neighbors’ son had come home from Vietnam with that same look. Shoulders hunched, eyes sad and distant like that. Maybe a month later, the guy put a gun to his head, didn’t even leave a note.

  Geneva said, real quiet, “Coffee would be good.”

  Mitch swallowed, not sure why he had a lump in his throat all of a sudden. To cover it up, he called out to Bryce, “Hey, when you’re done having your feelings hurt, you want to brew up some coffee? Please?”

  Bryce didn’t say anything, but Mitch heard him moving around the kitchen, and nothing else hit the floor.

  Geneva eased the blinds back and peeked out the window. The light fell in a jagged line up and down her face. They listened to Bryce making coffee.

  “Bryce makes that fancy Starbucks stuff. You know, with the steam machine. Stuff costs a fortune. Me, I’m more a Taster’s Choice kind of guy. I told Bryce, maybe he should take up smoking crack or something. It’s cheaper than that coffee.” He didn’t know what the hell he was saying. All he knew was, he had to get the girl talking. He was afraid she’d walk out, into the light, and disappear forever. And nothing would get answered. Right now, he needed answers more than anything. “So. That thing in the junkyard. You gonna keep this all to yourself, or what?”

  Her eyes flicked over to him and then away, the only part of her that moved. It was a quick look, gone a second later, and then she was staring out the window again as if she hadn’t heard him. But that look was enough to tell Mitch she was used to keeping secrets. Softly, she said, “They call it the Archangel.”

  Like the project. It took him a moment to make the connection. “What the hell is it?”

  She considered it before she answered. “No one knows for sure. There are a lot of theories. About why it’s here. What it’s after. It’s been after me ever since it killed my parents, and Jocelyn. And now it’ll come after you.”

  THIRTEEN

  Geneva cleared a spot on the kitchen table, pushing aside newspapers and stacks of bills. With both hands, she set down the black box. The surface of it seemed to absorb all light, like a square chunk of shadow sitting in the center of the scratched wood.

  Mitch put down the cold pack and sat at the table. He checked out the box, looking at one side, then another. It was too black to look real. No reflection of light at all, like some kind of optical illusion. The thing gave him the creeps. “What the hell is it?”

  “I don’t know. Michael seemed to think it was pretty important. It’s advanced technology, whatever it is. The Archangel showed up right after Michael took it out of its case.” Geneva sipped her coffee. “Now that I think about it, a long time ago Michael said the Archangel was after a box. I don’t know why.”

  Mitch turned the box over again. “Must have a good reason. So this Archangel, is it smart?”

  “Cunning, more like. But it’s highly camouflaged, it’s fast, and it likes to kill. Whatever it wants the box for, it’s not friendly.”

  “I got that impression. You don’t know where this thing, the Archangel, where it came from?”

  She shook her head. “If anyone does, they’re not telling. I’ve seen a couple old classified memos talking about a Department of Defense project called Archangel. Michael even had satellite photos of a laboratory near the White Sea.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Russia.”

  Mitch sat back in his chair. “So everybody’s after this thing.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe the Archangel’s after everybody.” Geneva put her hand on top of the box. “People have been fighting the Archangel for a long time. Since before I was born.”

  “Well, that’s not saying much, kid.”

  She narrowed her eyes for a moment, then let it pass. “Far as I can tell, the Archangel is some kind of relic of the Cold War. There was a Russian experiment. It didn’t go so well. Wiped a whole town off the map. Then the Americans tried it.”

  “And?”

  “And what do you think? Boom. Now there’s a secret organization trying to cover everything up. They’re not an official part of the government. I don’t know who they are. Michael always called them the Conspiracy.”

  “Who’s this Michael you keep talking about?”

  She sighed and looked down into her mug. “I think I could use a refill.”

  “Bryce is the only one knows how to work that espresso thing. And he went upstairs to work. You don’t want to bug him when he’s doing his computer thing, trust me.” Mitch folded his arms. “So. Who’s Michael?”

  “It’s complicated. He’s a little older than me.”

  “Your boyfriend?”

  “Well, when someone holds you at gunpoint, it kind of kills the romance.”

  Mitch thought about that for a second. “The guys in the van?”

  “That was Michael, Gabe and Raph. I don’t know what happened to them. Or Arthur.”

  “Arthur, short round guy? Scar?” Mitch pointed to his eyebrow.

  Geneva nodded.

  “I don’t think he made it.”

  Geneva shook her head, leaned back in the seat.

  A faint scraping noise came from the back yard, making Mitch’s pulse quicken. He got up and pulled the little chain that opened the hanging blinds over the sliding glass doors. His barbecue grill sat where it was supposed to be. Nothing else was back there but tall weeds and the broken limb of the apple tree. The neighbor’s porch light glowed on the far side of the fence. In the darkness outside, everything was quiet.

