On Black Wings (25 page)

Colonel Becks walks up and shakes the hand of the guard. “Black ops, security penetration team, with the four-five. We saw the crash and aborted our penetration attempt.”

“We weren’t told you guys would be here until the end of next week,” the guard says. “We got the message yesterday about the drill, and we were waiting to go over it in our weekly-”

“You honestly believe they told you that with a straight face?” Becks smiles at him. “We’ve been out here all night and couldn’t find a way in, as far as I’m concerned, this installation passes, and I’m not having my men caught out here during a possible terrorist attack.”

“Terrorist attack?” The guard looks around, up at the wafting smoke trail, and back at us.

“All over our net, NSA and otherwise,” Becks nods. “We need access to the base to report into the commander and await orders.”

“I’m sorry sir, we are on lock-down.”

Becks leans close, pointing at the smoke trail over the base. “Possible chemical agent. You need to suit up, and we need to get to a safe area. You either let us run one-hundred yards to the base HQ, or we have to run five miles down that road unprotected. Call your people, sound the chem alarm, and let us through.”

We’re waved through and the guards at the post get suited up in protective suits. My wings are wrapped in a large black blanket, and I’m pretending to carry a bedroll or something slung over my back. The chem alarm is triggered, and it’s even worse than the base’s general alarms, a high pitched squeal that is discernible from the general alarm.

One of the guards at the gate points at me. “Miss, miss! What is that on your back?”

I turn to him and salute. “Rubber raft. My turn to carry it!”

I run after the others as I hear another guard saying. “A girl?”

I have this feeling this isn’t going to work.

Thankfully, we’re not stopped as we reach the main building. We’re all out of breath and covered in sweat, but we make it across the building’s parking lot and up to the large red doors as they are hustling people inside.

Past the white metal building is the ocean, beautiful and blue, the sky dotted with soft blue clouds. Two helicopters hover over the impact site far over the ocean.

“Inside! Inside!” The man at the door shouts, wearing a gas mask.

Azrael stops in the parking lot, and points towards the beach. “He’s coming. Seraph Jessica, we must go face him!”

Colonel Becks stops near me as the rest of our team mixes in with those running inside. “Are you going to go?”

“I don’t want to.” I nod. “But I have to. If he destroys this place, we won’t have any hope of stopping him. I will go hold War off while you guys get in and setup the launch. How long do you need?”

“Forty-five minutes,” Becks says as he winces, “you think you can hold him off?”

I peer out over the scrub and dunes. “Five to get to the beach, plus however long it takes him to get to shore, what, twenty-five thirty minutes at most?”

“The launchers,” Becks says, pointing off to the east, where a large white spherical fuel tank looms, “over those dunes. Keep him away from this building, and those launchers. If you can.”

He looks at me, gives me a half-smile, and then hugs me. He speaks with his face in my hair. “You remind me of my daughter. I miss her.” He backs away. “Good luck Blackbird. It was an honor.”

I smile and give him a salute, turn, and run after Azrael as fast as my feet will carry me.

CHAPTER XXXIX:

Destiny Calls

Azrael stands beside me, his sword drawn, his shirt pulled off, and the wind blowing sand around us.

I stand next to him, my sword drawn, my wings catching the wind, my hair flapping in the gusts.

We watch the surf for any signs of life.

It’s a beautiful day, the California surf rolling in, the seagulls hovering in the air, and the smell of the ocean intoxicating me. A giant billow of steam on the horizon breaks the tranquility. Three helicopters circle the impact site out on the ocean, and four boats are joining in the search for survivors.

Only there are none out there.

The sole survivor’s head pokes out of the surf, his body steaming with anger, his eyes as hateful as I remember them, and his gaze burning me down, my head feeling as if it would explode from the rage of his visage.

“Calm yourself Jessica!” Azrael shouts. “Calm yourself, do not feed into War’s rage, or he shall consume you with his fury! Make yourself at peace to fight him!”

It is one of the hardest things I have ever done. I am so afraid. My free had is shaking, and I am covered with a cold sweat.

I think of my family. I think of home. I think of all the people I have helped. The children. The priests at the church. I steel my will against his rage with the pure thoughts of peace and love, narrow my eyes, and clear my mind.

