(Wrath-08)-Evil In The Darkness (2013) Page 10

  Archangel Michael almost smiled. “My authority is enough to stop you, Lucifer.”

  Lucifer smirked, then turned. Lifting his arms, he beckoned to his hidden slaves. Another host of dark angels appeared, moving forward to his side. They seemed to slip out from the shadows like mist rising from a swamp on a cold and bitter morning. Hundreds of them. Maybe more. They were angry. Lustful. Jealous and full of rage. Lucifer laughed at the presence of his followers, then turned to face the angels. “I don’t think you can control me. Not here and not now—especially with so many of my dark ones willing to stand here at my side.”

  Archangel Michael took in all the enemy’s servants. “Those who are with us are more than you might think,” he said. He raised his hand and gestured. Behind him, along the tree line, angels of Light started emerging from the dark. From the very end of heaven they came. Then, walking together, they came forward: ten, twenty, then a hundred, then more than they could count. Lucifer stared at them in horror, cowering at their light. They were so great. They were so terrible. It cut him to the core to see them, to feel them, to sense their glowing power. They were everything he would never be, full of mercy, peace, and power. He shrank, lifting his hands against his eyes to protect them from their light.

  “You must go now,” Archangel Michael commanded as the crowd of heavenly angels gathered at his side.

  Lucifer hissed, then nodded to his mortal servants, who were huddled around the women, lust and killing in their eyes. “Even if I go, it doesn’t matter. They will kill them anyway.”

  Archangel Michael ignored the comment. “You must go now,” he said again.

  Lucifer tried to hold his ground but it was pointless and he screamed in futile fury. He glared at the other angels a final time. So bright. So powerful. So full of grace and truth. Sneering, he cursed them, then slowly, painfully, hunched in fear and shame, Lucifer slunk away.

  His other angels followed, crying, complaining and cringing from the light.

  TWENTY-TWO

  The violent gang of men seemed to pause. They couldn’t hear, they couldn’t see, they couldn’t understand the battle that had taken place on the other side of the veil, but they knew somehow, deep inside them, that something had changed. They sensed the sudden loss of power, the loss of authority that had slipped away. Worse, they sensed the unseen presence of the Light now. To the west, the clouds had parted and a narrow beam of sun was shooting through.

  The leader of the men turned toward the women. He was going to take them along. “Come,” he shouted to his men. “It’s time for us to go. Load the meat up, fill the trucks, and let’s get out of here.”

  The gang hesitated and he glared at them, disgusted. The truth was that they were cowards and he was ashamed to lead these men. “COME ON!” he screamed, his fat gut pulling tight. “Get the meat. Leave the dead cattle. Grab the women and the little one and let’s get out of here!” He was scared now. His courage had left him. He felt exposed and alone.

  His men stood idly for another moment, then sprang into action. Working together, it took them only half an hour to quarter up the two cows, wrap the meat in black tarps, and throw it in the back of their ancient trucks. They moved like scurrying rats, eager to move on.

  Caelyn watched them work. She understood what the leader had in mind. They would take them. They would destroy them and then sell them. It would be far worse than death.

  But she wasn’t frightened any longer. The evil had evaporated as the darkness before the sun. She felt the power of the Light around her and she stood, her face determined, her eyes bright.

  * * * * * * *

  Archangel Michael walked toward her, looking directly into her eyes. “I am with you,” he whispered to her. “All of us are with you, Caelyn. If you could see us, you would know that. But still, you have the faith. You have the power. Everything will be all right.

  * * * * * * *

  Holding Ellie tight, Caelyn leaned toward her mother. “They’re going to try to force us to go with them,” she whispered. Hearing her, one of the younger men ran toward her, thrusting his gun into her face. She cringed, twisting her body between him and Ellie. Gretta gritted her teeth and stepped toward him. “Are you kidding me?” she shouted. “If you think I’m going with you, you’ve got holes in your head. You’re going to have to kill me and throw my body in the truck because that’s the only way, little man, I’m going anywhere with you!” The Mexican stared, not understanding but shrinking at her rage. She raised a hand as if she would slap him and he took a quick step back.

