by Eve Hathaway
The intoxicating aroma of fried chicken-real, crispy, spiced, fried chicken, something else she hasn't tasted in three years-cool and creamy cole slaw, buttery biscuits and gravy-make her mouth water. Gabe opens one container, finds a drumstick, takes a bite. Melinda piles the food onto her foam plate, ravenous. Caleb merely watches them. It unsettles her, that he doesn't eat, but she decides not to press the matter. He's probably just not comfortable with eating human food, she thinks, and hopes that he'll get hungry enough to be curious if they just leave him be.
"So what's the plan now?" Gabe asks, tossing the bone aside and taking up a wing this time. The meat is tender, slipping off the bone like butter on a hot pan.
Melinda opens her mouth to say something, only she realizes that she has no plan. Escape from the compound has been the only thing that has mattered to her for three years. She puts a piece of gravy-drenched biscuit into her mouth, and chews, thinking about it. "I could live with you," she says, pitching it like a question.
Gabe shakes his head. "You can't-you know that. It's not decent. And I don't love you like that, kid."
"I'm fifteen," she says. "They were going to marry me. Fuck decency. And yes, you do."
Outwardly, the world hasn't changed that much in three years. Gabe still has the surfer-boy cut he sported when she first introduced herself to him and his mother. "I'm Melinda Perrera," she'd said, thrusting a tin of cookies that she'd baked at them. "We're going to be neighbors." He was nice to her, the way a big brother might be. When he took her to the movies, he held her hand through the scary parts, but she kept on holding it after they were over. He never did more than that, though. "My little kid sister," he sometimes said, laughing as he mussed her hair. He thinks I'm still that little girl, she realizes.
Inwardly, though, a great deal has changed-in her, and perhaps in him, too. No, not yet. "No, I don't," he says, now, but he swallows, and she can sense the terror in his voice-it had literally never occurred to him that she would grow up, that he could love her like that. "You-" he falters. You're more of a sister to me. The words hang in the air, unspoken because he suddenly realizes that they're no longer true. Her certainty frightens him, as does the jumbled mess of his feelings about her.
"You need to do something about your hair," he says. The dodge works. Melinda is mildly annoyed that he's changed the subject, but he's right-her hair is still coiled up in the elaborate system of braids that the women of the compound wear. It would identify her in a heartbeat. He reaches into the bottom of one of the paper bags and pulls out a cheap pair of hair shears.
"Well, come on," he says, going into the bathroom, where the greenish lighting makes everybody look faintly dead.
The women of the compound cry when their hair is cut-it's how the elders choose to punish relatively minor sins, like not keeping an immaculate house-but for her, it's a relief to see the chestnut-brown locks fall away. In the terrible lighting, Gabe does a horrible job-in the end, she has to trim her brand-new bangs herself-but the pageboy look will keep people from staring. Her features are very regular, utterly unremarkable-olive skin, large hazel eyes. Just another pretty, poor girl, with a DIY-haircut and thrift-store clothes.
"What's with the angel, anyway?" Gabe asks, watching her as she smoothes the jagged fringe of her hair.
"You can see them, too?" That's the other reason she likes him so much. When she told him that she could see them, he didn't automatically say that she was crazy, like so many other people did. He merely nodded, and listened. He didn't believe her, not then. But he does now.
"No, but I kinda assumed, after what happened last night," he says, leaving the sentence unfinished. He leaves the bathroom . She keeps snipping, concentrating on keeping her hand steady.
"Um, Melinda?"
"Yeah?"
"Where is he?"
She feels a lump form in her throat, and fights back a wave of nausea as she goes to confirm what she's inexplicably terrified about: the bed where Caleb was curled up on is empty. The silvery aura, the wall of flames-she doesn't exactly believe in being able to see the future, but right now, she has a very bad feeling that something terrible is going to happen.
"We have to find him," she says, after a long silence.
"Why?"
She looks at him, her heart starting to race. She's about to say, "We just do, I know it," when, in the distance, an explosion lights up the horizon. She points at the fireball. "That's why."