It works.

I see a hateful man, eyes burning in rage, hair a fiery red, wearing only a loincloth and bits of armor, walking out of the surf. He carries a glowing sword, his muscles tense, his hatred fueling his walk out of the sea and onto the beach. Steam hisses and pops off his body, as if the man was made from liquid fire.

He growls an animal growl, deep and bestial, hateful and full of rage.

“War!” Azrael shouts. “Rage has consumed you! Calm yourself and return to the Kingdom of Heaven for your judgment!”

“You know nothing, fallen Seraph.” War’s eyes narrow, burning with hate, the heat seething off his body in waves of anger. “For I am the lord and master of this world, its masses worship me even more than they do their so-called God.”

He spits the last few words out, and I tighten my grip on my sword. How do I deal with this? Like most people, I feel powerless in War’s presence. His entire body, the armored gloves, the towering perfectly-sculpted form, the twist of hatred to his sinew, it all projects an air of inevitability and a relentless march towards death.

“I know this can’t go on, you will destroy this world!”

“Baby Seraph.” His voice is low, gravely. His hands wrap around his sword hilt, his knuckles white, the veins on his arms filling with heated blood. “Answer me this. Does this world deserve better? It’s people beg for me, kneel before me, and lust for me. I consume and dispose of them as I wish, and they willingly give themselves to me as my mindless slaves.”

I hate it, but he’s right. All of a sudden I feel hopeless and alone. I shift my stance on the sand, and glance over at Azrael.

Azrael nods, and looks at War. “Beast, scion of destruction! You grow drunk with power and hatred, this must stop, or you will destroy yourself!”

“I,” War says, “do not care what I destroy, old man.”

War screams in murderous rage and charges us.

Azrael blocks his first blow, the sand spraying around us, the clang of metal echoing across the dunes, and the sheer force of the blow between them making my teeth hurt.

War spins, and comes for me, the burning blade arcing towards my chest. I raise my sword and block the blow, but I am thrown twenty feet away in the sand, rolling head over heels before I stop.

“Pity!” War laughs. “The wingless fool is now powerless, and his young whelp is a girl who
cannot
fight!”

The shock of the blow numbs my arms, and I look up at the two of them. Azrael parries again, and is forced back towards the dunes, the stronger War beating him blow for blow.

War growls. “As they took your wings, let me end your suffering, wingless angel!”

“I shall not let myself be beaten by one so mindless!” Azrael gets a blow in, but is quickly blocked by the more experienced War. “You must return to the book, beast!”

“No piece of paper can hold me!” War laughs, beating Azrael back with a quick one-two-three of sword blows, none landing, but each taking its toll on Azrael’s body.

I spit out sand, and grit my teeth so hard together I taste bone. My rage burns inside me, and I go blind, feeling the deathly hate consume me. I can’t, I can’t do this again.

I stare, clear my mind, and charge the two of them, my sword raised high. With every footstep, I think peaceful thoughts. I want to kill this beast, but I feel no hate, no anger, and no malice. War is simply a sickly, insane beast that must be out of of its misery for the good of us all.

I pity those consumed by it.

I strike my first blow, our swords connecting, getting War’s attention, driving him back a step. He howls at the blow, taken aback, his eyes surprised. I spin and land another solid blow on his weapon, the clang of steel echoing across the beach.

“So she thinks she can fight!” War snarls, bracing himself and gripping his sword tight. He feigns to the left, and comes in from the right hard, expecting me to take the bait.

I forgive those blinded by it.

I strike again, deflecting his sword into the sky, staring directly into the beast’s burning eyes, never feeding into his anger, never reciprocating his hatred. My sword drives his back, and knocks War’s footing loose on the sand. I spin and slice a long gash across his forearm.

My thoughts are pure, my lust for blood gone, the hatred in my heart vacant, and I only fight to end this and to bring peace. I am the dove who wishes only to make the violence cease, no matter what I must do.

War screams at the pain, wiping the blood on his hand and inspecting it like he can’t believe someone hit him. He smiles wickedly at me and steps forward, his sword ready to strike, his hate-filled and glowing eyes locked on mine, watching where I look. “The young are good at my trade, for they are ignorant of Death’s stare.”

