Recovering (14 page)
Authors: J Bennett
I spot a
bushy fir tree on the left side of the yard. Perfect cover. I get Chainy’s
attention and point to the tree. He understands. I tell my legs to run, and
miraculously, I find myself jogging toward the tree. As soon as I make it, I
duck behind its prickly branches, sinking to my knees and wheezing like an
asthmatic who also got stung by 100 bees.
The world
gets a little bendy, but I wait it out until it’s all mostly settled. Back in
my glory days, I could have had my new baby locked, loaded, and aimed for
damage in forty seconds flat. Now, the minutes tick by as my numb fingers set
the tripod. My hands are shaking like a diabetic in need of an insulin shot,
and it takes three tries before I get the scope lined up so I can screw it in.
I cut out my flashlight as the sky turns purple with dawn above me.
Five
minutes, and I’m on my belly in the snow ready to party. The muzzle of the rifle
peeks out of the furry branches of the tree, the crosshairs of the scope
centered on the front door of the house.
I wave. Chain
stands from his crouch behind the SUV and walks up the driveway. My heart
starts pounding. I realize again how stupid this is. Hell, my team is so
incompetent that they let me come up with the plan. Me!
Chain walks
all the way up to the front door.
Go, go, go,
I think, but he lingers a
second. He and I debated this during the planning meeting. He wanted to knock
or ring the bell, but I know angels. They have some sort of sense about humans.
We’ve seen it out in the field a dozen times, and Maya always seems to know
exactly where Tarren and I are in the house. I’ve never once managed to sneak
up on her.
“Go,” I hiss under
my breath. Chain rushes off the front porch and around the back of the house to
meet up with Bear and Penguin.
The front
door swings wide. A long-haired teenage boy in a wife beater and jeans leans
out. For about half a second, I think we’ve got the wrong house. We almost
never see angels so young, but it has happened. Redmond, Washington is a prime
example. I gaze at his face through my binoculars. That sharp look of hunger is
so familiar – so angel. He glances both ways.
Just to be
sure, I zoom in on his right hand.
Bingo, Yahtzee and Connect Four
. The
thick, telltale creases X through his palm. I’ve seen too many times how the
skin peels back and the gross, glowing bulb lifts up ready to feed. It’s like
something out of a bad Star Trek episode…okay a worse Star Trek episode.
I drop the binoculars
and get behind the scope.
Then I send
up a tiny prayer to God.
Let my aim be true.
I don’t ask for much from
him, and my family’s sure as hell given up enough. So just this one little
favor. I’m thinking about those cans swinging on the branches of the trees in
the back yard; the cans I missed again and again. If I fail, we’re all dead.
I aim.
Breath. Pull.
POW!
The angel
crumples just as he turns to pull the door closed.
That’s the
signal for the Gabettes.
POW, POW,
POW! The gunshots come all at once from the back of the house. POW, POW, POW! The
sound, so big and deep, spreads out across the wide open sky.
A short girl
with long curly hair rushes to the front door and stumbles over the dead angel.
She screams, a deep scratchy wail. I switch to the binoculars again, check her
palms, and fire another shot as she steps over the body in the doorway.
POW!
The bullet
knocks her head back, sending an arc of blood through the air. By the time she
collapses three others are crowding through the door.
No thought.
No fear. My body knows what to do. My brain makes the calculations. One by one
I check their palms, let the binoculars drop around my neck, line up the shot,
and take it.
POW! POW!
POW!
Bodies fall,
but more angels scramble across the lawn. Two are climbing out of windows on
the second story, dropping and running.
They’re like
cockroaches. The largest group of angels Tarren and I have ever come across
were the six in Poughkeepsie. I’ve already put down seven bodies in the last
three minutes, and three have slipped by me, rushing down the driveway and into
the misty morning.
I’m cussing,
shooting, praying. This time I pray for my team, that the shots at the back of
the house push the angels toward the front door where I can pick them off.
POW! POW!