  The gang leader heard Gretta screaming and ran toward them, an ugly frown across his lips. He knew enough English to understand most of what she had said, and he grabbed her arms and threw her down. “You true,” he sneered at her in a rage. “You not going with us. You old. No good. You die here, mujer.”

  He turned to the young man, gesturing for his rifle. The kid, with pockmarked cheeks and dark eyes, hesitated, then extended the old 30.06 bolt action rifle. The man took it, checked the chamber, and turned to Gretta, who was lying on the ground. Looking up at him, she threw a handful of dirt in his direction, then stood and rushed toward him. Caelyn screamed as she tried to hold her back, but Gretta pulled out of her grasp. She beat upon the leader’s chest and he pushed her to the ground again. Raising his rifle, he checked the safety.

  Caelyn pushed Ellie toward the truck, then rushed forward, placing herself between her mother and the shooter. As she stood there, her eyes burning, her hands clenched into tight fists at her side, a sudden sense of power settled from the heavens, white, electric and mightier than anything on earth. It seemed to lift her up and square her shoulders. She was taller. She was lighter. She almost glowed with righteous anger, and she lifted her hand toward the man. “You will go now!” she commanded, her voice as full and rolling as the thunder of a coming storm. “You will go now. You will leave us!” She gestured toward the other men. “All of you will leave us. You will leave us, every one!”

  The man froze, his face contorted with pain, uncertainty and rage. He took a breath, shot a nervous look toward the others, then glared in rage and raised his rifle again.

  Caelyn’s face was white and peaceful. There was an incredible power there. Commanding. Great and terrible, she stood her ground. Then she took a step toward him, filling him with terror from the power of her eyes. “I tell you now,” she whispered, her voice softer now but sure. “If you raise that weapon again to hurt us, my God will strike you dead. He will take your life and blow it out as if it were a candle in the storm. He is my Master. He is my Father and He has sent His servants here. You know it. You can feel it. The darkness has left you. There is nothing here but Light. You are alone now and you will die here if you threaten me again.

  “Now you will leave us. And you will never come back here again.”

  The man dropped his head and mumbled.

  “Go now or you will die.”

  He turned toward the others, his eyes low, always looking at the ground. Terrified to even look at her, he gestured to his men. The others felt it and they too cowered before her presence.

  One by one, in utter silence, they gathered their things and climbed into their trucks. The engines spouted to life, belching smoke and oil.

  The two women in the field didn’t move. They didn’t want to go. A couple of the men cursed at them. Still they didn’t move. None of the men dared to get out of their trucks, but finally, their eyes avoiding Caelyn, three of them climbed out of the vehicles, ran toward the women, grabbed them by the hair, and jerked them toward the trucks, throwing them into the back.

  Spewing smoke and noise, their gearboxes grinding, the ancient vehicles bounced away, leaving the two women and the little girl standing in the middle of the field.

  Caelyn watched them go, then fell to the ground, her shoulders slumping, her hands trembling at her side. Turning, she motioned toward Ellie, who cried out as she scrambled to her mother and fell into her arms. Caelyn held her,
brushed her hair back, then burst into sudden tears, her body shaking, her shoulders heaving, her breathing coming in sobbing gasps.

  Gretta stood back, her mouth open, her eyes wide in wonder. “Oh, Caelyn, oh, Caelyn,” she repeated again and again. “Oh, Caelyn, how did you do that? I saw it, I felt it, but baby, I just don’t understand.”

  Caelyn and her daughter held onto each other as they sat crying in the open field. Caelyn kept her eyes closed. It was just too much to bear. Holding Ellie, she rocked her back and forth, her vision blurred by salty tears.

  Then she heard his voice.

  She almost ignored it. She didn’t think it could be real.

  He called out again, his voice drifting with the wind across the dry ground. “Caelyn! Caelyn, can you hear me? Ellie, it’s your daddy.”

  Caelyn’s heart burst inside her chest. She stood and looked toward the sound of the voice, tears burning her eyes and cheeks.

  He called her name again. She whispered something, then wiped her hand across her face. Letting go of Ellie’s hand, she ran across the open field and fell into her husband’s arms.

  TWENTY-THREE

  East Side, Chicago, Illinois

  It was time to go.

