Trials

by Kady Cross

  “An angel,” Carl whispered.

  Ella didn’t believe in God—or angels. Or at least she hadn’t. But that thing looked like an oversized man. If a man burned with a halo of pure energy. If a man had wings, glittering wings, outspread, feathered and massive, yet still looking lighter than the clouds. And the man, the angel, carried an aura of power so strong she could feel it on her skin like acid, foaming and burning deep; she could taste it when she breathed; the energies blistered like flames, burning like pepper in her nose and on her tongue.

  “Let’s get closer!” Carl started to jog, his camera still high. Ella followed, uncertain, knowing she was almost forgotten. Falling behind, fighting the fear that was suddenly so strong, so solid and precise.

  As she watched, the angel reached to his side and grabbed a sword. He held it aloft, its blade a gold so pure and bright that it captured the sun’s rays and threw them back at the sky.

  Carl stumbled, his breathing harsh. Ella caught up. The angel turned and looked at them. Right at them. Something warm and wet splattered her face, her arm. Startled, Ella looked away from the angel, to her husband of four days.

  And she took a half step back, away. She blinked hard, her eyes gritty. Carl was covered in sores—red welts. Some were erupting, bleeding. Her fingers caught her lips. Hot flesh against too hot flesh, fevered. Her arms were blistered, burning. Bleeding. “Carl?” she whispered.

  The angel began to speak. “In the Name of the Most High God, I bring a message and judgment. You were given all that you might desire: all the wealth, all the beauty, all the ease. And the Most High blessed you. Yet you turned your back on your fellow man. You turned your back on the Most High, questioning His existence—denying the existence of the Creator God!” His voice rose to a roar, “In His name do I curse you. I curse this city and all who dwell herein. I curse you!”

  Ella turned away, and took a step, a single faltering step, before she lost her balance and fell, sideways. It took a long time to fall. In her lost, last moments, her lungs filled. Blood spluttered from her mouth. She was still conscious when she hit the ground. Pain. Blood. Eyes so hot they burned.

  From the ground, she watched Carl slide slowly down, blood spreading through his clothes like scarlet sweat. He dropped the camera. It bounced, landed facing the Tower and the Angel of Death who still stood atop it, his sword of judgment raised, as he cursed the Earth.

  Finding the Way

  5 PA / 2017 AD

  Misty Massey

  Grog’s head was aching, as if a load of bricks had been thrown at him, one at a time but every one with deadly accuracy. Light wormed under his eyelids, sharp as a paring knife. The Angel—was it back? He hadn’t heard the tones, but the light was relentless. “No,” he groaned. “I can’t hear you. I won’t hear you.” He rolled over, pressing himself closer into the wall. It was Grog’s time to rest.

  Something hard nudged against his ribs—the toe of a boot. “Get up, brainchow. You can sleep somewhere else.” Hands gripped his arms, yanking him to his feet. Men in dark blue jackets crowded the filthy room, yelling that everyone was under arrest and hauling people off the floor. The one holding Grog turned his stony face toward the rest, but his hand was a vise on Grog’s elbow.

  Grog blinked in confusion. “You’re not the Angel,” he said.

  “Nope, buddy. I’m your worst nightmare if you give me any shit.”

  Nightmare . . . Grog seemed to remember what that word used to mean. A dream, from which you could wake up. Pastor Daniel had promised he’d be all right once he awakened into his new life. Promised that the signs he was carving into Grog’s skin wouldn’t hurt for long, that the dust he rubbed into the wounds would transform him into someone special.

  But like everyone else back then, he hadn’t known anything. None of them saw the Angel, heard its voice, felt the call. They knew enough to scream, though. Scream and scratch and bleed and run away. Only Grog was left, untransformed and alone.

  The lawman had nothing to fear from Grog. No point in fighting for his freedom, not when it wasn’t really lost. One, two, buckle my shoe, and through the wall he’d go, out of danger and harm’s way. Not yet, though. Wait until he was in the car, before they pulled away to lock him up. Better yet, let them take him to the station. It usually took so long he could snatch a couple more hours of sleep, maybe even a meal, out from under the unrelenting gaze of the sun. Once he was fed and rested, he’d slip out at twilight, before the moon took the sun’s place hunting for him.