POW! The gunfire from the back is steady. I take down two more wings as they
race across the yard. Then another climbing out of a side window. She tumbles
down the roof, leaving a dark, bright stain behind her. Others run past, a
lanky teen with a mop of red hair, a short girl with smoke curling from her
hands. Somewhere in the back of my brain I wonder at how young they are, at the
fear and panic etched on their faces. These aren’t the experienced killers we
usually fight. These are just kids. And I’m shooting them.
I turn off
this part of my brain.
Not meemaws or children. Just evil guys.
We can’t
feel for them. Mom was adamant about that, and with good reason. You start
seeing little bits of humanity in an angel, and then you’re going to get so
screwed in the head that you won’t know up from down.
I push my
emotions down. This is a videogame. These are zombies or cyber men or the Borg.
I pull the trigger again and again. I don’t always get a clean shot. A couple of
times my targets stagger, clutching at an arm or a leg as they drag red streaks
across the snow. Cries and curses fight the sound of gunfire. One girl begins
glowing red, until my bullet douses her light.
POW! POW!
POW! Sweat runs into my eyes. How can I be sweating? How long have we been out
here? Five minutes? An hour? Ten hours? The gunshots around back are more
sporadic. One angel on the rooftop, a chubby girl in bright yellow pajama
bottoms, sees the massacre on the front lawn and runs back in the house. I gasp
for breath, trying to hold the scope steady as I wait for another figure to
dash out the front door or slip from a window.
The scene
becomes eerily still.
Where is
Maya? Is she in the house? Are they holding her in a cage in the basement? Did
she already escape and somehow track down Tarren? Something catches my
attention, a thickening pillar of smoke curling up into the sky. It’s coming
from somewhere behind the house.
A shadow
falls across me. I look up, expecting to see an angel standing over me ready to
tear my head off, but the shadows come from above. Thick clouds move to cover
the pale light of dawn. The wind begins to swirl as if Superman had just let
out a sneeze. I clamp a hand on my lucky hat to keep it in place while snow
flurries rush into my eyes.
What…the…hell?
Sharp pricks
of pain rain across my body. When I crack my eyes open, I see hail plummeting
from the sky where snowflakes fell just seconds earlier. A flash rips open the clouds
– the biggest pulse of lightening I’ve ever seen, followed by thunder so loud
it feels like we’re inside the roar of a lion. The ground rumbles with its
aftershock.
I look up,
and I see a woman in the sky.
Shit on a
stick.
Only certain
angels can fly – the ones who call themselves The Exalted.
The most rare
and powerful type of angel.
A sphere of
lightening slashes down from the sky, and a tree on the other side of the
property practically explodes with its impact. Thunder shatters the sky again.
Dear God,
this woman could easily kill us all. Somehow, my hands know what to do. They
disengage the rifle from the tripod. I press the stock firmly against my
shoulder. I don’t even give my legs a command, but they stand up. I step out
from the tree, exposing my position. I’m only going to get one shot.
Impossible,
I think as I squint through the scope and tilt the gun up.
I couldn’t
even hit a can ten yards away, and I’m going to take a woman out of the sky?
The hail beats against my upturned face
and hands and pings off the rifle. The woman’s golden hair whips like a halo
around her head. I put her in my crosshairs and fight the screaming wind to
keep her there. Her attention is turned away toward the pitiful sounding shots
still coming from behind the house. She’s going to fry my team in a second.
I take a
breath. It all goes away, the wind, the noise, the growing fear that the black
smoke might have something to do with Maya. In the silence, I lay my finger
across the trigger. I killed my first angel when I was thirteen. I thought that
shot was impossible too.
I exhale and
pull the trigger.
***
At this
point, Gabe’s story syncs with Maya’s narrative in RISING
.