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Chapter Five
Hunter Green always hated his name. It was so stupid, being named after a color, though he supposed it was slightly better than "Red" or that baby that had been in the news recently-"Blue Peony" or something like that. Still, he'd put up with it for forty-three years, until one day his wife had laughingly referred to him as "faded" and he went out and changed his name, bought a 1984 Cadillac Eldorado with a hard top, cashed out his retirement savings, and just kept driving. He was now, according to his driver's license, Grendel Weiss, a name which suited the monstrosity of suburban life he'd escaped, and the meandering way with which he was now making his way across the country, beholden only to gravity and the fuel gauge.
"You have such a wonderful life," his co-workers would sigh, when his wife and children would show up at TruLife's corporate functions. And it was true, there wasn't really anything to complain about: his wife managed the household well, his kids were well-behaved even as teenagers, their house was paid off, their cars worked, and they still had sex. But it wasn't his life he was living. At work, he was constrained by the intransigence of both upper management and labor regulations; at home, his wife would nag at him to pick up his shoes and walk the dog and mow the God-damned lawn, for Chrissakes. He'd kept, in his desk drawer at work, legal pads filled with sketches of worlds he'd imagined; creatures both real and fake. In the garage, during his precious minutes when he didn't have anything to do, he worked these images into clay sculptures, the beauty and the terror in the final product surprising him. "Artist wages don't support a family," his wife would say when she saw him scraping at the clay. Now that he was on the open road, he wondered what took him so long to leave.
He's eating asphalt on Route 40 through Oklahoma, with the top down and Bon Jovi blasting on the tape deck, and thinking about what to do when he gets to California. His chin is scratchy-it's been nearly two weeks since he drove out of the dealer's lot, and in that time he hasn't shaved at all. He glances at his reflection in the rearview mirror-he looks like a dirty old man, the kind of guy that leers at young women on the subway. That won't bode well for job prospects out there. And he'll need a suit or something. Maybe find a small art house studio where they could use someone to do design. He'd have to bluster his way in, but he'd worked selling insurance for twenty years-bluster was what he did. But what he would never again do is work in an office. Ugly fluorescent lighting, good-bye.
He's feeling the mild buzz of the three beers he had at the pizza joint a few miles back when he sees him, or her-a boy, he thinks, but the hair is too long and kids these days were now gay and trans and all kinds of nonsense. Whatever happened to the good old days, when you sat down and shut up and did what you were told? Spoiled, the lot of them.
Still, the kid is alone, and even though he's feeling mildly cantankerous, there's enough of his father-instinct left in him to feel sorry for the kid. Never know what sort of shit he'll run into out here, especially now that it's getting dark, he thinks, as he pulls over. "Want a ride?"
The kid-it's a boy, he's sure of it now-merely looks at him, and blinks slowly. "I'm heading west," he says quickly, getting a little nervous. "Don't worry; I'm not a pervert or anything." As he says that, he realizes what he must look like: slightly drunk, unshaven, in a convertible where the floor is littered with fast-food wrappers and receipts, trying to pick up a kid walking down the highway. If that doesn't scream "pervert", I don't know what does. "Really," he adds, as if that would help.
/> The kid considers it for a moment, cocking his head. Then he moves to get into the car. The kid's movements seem a bit off, as if he has to consider every motion before he can execute it. Then again, what did Hunter-Grendel-the name took some getting used to-Grendel know about kids? True, he was a dad, but really it was his wife doing the kid-raising. He was just the allowance-dispenser. As he pulls back onto the highway, he smiles at the kid, his beer-addled brain trying to come up with passable small talk. "So... where ya from?"
The kid shrugs. He's pale; his hair so blond it's almost white. He's dressed in a pair of jeans and a red t-shirt, but no shoes. Grendel wonders how long he's been walking. The pizza joint was a good 20 minutes ago by his speeding car, and the next town isn't due for another thirty miles.
"You got a name? I'm Grendel." It pleased him to hear how natural it sounded, coming out of his mouth. Grendel. He could see himself shaking hands as he spoke it.
"They called me Caleb."