  “Spread ’em,” the lawman ordered, shoving Grog against a wall and slapping at his pockets. He found the worn leather wallet and opened it. He snorted an ugly laugh.

  “The brainchow has ID. Go figure. Gordon Grove, huh?” Without waiting for an answer, the lawman slid a cold metal handcuff onto Grog’s right wrist, then pulled it down and brought it to meet his left. Both hands cuffed behind his back, Grog let the man march him outside. The midmorning sun burned Grog’s eyes.

  “Watch your head, Gordon,” the man said, pushing Grog into the confines of the waiting van. The door thunked closed.

  “Grog,” he muttered, sliding his body as far down the seat as he could, into the minimal shade. “Gordon’s gone.”

  Other people were already inside the van, some groaning, others quiet. They’d gathered in the crack house to share the escape of whatever drugs they took to forget the horrors of the world around them. They didn’t care if one more muttering loonie hunkered down in a corner with them. Not that sleep was easy in places like that. Grog was continually being awakened from one ungentle sleep or another. It was still better than letting the sun find him. The signs the pastor had carved into his skin…they burned like acid when he was out in the open. So he was always on the lookout for somewhere to stay hidden.

  The only trouble with the junkies was the risk of being rousted by the law like today. That many vulnerable people in one place was too tempting for devil-spawn, and the law didn’t like it. Ah well, he knew the process. They’d drive him to a police station, make a record of arresting him, maybe even give him food. When he was a kid, the police used to put people in cages for breaking the law, but since the Plagues began, there weren’t enough police left to watch the cages, and no one saw much of a point to holding anyone. Before long they’d kick him out, to start the whole thing over again. With any luck, it’d be twilight by then.

  He pressed himself against the wall of the van and closed his eyes, singing to pass the time. “Sting a ling a ding ding,” he thought, “sing praises to the Most High for hurting us so. Lay still, it’ll only hurt forever.”

  The ride lasted a minute, or maybe all day. Grog really wasn’t sure how time worked anymore. Then the door was opening, and he was being hustled out of the van. They were parked under a metal awning, right outside a concrete-block building. Graffiti covered the walls, bright-colored pictures of winged creatures with fangs tearing into screaming people, and the words “Shoulda known,” and “How’s that guardian angel look now?” in between. He tilted his head, curious. Had the painter seen real angels when they descended? His Angel hadn’t looked like these at all, but since his Angel was a much more terrifying beast, Grog decided the painter was only guessing.

  “In the door. Move it, move it.”

  They shuffled down a short hallway and into a large room filled with desks, although most of them had no one behind them. Chairs were lined along the wall to his left, under a long bulletin board filled with photographs and postings that had probably been out-of-date a year ago. It reminded him of the “Most Wanted” posters he’d seen in the post office as a child.

  “Sit in a chair, and wait ’til we call you.”

  Grog sat down. His stomach growled, and he wondered if he should bother asking for food, or just wait to see if anything was offered.

  “Gordon.” Someone kicked Grog’s feet. “Get up.”

  They never seemed to understand that Gordon was no longer around, that Grog was all that was left ever
since the Angel chose him. Grog followed the lawman to a desk. He turned Grog around and released one hand from the cuffs. Pushing him back forward again, he waved at the chair. Grog sat, and the lawman locked the empty cuff to the arm of the chair.

  “Let’s see,” the man said, as if any of what he did was important. “Name is Gordon Grove. I’m guessing you don’t have an address, huh?” Grog shook his head. The man reached into a box on the desk and took out Gordon’s wallet. He flipped it open, peering at the old driver’s license in its plastic sleeve. “Says here you live in Atlanta.”

  “Gordon did,” Grog said. “He’s hiding. In a cloud. The Angel chased him away.”

  Other people were performing the same dull ritual at other desks around the room. There was a soft hum from the lights on the ceiling, and the irritating scritches of pencils on paper. And something else, another sound. A series of tones, notes chasing each other up and down a line. Almost familiar. Like trumpets. He squinted, trying to shut out the sights around him so he could listen more closely.