  The apartment was dark now. A single candle burned in the living room, casting a dance of shadows across the floor and the walls. It was also cold, a hint of frost building on the corners of the windows. Sam stood at the kitchen window and looked out. The others worked around him, gathering what they could. They were going to have to walk and they had to travel light, but there was little inside the small apartment that was going to help them on their journey anyway. Still, they packed up everything that made sense, working quickly now that it was time to go.

  Sam didn’t pay any attention to the others as they collected what little food was left, a bundle of children’s clothes, a couple of tools, a few dollars cash. Ammon was stuffing an extra blanket inside a threadbare child’s sleeping bag when he looked up at Sam. His older brother had climbed onto the cracked kitchen counter and was kneeling at the window, looking straight down. His face was tense, his eyes moving, and Ammon immediately knew that something was wrong. He dropped the sleeping bag onto the sofa and walked toward him. “What’s up?” he asked, his heart skipping. Something inside him seemed to tighten up.

  “It’s going to be a problem.”

  Ammon almost laughed. “Pretty much everything’s a problem right now, man.”

  The young captain shook his head and motioned for Ammon to climb up. He easily pulled himself onto the counter and looked down. Most of his vision was taken up by the dirty brick wall of the nearest building, but by looking down and to the left, he could see the street below. It was getting dark and the shadows had already grown deep and full. He looked south. Dead cars. Lots of people. A couple of smoky fires on the street corner. The crowd seemed to cluster around in gangs now. It was cold. Most wore heavy clothing. Hooded faces. Tight circles of people around the fires, their shoulders touching. Lots of guns. Some were holstered, some were brandished. It seemed everyone was armed.

  Ammon shook his head in dismay. “Dude, looks like the Wild West down there.” He watched another moment, sucking his lip, then glanced at Sam. His brother was so comfortable with the Army-issue handgun hanging at his side that he seemed to notice it little more than the belt around his waist. Ammon arched his back, the handgun they’d brought from Washington tucked uncomfortably beneath his jacket. Reaching to his side, he pulled it from its leather holster. It felt so heavy in his hand. “Sam, I’m not, you know, I’m not a soldier, like you, bro. I’m not all that experienced with a gun.”

  “Not all that experienced? Dude, are you kidding me?! Have you ever shot that thing?”

  Ammon’s face burned. He knew that he was blushing.

  Sam was smiling at him, the shadows playing with the lines around his mouth and his eyes. “Let’s not kid ourselves. When it comes to handling a weapon, you’re like a child.”

  “Hey, Dad taught me a thing or two.” Ammon was only half defensive.

  “Dad taught you not to shoot your brothers or stuff a loaded weapon inside your pants. I suspect that’s about all he had the time to teach.”

  Ammon tossed the weapon to his other hand in a gesture of confidence. “I can handle this.”

  Sam shook his head, his smile growing wider. “Sure you can, dude. You’re a regular Pistol Pete.”

  “Pistol Pete was a basketball player, you conehead.” Every conversation between the brothers eventually degenerated into “dudes” and insults.

  Sam turned more serious, watching Ammon with the gun. “It’s going to be OK,” he said.

  “I know it will. I’m just saying, you know, if things get kind of ugly, I’m not so sure that you’ll want me on the front lines with this thing. I haven’t shot anyone for, you know, a long time now. I’m not sure that I’d know what to do.”

  Sam leaned toward him, his face soft, his voice low. “Don’t worry about it, man. I’ll be there. Follow my lead. Take your cues from me.”

  Ammon looked into his brother’s eyes, then turned back to the window and nodded toward the street corner. A group of disheveled men had circled around two young women. Tall and slender, they looked familiar with the streets: tightly braided hair, short shirts, spike heels, and gaudy handbags. What could they be thinking? Ammon wondered in disbelief. He shook his head as the thugs closed around them, animals circling for the kill. Shaking with frustration, he clenched his jaw. Both of the women were on the ground now. “It’s a war out there,” he said.

  Sam watched, feeling sick, then looked away. What he saw would have been impossible to even conceive of just a week before. “It’s going to be a little tough.”

  “So what’s the plan, dude? We go out shooting? Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid?”

  Sam didn’t answer. He’d never seen the movie.