"Caleb's a cool name," Grendel says, relief washing over him. The ice has been broken, the hard part done. "Old-fashioned, but modern."
"My name is not Caleb."
What the hell am I supposed to do with that? Grendel wonders. He glances next to him. The boy seems faded, somehow-translucent, almost. I must be more drunk than I thought, Grendel thinks, and slows the car down to the speed limit so that he doesn't get pulled over.
Or, at least, he tries to.
He wants to lift his foot off the gas, but instead it pushes the pedal to the floor. The engine roars, and he watches in horror as the speedometer ratchets above 100, then 120, and then hits 140, but still they are careening faster and faster. Hunter Green is acutely aware of both the impossibility of this and the reality, but he's helpless to do anything about it. The car crests a low hill, soaring into the air. Hunter gasps in amazement as they glide over the wheat growing on either side of the highway, and for a moment he's enraptured by the sensation of true freedom and flight. But only for a moment, because the car bursts into a fireball. He's not aware of being vaporized.
Chapter Six
Melinda doesn't have much hope of finding anything as they get closer to where they saw the fireball. It's only a few miles, but how could Caleb have gotten so far-he's an angel, of course he can go as far as he wants-in such a short time, and what is he doing?
"I thought angels were supposed to be good," Gabe says, as he drives towards the smoke.
"Apparently not all of them are," she says, shortly. "I don't know-he was in such pain-"
Singed wheat stalks indicate that they are getting close. The asphalt smolders-Gabe puts the Jeep into four-wheel-drive again and turns off the highway, onto the soft shoulder. They begin to crunch over things. Melinda leans out the side-there's just enough light left to see that Gabe has driven over a Cadillac emblem. Apparently this is all that's left of the car.
"I think we're here," Gabe says, cutting the engine. They've stopped at the edge of a scrim of whitish dust in the shape of a vague circle. Melinda steps out of the Jeep. There's nothing except melted asphalt, burned wheat, and scorched earth. She feels a sense of disappointment creep up on her. What were you hoping to find?
"Maybe he went up in flames, too?" Gabe suggests, as he joins her.
"No," she says, closing her eyes. She feels the earth under her feet, and fills her lungs with the bitter scent of burning asphalt and dirt. What are you doing, Caleb, she thinks. There's no response. Not that she expected one.
She shuffles through the dirt, aimless, and afraid. How could she have been so wrong about him? She tries to remember her first impressions of him when the farmer who found him brought him before the elders-yes, he was definitely an angel. He had the aura-which was oddly pale, even then, but she hadn't thought anything of it-and the ethereal wings of smoke that she had seen on the others.
Melinda can sense Gabe watching her, and she turns to look at him. He's got a worried look on his face as he leans against the Jeep. If you don't love me like that, you certainly worry like you do, she thinks. "I can't-I don't know why I expected to be able to get anything from this," she says, sweeping her arm at the ring of devastation around them. "I don't know why we should even bother-" The frustration, exhaustion, and terror of the last twenty-four hours finally catches up with her and she crumples to the ground, balling her fists and pressing them against her eyes.
-A wide expanse. A string of lights on the starlit horizon. A road.
She jerks to a sitting position, frantically looking around her to see what's changed. Her legs, in the cutoffs-the dirt-she plunges her hands into the dirt, and the vision that she saw comes back to her, details flooding her mind. The cool, dry air. The mountains in the background. The worn paint on the road, the trees popping up in the background. It's not just a string of lights, it's a city. A sign on the right. A name.
"Gabe," she shouts, as she stands up. Gabe flinches-he is a lot closer to her than she thought. She grimaces an apology. "I know where he's going. He gets stronger with every person that he kills. We need to hurry." She begins running back to the Jeep. Then she realizes that Gabe isn't keeping up.
"What is it, now?" she asks.
"Well," he says, coughing into his elbow. "You saw what he did to those cult members." She nods. "And you see this smoking crater. Forgive me for being a little cynical about how enthusiastic he's going to be to see us."