  “Okay, brainchow, I’ll play. Is Gordon’s date of birth November 3, 1995?”

  “Happy birthday to you, you live in a zoo,” Grog sang, then frowned. “No, that’s not it.”

  “That’s not your . . . uh, Gordon’s birthday?”

  Grog shook his head. “It’s his birthday.”

  “Look, if you’re gonna answer every question both yes and no, this’ll take all night.”

  “Didn’t. The birthday’s right, but the song is wrong.” He rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Baa baa black sheep, have a pizza pie . . . nope.”

  The lawman tapped his pencil against his temple. “Lucky me, I get the weird one.” He wrote something down, then took a deep breath. “Next question. What was Gordon doing in the old Moore House? Scoring a hit? Or sleeping one off?”

  Grog knew he was supposed to answer, but the sound distracted him. He turned his head, trying to determine which direction the sound came from. “Can’t you hear it?”

  The lawman sighed. “I don’t hear anything.”

  It was getting louder, more distinct, as if whatever made it was far away but coming closer. It couldn’t be, could it? After all this time . . . was the Angel singing at last?

  A woman carrying a clipboard walked up to the lawman’s side. “Hey, Martin, you got a minute?”

  The lawman let his pencil fall to the desk. “Anything to get me out of this,” he said. He pointed at Grog. “You, stay here.”

  They stepped away and spoke together quietly, the lawman occasionally glancing over at Grog. Grog didn’t care. The sound was becoming music, the tones sounding more like a voice with every second that passed. But if the Angel was singing, that meant he wanted something. Grog had nothing left to give.

  He began to pick at the dead skin at the edges of his fingernails. Somehow the Angel could find him here. He couldn’t stay, even if they planned to feed him. He needed to find somewhere dark and unpleasant, somewhere like the junk house. Somewhere the Angel wouldn’t think to look for him.

  A woman in the waiting area sobbed, calling out someone’s name. The lawman nodded his head and returned to where Grog was waiting. Grog rattled the still-cuffed wrist.

  “Time for me to go,” he said.

  “That’s right, Gordon. You’re getting out of here. Someone’s come for you.”

  The lawman worked for the Angel? Grog’s head spun in confusion. “No, no, no,” he said, his voice shaking, “Not special. Not different. Just like everyone else.”

  “That’s as may be, son, but at least you have people who care what happens to you. Your guardian.”

  “Guardian angels watch do keep, but that’s not the kind of angel who looks for me.” Grog pulled at the cuffs. The sound was loud enough now that everyone should have been able to hear. “The Angel makes everyone tear out their hair and scratch their eyes. There’ll be blood and bits on the floor.”

  “You saw that happen?” The lawman shook his head. “Sorry, kid. Rough break, for sure. Anyway, it’s your pastor who’s here to get you.”

  Pastor Daniel. He hadn’t seen the pastor since the day the Angel came. The day the pastor’s boys held Gordon down on the big altar, and tore his shirt open. The day the pastor cut Gordon’s skin in patterns, while Gordon cried. Poured the powder of crushed stones into the wounds while Gordon screamed. Rubbed them, Gordon’s blood staining his fingers, until the powder stopped the bleeding and left raised scars all over him. Because he loved Gordon, he said. Because he believed Gordon was meant to be the one to bring them all back to God.

  The congregation had watched, listening to Gordon’s agony and singing hymns loud enough to drown out his shrieks. And when the Angel at last appeared, singing his mighty song that only Gordon could hear, they’d all gone mad, hurting themselves and each other before running out of the church and into the darkness.

  “He made Gordon the symbol,” Grog muttered. “Gordon never wanted that.”

  “Yeah, well, symbol or not, you’re leaving with him.” The lawman scratched at the corner of his eye with the point of the pencil, leaving dull gray marks on his skin.

  The Angel’s song thundered in Grog’s ears. He closed his eyes, fearing what was to come.

  “Gordon.”

  Pastor Daniel stood next to the desk, smiling down at Grog. His hair was pure white where it had once been brown—thanks to the Angel? The skin around his blue eyes bore scars, and his smile displayed missing teeth. Despite his looks, he radiated strength and wisdom. For an instant, Grog wanted to follow him, do as he said, believe what he told him.