  �
�What is it?” Geneva got to her feet.

  Mitch shook his head. “Nothing. Just jumpy, is all.”

  Geneva froze for a moment, listening, then grabbed the black box. “Where are my goggles?”

  “You dropped them after you zapped me. I gave them to Bryce to play with. Why?”

  She didn’t answer. Just darted out of the kitchen, through the doorway and up the stairs, taking the black box with her.

  Mitch stared after her for a second, then back outside. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. But just to be safe, he went into the living room and got the twelve-gauge out from behind the raincoats in the hall closet.

  He closed the closet door. A flicker of movement outside caught his eye. A gaunt shadow streaked through the yard and paused at the edge of the patio, dropping into a crouch. Silvery eyes stared though the glass door at him.

  Mitch’s blood ran cold. He brought the shotgun up to his shoulder and fired through the glass door. He realized a split second too late that he’d aimed too low and hit the grill’s propane tank.

  The explosion shook the house. Flames blasted broken glass and wreckage through the kitchen and into the living room. Mitch jumped over the sofa, tipping it onto its back. Smoking chunks of wood pelted the carpet. Burning newspapers fluttered through the air. Blue-and-orange flames rolled across the ceiling.

  Mitch peered over the sofa. The kitchen was gone, nothing left but toppled cabinets and oily flames. A figure stalked through the wall of fire, oblivious to the blistering heat. Inhumanly tall and thin, clawed arms spread wide, tines spreading out from its back like the bones of wings.

  It spotted Mitch and blurred into motion, too fast to see. It came at him with teeth shimmering.

  A pure white beam of light sliced through the room. It speared the Archangel, revealing a flash of its ropy body. The creature screeched and leaped back, claws bared.

  Geneva crouched on the staircase, goggles covering half her face, her pulser braced on the banister. She fired again. Bolts of hot white energy twined with twisting sparks of color. The Archangel screeched again and leaped back, vanishing into the flames.

  Mitch scrambled to his feet, kicking aside broken dishes, a chair, cushions from the couch. It was like someone had picked up the whole house and shaken it.

  “We’re leaving,” Geneva said. “But I can’t find your brother.”

  Mitch didn’t hesitate. He went past her, taking the stairs two at a time. He ran down the hall to Bryce’s room, breathing hard.

  All of the computers were dead, screens dark. The action figures were scattered around the floor, still holding their poses, only now they looked like they were writhing in pain. Smoke swirled in the air, lit up by a shaft of yellow light from the streetlight outside. Mitch coughed.

  He checked the bathroom. Empty. “Bryce?”

  He charged down the hall to his bedroom. As he turned the doorknob, a gunshot blew a clean round hole through the door.

  “Bryce!” Mitch jumped back. “It’s me, for chrissakes!” He kicked the door open, shotgun ready.

  Bryce squatted in the corner behind the bed, holding Mitch’s .45 with both hands.

  “For the love of God,” Mitch said, “where did you learn to shoot?”

  “Nowhere.”

  Mitch looked at the hole in the door, about a foot from his head. “Good thing.”

  Geneva came running down the hall, out of the smoke, hair flying. “Run!” she yelled. “I lost track of it!”

  “So you came back here?” Mitch backed up next to Bryce. “Where the hell do you think we can go?”

  “Don’t you have a fire ladder or something?” she said.

  “I look to you like the kind of guy who has a fire ladder?”

  “What’s going on?” Bryce’s eyes were round with fear. “Why is the house on fire?”

  Mitch swept the shotgun across his nightstand, scattering lamp, clock, old mail onto the floor. He shoved the window open. Outside, the roof sloped away, giving him a view of the front yard and the street. It looked like a long drop, but there wasn’t any choice. He grabbed Bryce. “Go! Onto the roof.”

  Bryce shrank back. “What? Out there?”

  Somewhere in the house, the Archangel screeched.

  “Right.” Bryce squeezed out the window. Geneva helped him, then climbed out after him.

  “Here!” Mitch handed her the black box. He turned and aimed the shotgun at the doorway. The shadows moved. He wasn’t sure if the thing was out there, but he fired anyway, blasting holes through the wall.

  “The hell with this,” he said under his breath. He climbed out the window.

  His breath steamed in the cold drizzle. His boots gripped the wet roof shingles for the first few steps, and then his feet shot out from under him. He slid to the edge and fell, pulling the thin metal gutter off with him. After a gut-wrenching moment of weightlessness, he landed in the bushes. Branches snapped beneath him. He fought his way out of the juniper and onto his feet.