"He won't hurt us," she says, but even as she says it, she wonders about it. Would Caleb know her as the one who saved him? Would he accept that he owes her a favor? Doubt tickles her mind. Up until now, she's been feeling her way through this whole matter, but now Gabe has injected a modicum of sense and rationality into the mix. And the sensible thing to do would be to call the authorities, let them deal with Caleb. It would be nice, she thinks, to let him be someone else's problem. And then she realizes how tired she still is, because it's a full five seconds before she realizes what a stupid idea it is.
"He might not be glad to see us," she says. "But what are we going to do? Call in the National Guard?"
"I dunno, can't we like, find a demon to take him down or something?"
She almost punches him for that. But then she reminds herself that Gabe can't see them. He has no idea what they look like, the things they can do. To him, the forces they are dealing with are probably no scarier than the imaginary monsters kids have under their beds. She's seen one, she wants to tell him-on her last Halloween, she'd gone trick-or-treating with her friends, and was on her way home. It was late, and then all of the streetlights started flickering. She froze, stupid girl that she was. It was pure luck that the creature she saw-a snake-like thing, black as an oil slick, with the head of a dinosaur with sixteen glowing red eyes and a gaping hole for a mouth-was not a particularly intelligent demon, nor a hungry one. A body with a fading golden aura struggled feebly from its mouth. She's never mentioned it to anyone.
"Demons-they're not like-you can't just talk to them," she sputters.
Gabe shrugs. "If you say so," he says.
"Besides, I've got no idea how to catch one, or how to make it do what I want. And they look nothing like those cartoon devils you see, with two stupid little horns and a trident."
"So what do they look like?" Gabe asks, as they get into the Jeep.
"Scary," she says, in a tone that says "this conversation is over". Gabe glances at her curiously.
"I saw one," she says, finally. "It was-"
She's interrupted by Gabe's pants playing Nickelback. He takes out his phone, swipes it. "Jess-hi... yeah, I was just going to call you."
Chapter Seven
Melinda doesn't know whether to be amused or to strangle him. She knew, intellectually, that after they took her away there was no indication that she was ever coming back, and that Gabe probably would meet someone new. On the other hand, he did follow her directions, driving three-hundred miles east, to rescue her, and buy her Coke. And he looks absolutely ridiculous when he's trying to explain to his real girlf
riend why he's in Oklahoma with another girl. Still, the sting of having been replaced surprises her with how strong it is, and as Gabe stammers out one implausible lie after another, she feels a knot grow in her throat. Eventually, he hangs up, looking distinctly unsatisfied.
"Look, Melinda, I'm sorry. I meant to tell you. I just-I just never-"
He gives up. They drive in silence for a while, while she absorbs the shock of realizing that Gabe has a girlfriend. And then she realizes something. "You lied to her."
"What?"
"You lied to her. You said you had some family business."
"Yeah, so?"
"You drive three-hundred miles to save me, but you lie to your girlfriend?"
Gabe slams on the brakes. They skid to a stop on the shoulder, and he puts on his blinkers. "Fine," he snaps. "What do you want me to say? That you're more to me than a kid sister?"
"It would be a start," she says, sullenly.
"When they took you away, it was like you'd died," he says, his voice strained from holding back tears. "We had so much fun together, remember?"
She laughs, in spite of her tears. She remembers, as he does, the state fairs they went to, picking apples, going fly fishing. "Riding the Ferris wheel," she says.
"Corn dogs and funnel cakes," he replies.
"Winning that giant stuffed dog."
"Second place in pie-eating."
Gabe starts the Jeep again, checking his mirrors even though the highway is abysmally empty. He takes them back to the motel, where they eat the last of their dinner and watch some more Law & Order. It's a disturbing episode, one that's a bit too close to their situation-a sixteen-year-old girl going out with an older man, and the detectives trying to charge him with rape-and Gabe turns off the TV and looks at her from his bed. "Her name is Jessica Meyers," he says. "She's pre-law, in my class at Lincoln."
For some reason, it upsets her more to hear that he has a life that doesn't include her, than it does that he has a girlfriend. She burrows under the blanket on her bed, trying to think of what it all means. All she can think of to say, though, is, "We need to head to Vegas tomorrow."