If you want
to complete the story, flip to Chapter 23 of
RISING
or start from the beginning to see what Maya and
Tarren were up to this whole time. I have to be honest – I went back and forth
on whether to keep this ending as I originally wrote it. I love it and many of
my beta readers loved it too; however, several beta readers thought this ending
was too abrupt and didn’t provide closure. I usually hate when stories do that,
but in this case it felt right. Gabe is on a precipice. Not only is the mission
literally resting on his shoulders, but this is his moment to break through the
depressing last two months and move into a future of healing. This is also the
final moment before he reunites with his family, a scene told from his,
Tarren’s, and Penguin’s (Rain’s) perspectives in Chapter 24 of RISING
.
Since
this book was meant to be read either after or in concert with RISING, I hope
you’ll forgive me for any frustration this ending might cause. Just remember,
this may be the end of Gabe’s narrative, but it is not the ending of the full
story, which you can find in RISING.
I hope you
enjoyed Gabe’s unique take on the world. If you loved RECOVERING as much as I
enjoyed writing it, please consider leaving a short review. Reviews make a huge
difference to indie authors and help us get the word out about our books. Even
just a few sentences about your thoughts are very much appreciated!
If you can’t
get enough of Gabe, Maya, Tarren, and Penguin (aka Bird Brain, Beanpole, and
Rain Baily), then stay tuned. I am hard at work on LEAPING, Book Four in the
series. Make sure you don’t miss it when it comes out. Sign up for my mailing
list, and I’ll let you know as soon as you can get your hot little hands on it.
***
Keep In Touch
Wait, don’t go! You just got here. Please come by and say
hello if you have time. My website includes a few special extras for my extra
special fans (you are extra special, aren’t you?). Find me at:
Email:
[email protected]
Works by
J Bennett
Girl With Broken Wings Series
Falling
(Book One)
Coping
(Novella, 1.5)
Landing
(Book Two)
Rising
(Book Three)
Recovering
(Novella, 3.5)
Leaping
(Book Four)
>>> KEEP READING FOR FREE SAMPLE <<<
The Vampire’s Housekeeper Chronicles
<<
Employment Interview With A Vampire
(Short Story, # 1)
The
Vampire Hunter Comes To Call
(Short Story, # 2)
Duel
With The Werefrog
(Short Story, #3)
When
Vampires And Ninjas Collide
(Short Story, #4)
Death in the Family
(Short Story, #5)
Apprenticeship With A Vampire
(Novella, #6)
***
About J Bennett
J Bennett
lives and writes in San Diego. Her writing partner is a bunny named Avalon who
contributes to each manuscript by trying to eat it. His adorableness is his
primary strength as a writer.
J Bennett is
a professional copywriter and an author who loves asking that oh-so-dangerous
question – “What if?” She currently writes a paranormal adventure series,
Girl
With Broken Wings,
and a tongue-in-cheek vampire humor short story series,
The
Vampire’s Housekeeper Chronicles.
Contact J
Bennett at
[email protected]
.
Girl with Broken Wings, Book Four
After we make it through the seizure-inducing laser lights,
rolling fog, and gruesome rubber zombies of the “haunted house” on Tucker
Cartwright’s front lawn, Gabe shouts three names to the beefy guy with a
crooked nose who guards the front door. He swipes a big thumb down his iPad and
checks us off.
As we push through ornate glass double doors, Gabe turns back
and gives us both a proud grin. Beneath his Batman mask, his brown eyes shine
with mischief. I wonder if he somehow managed to snag invites for us in less
than 24 hours or merely hacked the guest list. His hacker skills are damn
impressive, and his keyboard has opened just as many doors for us as his lock
pick kit.
I pull in a big breath as we enter into a wide foyer lit by a
huge overhead chandelier. A huge mass of humanity slithers against itself. Voices
beat against my sensitive ear drums, and the smell of roasted meat assaults my
nose.
The auras. They create a second light show that only I can
see. They are a great cloud of color throbbing with energy. Calling to me. My
hands begin to kindle with heat, and I feel the drowsy monster inside of me
stir.