  Geneva was running for her Cougar with the black box tucked under her arm. She was leaving, Mitch realized. Taking the black box and splitting. How could he not have seen that coming?

  Bryce stood dumbfounded in the middle of the front yard. Mitch followed his gaze and saw the flickering shadow of the Archangel scrabbling across the roof toward them.

  “Get down!” Mitch charged. He’d never make it in time.

  Bryce turned to run. The Archangel bounded to the edge of the roof and leaped at him. It shimmered in the air, like a heat wave on the horizon. There was nothing Mitch could do to stop it.

  FOURTEEN

  Mitch watched the blurry silhouette of the Archangel, sharp wings outstretched, swoop down toward Bryce in a deadly arc. He planted his feet and brought up the shotgun, trying to get a bead on it. He could barely make it out against the night sky.

  A shaft of light lanced out, spearing the Archangel in midair. For a split second, Mitch thought he saw the thing’s true form bathed in the light of the pulser. But the image didn’t take, as if his mind blanked it out, the way trauma victims can’t remember things too disturbing to see.

  Then the Archangel screeched and tumbled to the ground just behind Bryce. Instantly, it leaped away, shrinking fast into the distance. It glided over parked cars and a FOR SALE sign on somebody’s front lawn. Then it was gone.

  Geneva stood next to the Cougar, the goggles covering half her face. She aimed the pulser after the Archangel, tracking it into the distance.

  Mitch ran to Bryce. “You okay? Bryce? You okay?”

  Bryce bent over, his hands on his knees, wheezing. He looked up at Mitch. “What was that thing?”

  “Hell if I know. But that’s the second time it’s tried to kill me.”

  “You?” Bryce said. “What about me?”

  Geneva walked over to them, the lenses of her goggles glinting in the light of the fire. She pushed them up onto her forehead. “I think it checked out the house before it attacked, then tried to divide us up. It wants the black box. It’ll be back.”

  “We gotta find out what that box is,” Mitch said.

  “Dude, no way,” Bryce said, straightening up. “Nothing involving a black box is ever good.”

  Mitch watched his house burn. The smoke filled his nose. The flames roared out through the gaping windows, scorching the siding, spitting sparks and ashes high up into the night sky. Things popped and shattered inside the house.

  Up and down the street, people came out of their houses, pointing. Couples talked and hugged each other. Some people turned around and went back inside. Most just stood there and watched. Sirens grew in the distance.

  Mitch tried to think. He had to do something, and do it fast. He looked down at the shotgun in his hands. No wonder nobody was coming running to help. He was standing there in front of a burning house holding a twelve-gauge. Probably none of them even knew he lived there. If anybody had a video camera, he was going to end up in the news.

  Bryce wiped at his eyes, and Mit
ch put an arm across his shoulders. “Hey, buddy. I’m sorry.”

  Bryce blinked up at the house. “What do we do now?”

  “Geneva and I are gonna go after this thing.” Mitch said it before he’d even thought it through. “But first, we get you someplace safe.”

  “Dude. You can’t tell me what to do.”

  “It’s too dangerous.”

  Bryce turned to face him. “Staying home wasn’t exactly a safe option, either. Where am I supposed to go?”

  “Give us a minute,” Mitch said to Geneva.

  “You hear those sirens?” She backed up toward her Cougar. “When they get here, I’m gone. You’ve got one minute.”

  “Just wait.”

  She held up her watch and tapped it with one finger.

  “Fine.” He led Bryce over to the Toyota, parked in the driveway. Bits of white ash fell around them like snow. He opened the trunk and started throwing things out onto the ground. Empty grocery bags. Jumper cables. A nasty old blanket he’d forgotten he even had.

  “What are we going to tell the cops?” Bryce said.

  “Nothing.” Mitch pulled the spare tire out and rested it on the edge of the trunk. “You remember I told you never to get rid of this tire, no matter what?”

  “Yeah. One of many weird requests.”

  “There’s a reason.” Mitch got the tire iron between the rubber and where it met the rim. Grunting, he pried on it until the rubber popped up over the edge. He dropped the tire iron and got his fingers in the gap, pulled as hard as he could. “Here. Give me a hand.”

  Bryce came around and picked up the tire iron, got it in the gap between Mitch’s hands, and pushed. The hard rubber gave away, slipping up over the edge of the metal until Mitch could fit one of his hands inside the tire, then both.

  He found the square edges of the plastic-wrapped bundle inside. The tape made a hollow scritching sound as he peeled it off.

  He pulled the block of hundred-dollar bills out of the tire and unfolded the plastic. He thumbed out a thick stack and shoved it in his pocket. He handed the rest to Bryce.

  Bryce held the money out at arm’s length, like he thought it would bite him. “I’m not even going to ask where you got this.”