  “Gordon, I’ve been so worried for you, son.” He turned to the lawman. “We were baptizing Gordon and he became frightened. He’d seen his mother die during the Plague of Insanity, and the stress of being committed to God was too much for him.”

  The lawman nodded. “Yeah, he told me. Poor kid.” He dragged the pencil across his temple and down to his ear, running the point of it along his ear’s inner curves. “Nice that you’re here to help him.”

  “I’m taking him home, where I can keep him safe.”

  The Angel’s song was deafening. A woman at another desk was pulling out her hair, slowly, one strand at a time. Another scratched her wrist viciously, scowling as she dragged her nails along the length of her arm, turning her skin bright red. One of the men who’d ridden in the van with Grog rolled off his chair onto the floor, banging his head against the concrete again and again.

  The lawman’s face twisted into a grimace. “I just . . . I need . . . you have to sign . . .” he began, but instead of handing the pencil to Pastor Daniel, he slid the point into his ear canal, pushing slowly even while he whimpered in pain. Blood ran down his jawline. With a howl, he snapped the end of the pencil off and fell to the floor, shuddering. The woman with the clipboard cried out, and ran over to help, while the pastor raised his hands to the sky, shouting a prayer.

  Time to go. Grog needed to leave the cuffs behind. Only one way to achieve that without the key. It was something he’d learned to do after running from the Angel. He didn’t know how it worked or why, and he never liked to do it when people might see. But this was an emergency. If he stayed, the Angel would drive all the people to death, and it would be Grog’s fault.

  Taking a deep breath, he held it an instant, gathering all the reality of himself into the breath, then let it out. His body lightened, becoming soft as a summer cloud. He cautiously lifted his hand—if he moved too quickly, his clothes would fall off, too, and he didn’t want to spend time dressing again. The cuff fell away, clinking against the arm of the chair. With a blink, he let his aspect solidify once more.

  Chaos was growing. Blood was flowing. The woman with the clipboard threw herself at the pastor, climbing him and spitting in his face. The pastor fought to free himself, all the while shouting Gordon’s name, but whether he wanted Grog to help him or obey, Grog couldn’t tell. Not that he intended to do either thing. The Angel had come, which made it t
he last place Grog wanted to be.

  He grabbed Gordon’s wallet off the lawman’s desk. It was the only thing that was still Gordon’s. If Gordon ever came back, he’d want it. Without a backward glance, Grog ran out the door he’d come in, slamming it open hard enough to bounce it off the wall.

  Three young men were waiting on the sidewalk, and the biggest one grinned on seeing Grog. He stepped forward, spreading his arms wide as Grog skidded to a stop.

  “Gordy!” The young man grabbed for Grog, catching hold of his arm. He pulled him close, wrapping him up in an embrace. “We’ve been hunting for you.”

  Pastor Daniel’s sons. The ones who’d held Gordon down so the pastor could cut him and hurt him. They had laughed when Gordon screamed. Shadrach, the oldest, squeezed his arm tight around Grog’s shoulders. Meshach and Abednego weren’t laughing now. Their faces were dark with anger.

  “Gordon is gone,” Grog said, struggling against Shadrach’s hold. “The Angel has come and I have to leave.”

  “You’re not going anywhere.” He released Grog, shoving him against the other two brothers. They surrounded him, closing in so tight that Grog couldn’t move.

  “Dad’s so happy,” Shadrach said. “He’s had us out looking all over the place for you. ‘Can’t go on without Gordon’, he said. ‘We need the symbol’, he said. ‘The only way to convince the people to follow us is to show them the boy’.” He slid his fingers into Grog’s hair, and pulled it tight, yanking Grog’s head back and forcing him to look up. “Maybe now he’ll shut the hell up.”

  “Language, Shad,” Meshach warned. “Dad’ll be out here any second.”

  Shadrach rolled his eyes, but he didn’t loosen his grip on Grog’s hair. He leaned close to Grog’s ear. “All this symbol crap is nonsense. You know it. You brought that crazy down, made my dad nuts. If it was up to me, I’d bash your head open against a brick wall and leave you for the flies.”