A year ago this entire scene would have fritzed out my brain
and sent me tumbling into the abyss of hunger. The monster would have roared so
loud inside of me. I would have lost control. I push away all those poison
thoughts. We’d pulled into a nothing desert town this afternoon, and while
Tarren changed the oil in the jeep, I’d set up the Prism and let it flood my
body with energy, filling up the vast hole of my hunger. My monster is swollen
and full, just a minor demon I must keep my eye on. I clench my jaw, steel my
spine.
Tarren’s eyes are on my face, and I know he’s searching for
weakness. He reaches up and unmutes his earpiece. “We split up and canvas,” he
says as a drunk Cleopatra stumbles past, her ankles wobbling in golden, strappy
stilettos.
At a nearby bar, an aging Tinker Bell with a smooth, frozen
face sips a drink and gives Tarren an appreciative oggle.
“Check,” I confirm.
“Check,” Gabe says, his head swiveling. “Whoa, yeah, that
lady looks really suspicious over there.” His gaze is trained on a gorgeous
woman almost popping out of her Princess Lea costume as she leans against the
bar. “Yep, I’m definitely going to have to give her a very thorough visual and
physical assessment,” he says and plows into the crowd.
“If you lay eyes on him do not engage,” Tarren says. “We’ll
regroup and find a way to isolate and strike.” His eyes are a pale blue. I used
to think those eyes were an endless winter tundra, but now I know the
wellspring of emotion they hide so well. What is it that I see in his gaze now
as he meets mine? Is it respect, acceptance, or am I looking too hard, trying
to see what I want to see?
“I’ll take the left wing of the house. Gabe, you’re at the
front. Maya, right wing and patio.” With his orders given, Tarren turns away, his
coat whirling with him. I watch his hat bob in the crowd before disappearing
into the mass of bodies.
Both of my brothers possess a handheld thermal night vision
imager, which can usually help them pinpoint the low body heat that an angel
registers, but I wonder how useful the heat sensing cameras will be in this
crowded party scene. Luckily, my own eyes serve as my primary angel-hunting
tool. I start toward my assigned area, noting immediately that the crowds are
thinner in this part of the home. Tarren must have seen this too. I let my gaze
roam around a sparsely populated lounge and then a more crowded man cave where
a cluster of men lounge around a huge television, game controllers in hand. Each
partygoer possesses a shining aural glow around them. All human. As soon as my
enhanced eyes land on a person without an aura, I’ll have my angel.
I make a quick circuit of a room filled with signed guitars
mounted on the wall. Two women make out with impressive gusto in the corner,
their hands groping without shame or pretense. I pause momentarily, watching
their auras flush with deep, wine-colored purples. Lust. Their auras rage with
it, dancing along their bodies like they were both aflame with this single color.
I duck out of the room and take a deep breath.
“Hello.”
I spin away from the arm attempting to drape over me.
“Whoa, skittish, huh?”
I turn and look into the rock hard pecs of a guy dressed as a
Spartan who might have literally wandered off the movie set of
300.
“Nice panties,” I huff, trying to shake off the feel of his
aura. Mr. Muscles is very human, very handsome, and very drunk. I can tell by
the way his blue-green aura sloshes within his aura.
“Thanks,” he grins at me. “Like my cape?” He holds it out,
nearly knocking the tiara off a skanky Cinderella. “Hello,” he slurs to her as
I slip away. I move back toward the center of the house. Gabe chats up Princess
Lea at the bar. When she throws her head back in a pretty laugh, his eyes
quickly scan the hands of everyone else at the bar. He won’t find any telltale
slits in palms. I see auras all around.
“There you are Nursey.” My Spartan is back at my side in all
his beefy glory.
Gabe spots me and gives me a big thumbs up.
“You come with anyone?” the Spartan asks. His boots squeak
against the tiles as I move toward the patio doors. “I’m not asking for myself.
My roommate just broke up with his girlfriend, and I’ma just trying to fix ‘em
up.”
“That’s really nice of you,” I say as I squeeze past a couple
dressed as Woody and Buzz Lightyear.