  “It’s getting worse every day,” Ammon said. “Every hour. It’s worse now than it was this morning. Lot worse than when we got here. I think they’ve finally figured out the police aren’t coming. No Red Cross. No National Guard. No firemen or army guys to save the day.”

  “It didn’t take long for things to completely fall apart.”

  Ammon watched through the window. For some inexplicable reason the thugs had let one of the women go. She stood, watched for a moment, seemingly offended, then turned and huffed away. A thick-armed man moved forward, gripped the second girl by the back of the neck, and pulled her caveman-like into a narrow alley, followed by his friends. Through the thin window, they could hear her screams, then lustful cheers.

  “It won’t be like this everywhere,” Sam said, as if trying to convince himself. “It can’t be like this everywhere. Somewhere there is sanity.”

  “Yeah, I think you’re right,” Ammon forced a hopeful voice. “This place was like a war zone even when things were normal. But if we can get out of the city, get to where we’re going,” he thought of the stake they had selected on the outskirts of Chicago, “I think we’ll be OK.”

  “One thing we know for certain. It won’t be worse.”

  Azadeh came into the kitchen, grabbed a couple of cans out of the cupboard, leaving it completely empty, then disappeared into the back bedroom again. Sam and Ammon noted her long hair falling down her back, her trim waist underneath the skirt and black belt. “You know, I just don’t see us walking out of here without some issues,” Ammon whispered after they had watched her go. He nodded toward the back bedroom. “It’s going to be a problem. A problem for so many reasons.”

  Sam scratched his head. “All the women will be targets.”

  “We’ll all be targets. Some will just be a little easier to hit,” Ammon said. “There’s you. Me. A couple guns. Luke will be OK, but it’s going to be a while before he’ll be strong enough to help us in a fight. And that’s about it. Compared with, well, just look down there.”

  Sam considered for a long moment, nodded, then climbed down fro
m the counter. “I’ve seen worse,” he said. “Fallujah. Tora Bora. I think both of them were worse.”

  Ammon looked at him and laughed. “Really?!” he exclaimed. “Because I’ve got to tell you, dude, from the look on your face, I find that a little hard to believe.”

  Sam moved toward the front living room, then looked back. “Fallujah was worse. Certainly more deadly. But not as ugly. In that, you are right.”

  Ammon sadly shook his head. “It’s hard to see it in our country.”

  “Never thought it’d be like this over here.”

  * * * * * * *

  They waited, hoping the crowds on the streets would break up. They never did. So, finally, late at night, they just left.

  They walked silently down the stairs, Sam in the lead, Ammon at the back. Luke followed Sam, moving on his own but walking slowly, putting each foot down tenderly and grasping onto the worn stair rail. Mary followed Luke, holding Kelly Beth’s hand so tight she squeezed her little fingers together; then came Azadeh and Sara, who were walking side by side.

  It was very dark, almost cavelike, the stairs illuminated only by the faint hint of starlight that shone through the tiny stairwell windows. But all of their eyes had adjusted to the darkness and they moved carefully but surely down the stairs. Pausing at the ground-floor landing, Sam held up his hand and listened, then turned to face the group.

  The men had heavy backpacks. Sara had a smaller one, which she had tried to hide under a heavy jacket. All of the women were dressed in men’s clothes. Azadeh looked particularly comical. Her hair was pulled back and hidden beneath an oversized baseball cap, Mary’s work jeans drowned her, and the baggy shirt hung down almost to her knees. The clothing helped, but just a little, for it was hard to hide her beauty, no matter what they did. Sara had tied her own hair up as well, and she had on comfortable jeans and hiking boots. Mary kept Kelly Beth by her side, pulling on her shoulder to keep her close. The little girl was frail—it would take weeks, perhaps months, to regain the weight the cancer had stolen from her—but she moved with enthusiasm, her feet light. She didn’t understand what was going on, so, though she sensed the danger, she didn’t seem scared. Sam knew, because Mary had told him, how happy Kelly Beth was with her mother’s new friends. Still, she tended to hang out near Ammon or Luke, sometimes reaching for their hands, sometimes crawling into their arms. Sam, on the other hand, seemed to scare her. He didn’t know why—his uniform, he suspected—but he could see the hint of suspicion in her eyes.