I give him no reaction. Only resolve. I calm my thoughts, slow my racing heart, and stare into his burning eyes with pity and compassion.

He screams, comes low, and sweeps his sword upwards, aiming for a quick blow to my neck. Every muscle in his body follows his eyes, the sinew pulling taut, the blade racing towards me on an inevitable path to slice the tender flesh of my throat.

I refuse to feed into its insanity.

My next blow sweeps from the sun, and knocks his blade away violently, at a ninety-degree angle, making him step twice with his left foot, and the look of certainty on his face evaporating in an instant. My blade slices into War’s left side, wounding the beast. He screams a dirge-like howl, his rage burning hotter, the heat from his eyes burning my skin.

I stand, me and my weapon one, not following up, and I give the beast a chance to compose himself. I stare quietly, my arms to my right, my blade held flat across my vision, my wings my balance, and my body absorbing thousands of years of sword-fighting skill from somewhere, something I don’t understand, but I accept with the calm certainty of a defender and one who protects the innocent.

War smears the blood against his side, his face in pain, his eyes turning into ovens, his face twisting into a grotesque mask of hatred like a gargoyle on a Gothic cathedral.

“You cannot, I am War!” He shouts so loud my ears are left ringing. I keep absolutely still. Azrael stumbles to my side, keeping his weapon ready but not committing to get close. Azrael looks tired, weak, and his stance is defensive and resigned. Without his wings, he cannot fight this man.

War spins and charges Azrael, Azrael’s blade just coming up in time to stop the blow, but War slams his fist into the side of Azrael’s head, knocking the fallen angel off his feet.

I run towards them, slicing my blade down on War’s, stopping the killing blow from landing on Azrael’s chest. Azrael tumbles away, heaving and holding his head in pain.

I shall protect those from it.

War takes a half-step and turns towards me, his eyes red hot, his face incredulous with disbelief. He charges me, swinging his sword straight down. “That. Was my. Kill.”

I shall never stand with it.

I spin, feeling the blade come within inches of my flesh, twirl on the sand, and slice my blade directly across the beast’s back. He howls again, shattering the silence of the wind, his anger setting flames to his skin where blood flows forth. He spins and arcs his sword at my head, the burning blade coming at me at the speed of a bullet.

War is weakness.

Time slows down as I discover his secret. I duck his blade, come up inside his reach, and slam my holy fist into the beast’s jaw. I am close enough to feel the pound of his heart as I land another blow to his stomach, my Seraph—like strength sending the beast reeling back from the impact.

He stumbles backwards, flames licking from his skin, his face an obscene display of hatred. His teeth are nearly fully exposed, black gums letting steam billow from his lips, the blood vessels around his eyes igniting into miniature lines of flame.

“I declare. You must. To die!” His words are hollow, evil, echoing with wicked intent.

I keep calm. I have nothing but pity for him, no hatred, no malice. War is weakness.

He swings a second blow at me, but I sidestep it with the ease of fighting someone in slow-motion, and I slam my fist into the maniac’s left temple, sending War sprawling and tumbling onto the beach.

I press the attack, walking towards him as he grabs his sword and turns to me, and I step over a sword swing he must be thinking is as fast and as hard as he can swing it, but to me, the burning blade is moving at a snail’s pace, and I step right over it, my leg passing harmlessly within inches of the edge of the blade.

I ready my leg, balance myself, and kick the fallen beast in the jaw. His body flies away as if hit by a truck, the howl coming from his mouth trailing off as his body arcs away from me in slow-motion, the beast’s sword dropping into the sand near me.

He crashes into a dune twenty yards away in an explosion of sand. I feel him hit even from here.

Time speeds up as I walk the final few paces to him, the spray of sand falling to the Earth. I place my sword against his neck, and look in his faltering eyes. He groans groggily, and spits up at me. He wearily tries to reach for me, but I put my boot on his palm. I press the sword against his neck.

“I forgive even the unforgivable, War,” I say, the breeze blowing around us, my wings catching the wind, “for what you do you cannot control, nor do you know. War, your mind is that of a child’s, striking back when struck upon, and we must be ever patient with you and your nature, for we are
better
than you.”