“Yeah, I’m a great guy,” Spartan says. “My friend is too. His
name is Philip. He does accounting or somethin’ for like, lots of movie
studios. Drives a Beamer.”
A gorgeous woman in a toga holds out a tray of appetizers.
“Salmon spinach cakes?” she offers.
“Uh, no thanks,” I murmur.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Mr. Muscles says, reaching over me to
grab two appetizers off the tray. The whiff of fish tightens my stomach, and I
have to make an effort to remind myself that I would have once shoveled those
little spinach cakes into my mouth like it was a conveyor belt. Back when I was
fully human. Normal.
“You an actress?” my Spartan asks as he pops both appetizers
into his mouth. “I’m an actor. Ever hear of the BoFlexion 4,000? I was a
fitness model for the infomercial.”
“Wow, so cool.” I push open the finely etched glass door to
the patio. A gust of temperate air greets me was I walk onto the lavish outdoor
space. Clumps of people huddle around tables or lean against a balcony.
“Yeah, yeah, watch this.” Mr. Spartan sucks in a deep breath
and says, “Just use the BoFlexion 4,000 for ten minutes a day, and the fat will
melt off your body.” As he speaks, the man slowly lifts his arms up and down
and twists side to side, a serious expression plastered across his face. “See,
that’s what I did, for the uh…uh…”
“Infomercial?”
“Hey, is that a gun?”
His eyes are on my holster, and I quickly put a hand down to
cover it. “I’m a nurse during the zombie apocalypse.” I walk over to the
balcony and turn, leaning my back against the railing. This position allows me
to gaze through the large glass windows back into the house. It’s a good
vantage point. I watch bodies move by, painted faces, wild hair, shining
costumes, bright auras.
“Oh yeah, I get that.” Beefcakes chuckles as he leans against
the balcony next to me. “So, are you interested in, like, hooking up with my
friend, ‘cause otherwise I gotta’ find another girl. I have a boyfriend by the
way, so I’m taken.”
“Aw shucks,” I say. He grins, and damn, he is so hot I think
I could fry an egg on his hairless, rock hard abs. “Actually, I…I kind of have
a boyfriend, too.” Why are my words suddenly soft and hesitant? Rain’s face comes
front and center in my brain, bringing back floods of worry with it.
“But hey, look.” I point to a Miley Cyrus lookalike huddled
on a bench a few feet away. Her thin shoulders shake, and the mascara roading
down her cheeks would tell me she isn’t having a good night even if I couldn’t
see the rippling oranges of humiliation in her aura. “She looks like she might need
a picker-upper.”
Beefcakes follows my gaze and then looks back at me with a
grin. “Nice meetin’ you Nursey.”
“Your roommate is lucky.”
“Definitely.” He grabs up his drink and starts toward weepy
Miley on slightly unsteady steps.
I unmute my earpiece. “Nothing in the right wing or on the
patio.”
Clanging pots and hisses suddenly sound. “Left wing is
clean,” Tarren says. “Checking the kitchen now.”
“Don’t see him…on the...dance floor,” Gabe hollers over the
blare of music.
I look up at the row of lighted windows above. “Second
floor,” Tarren and I say at the same time. Damn, that little jinx show has been
happening more and more often.
I give my Spartan a quick wave as I stroll back into the zoo
of people. After a little exploration, I find a massive spiral staircase
guarded by two hulking goons. Apparently hulking goons are a real thing in Beverly
Hills. Just to make the point, a stupid red velvet rope hangs between two poles
set in front of the lowest stair. I pull out my phone, pretending to text as I
lean against a pillar and watch them. Tarren and then Gabe join me a minute
later. I’m not even asking about all the glitter on Gabe’s costume.
In three minutes of observation, we watch the two trolls turn
away a frantic Cher lookalike who begs for a bathroom as well as a highly
blitzed cheerleader who doesn’t seem to realize that she’s not at her own house.
They lift the red velvet rope for a refined vampire who escorts a young,
giggling pirate girl up with him.
“Angel,” I say, watching the girl’s bright aura dance against
the nothingness coming from the man’s trim body.
“Vampire?” Tarren asks.
I nod.
“That wasn’t Cartwright,” Gabe says.
The three of us ponder.
Tarren’s expression is hard. “Too many unknowns. Too many
risks.”
Classic Tarren move – when the situation changes, pull out
and re-assess.
But Gabe doesn’t play by those rules, not when innocent lives
are on the line. On cue, he shakes his head. “No time. Angel-vamp is going to
suck that girl dry if we don’t stop him. Who knows how many other wings we’ve
got up there? They could all be using this party as their own personal buffet.”
The decision was made the moment an innocent life was at
stake. If Tarren was at this party alone, I have no doubt he’s already be
leaping over the velvet rope, storming the stairs with guns blazing. But he’s
got us to think about, and Tarren will always hesitate, always tarry to keep us
safe. We are his Achilles heel, which is why I have to convince my brother what
he already knows.
“We’ve got to go now, Tarren,” I say, “or those lives are on
us.”
Our eyes meet. He’s too good at controlling his aura, keeping
it tight around his tall frame without any flickers of emotion. “We need to be
careful,” is all he says to betray his unease.
“Step one, distract the guards,” Gabe says. “I can tell them
a fight’s breaking out on the dance floor.”
“They’ll call it in,” Tarren responds. He nods to the center
room where other goons lurk in the crowd. “Four roaming security personnel.”
“Okay, got another plan,” Gabe responds.
“I’ve got a better one,” I tell him.
Gabe scoffs. “My plans are the best. Four out of five crime
fighters prefer Gabe’s plans over the leading competition.”
“You,” I stare at him, “bring the jeep up. We’ll probably
need a quick exit.” I look at Tarren. “You come with me. Act drunk.”
Gabe gives me a sour face. “Batman doesn’t drive the getaway
car.”
I ignore him and pull my top lower as I stumble out from
behind the pillar and let out a high, squealing laugh. Tarren walks beside me
and tries to smile. “Let me do all the talking,” I murmur, because, let’s be
honest, a piece of plywood could give Tarren a run for his money when it comes
to acting. My brothers were homeschooled by our mother, Diana, between her
angel-killing missions, but if they’d gone to real school, I have no doubt that
sulky, miniature Tarren would have been assigned “tree,” “bush,” or “guy on bus
reading paper,” in every school play.
“Hey there, hellloooo!” I call to the goons and hiccup. “Are
you guys, dressed like…like…CIA agents, or something? Cause it looks really
good. Really good!”
Troll Number One’s mouth twitches in a smile he quickly
squelches.
“Sorry Miss, you’re not allowed up here.”
“No, no, no.” I lean in close to Troll Number One as if
whispering a secret. “Some vampire guy, he told us to go upstairs. That ah,
Tucker, Tucker Cartwright, he like...wants to see me and him.” I jerk my head
toward Tarren. “We’re a, uh…brother and sister act, if you know what I mean…at
least we are for Tucker Cartwright.” I laugh again.
Troll Number Two brings his phone up.
“Noooooooo.” I place my hand on his arm. “It’s a surprise for
Tucker. We’re a present. Right?” I hiccup and look at Tarren.
“Yes, a surprise,” Tarren says softly.
“And what about him?” Troll Number One points a beefy finger
behind us. I don’t even have to turn around. The feel of Gabe’s aura is as
distinct as every other part of him. “Mr. Cartwright has a type.”
“That vampire dude paid me $500. Said Mr. Cartwright likes it
when people watch and he has a…” Gabe lowers his voice and tilts between us, “…a
certain childhood Batman fetish. It’s $500, so I’m not arguing. Whatever he
wants. I can watch. I can join in the fun. I can piss on his face. You know,
meet all his needs. Batman lives to serve the citizens of Gotham.” He cracks a
rueful smile.
“The guy said we’re not supposed to keep Tucker waiting,” I
say, putting on a worried voice.
“Let ‘em through,” Troll Number One says.