World After (3 page)

More guilt hits me as I realize how glad I am that Mom has the prodder in case she needs to defend herself from… people.

More than half the people here are carrying some kind of makeshift weapon. The sword is one of the better ones, and I’m glad I don’t have to explain why I’m carrying it. But there’s something about a sword that seems to catch more attention than I like. I pick it up and strap it across my shoulder to discourage him from trying to play with it.

“Got a name for her?” asks Dee-Dum.

“Who?”

“Your sword.” He says it the way I might say
Duh
.

“Oh, please. Not you too.” I pick through the random assortment of clothes my mom collected last night. She also came back with a bunch of empty soda bottles and other junk from who knows where, but I leave that pile alone.

“I used to know a guy who had a katana.”

“A what?”

“A Japanese samurai sword. Gorgeous.” He clutches his heart like he’s in love. “He called it the Sword of Light. I would have sold my grandmother into slavery for that.”

I nod like that’s a given.

“Can I name your sword?”

“No.” I pull out a pair of jeans that might fit and one sock.

“Why not?”

“Already has a name.” I continue digging through the pile for a matching sock.

“What is it?”

“Pooky Bear.”

His friendly face suddenly becomes serious. “You’re naming your collector’s-item, kick-ass sword that’s made to maim and kill, specifically designed to bring your ginormous enemies to their knees
and
hear the lamentation of their women—Pooky Bear?”

“Yeah, you like it?”

“Even joking about that is a crime against nature. You know that, right? I’m trying desperately not to make an anti-girl comment right now, but you’re making it pretty hard.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” I shrug. “I might call it Toto or Flossy instead. What do you think?”

He looks at me like I’m nuttier than my mom. “Am I mistaken? Do you actually have a purse dog in that scabbard?”

“Oh, I wonder if I can find a pink sheath for Pooky Bear. Maybe with little rhinestones? What? Too much?”

He walks out shaking his head.

He’s just too easy to tease. I take my time changing and getting ready before following Dee-Dum out the door.

The hallway feels as crowded as the Oakland coliseum during the World Series.

A pair of middle-aged men exchange a feather for a prescription bottle of pills. I guess this is the World After’s version of a drug deal. Another shows off what looks like a little finger, then snatches it back as a guy reaches for it. They begin whisper-arguing.

A pair of women walk by huddled over a few cans of soup as if they held a pot of gold in their arms. They scan everyone nervously as they weave through the hallway. Next to the main door, a couple of people with freshly shaved heads tape up apocalypse cult fliers.

Outside, the overgrown lawn is eerily deserted with trash blowing in the wind. Anyone who looks down from the sky would assume this building is just as abandoned as any other.

Dee-Dum tells me that it’s already a big joke that the Resistance upper echelon has taken over the teachers’ lounge and that Obi has taken the principal’s office. We walk across the school grounds to Obi’s mission-style adobe building, staying on the covered walkway even if it means going the long way around.

The lobby and halls of the main building are even busier than mine but the people here look like they have a purpose. A guy rushes down the hallway dragging cables behind him. Several people move desks and chairs from one room to another.

A teenage kid pushes a cart piled with sandwiches and pitchers of water. As it rolls by, people grab the food and drinks as if they have the right to meal delivery if they work in this building.

Dee-Dum picks up a couple of sandwiches and hands one to me. Just like that, I’m part of the in-crowd.

I gobble up my breakfast before someone points out that I don’t belong here. But I almost choke on a mouthful when I notice something.

The gun barrels in this building are extra long. They look like the silencers you see assassins screwing onto their rifles in movies.

If we’re attacked by angels, noise won’t matter because the angels will already know where we are. But if we’re shooting each other…

The food in my mouth suddenly tastes like cold, slimy Spam and rock-hard bread instead of the delicious treat it was a moment ago.

Dee-Dum pushes through a door.

“—screwup,” says a male voice from inside the room.

Several rows of people sit in front of computers, totally immersed in their displays. I haven’t seen anything like this since
before the attack. Some of them are quite a sight with their glasses clashing with their devil-horn gang tattoos.

More people are setting up computers in the back rows and rolling large TVs in front of the chalkboard. It looks like the Resistance has figured out how to get a steady power source, at least for one room.

In the center of all the activity is Obi. A line of people follows him around, waiting for his approval on something. Several people in the room seem to have one eye on him and one eye on something else.

Boden stands beside him. His nose is still swollen and bruised from our little schoolyard fight a few days ago. Maybe next time he’ll talk to people like they’re human beings instead of bullying them, even if they are petite girls like me who seem like easy targets.

“It was an adjustment in plans, not a screwup,” says Boden. “And no way in hell was it a ‘treason against humanity.’ How many times do I have to explain this?”

Amazingly, there’s a basket of candy bars by the door. Dee-Dum grabs two and hands one to me. When I feel the Snickers bar in my hand, I know I’m in the inner sanctum.

“Jumping the gun is not an adjustment in plans, Boden,” says Obi as he looks at a document handed to him by a crusty soldier-type. “We can’t execute a military strategy by letting a foot soldier decide the timing just because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut and spilled all the details. Every street pilgrim and hotel whore knew about it.”

“But it wasn’t—”

“Your fault,” says Obi. “I know. You’ve said it ad nauseam.” Obi glances my way as he listens to the next one in line.

After a moment of fantasizing about the taste of the candy bar, I slip it into my jacket pocket. Maybe I can entice Paige to eat it.

“You’re dismissed for now, Boden.” Obi motions for me to come in.

Boden gives me a snarl as we pass each other.

Obi grins at me. The woman who’s next in line looks over and eyes me with more than professional curiosity.

“Good to see you alive, Penryn,” says Obi.

“Good to be alive,” I say. “Are we having movie nights?”

“We’re setting up a remote surveillance system around the Bay Area,” says Obi. “It pays to have so many geniuses in the Valley who can make the impossible possible again.”

Someone in the last row calls out, “Camera twenty-five is online.” The other programmers continue to tap on their computers but I can feel their excitement.

“What are you looking for?” I ask.

“Anything interesting,” says Obi.

“I got something!” a programmer in the back yells out. “Angels in Sunnyvale on Lawrence Expressway.”

“Put it on the front screen,” says Obi.

One of the large TV screens at the front of the classroom comes on.

T
HE
TV
lights up.

An angel with blue wings stalks through the rubble of an abandoned street. The road has a giant crack zigzagging down the center with one side higher than the other.

Another angel lands behind the first, then two others. They look around, then walk off-screen.

“Can you turn the camera?”

“Not this one, sorry.”

“Got another one!” says a programmer to my right. “This one’s at SFO.” I always wondered how they got SFO from San Francisco International Airport.

“Put it on screen,” says Obi.

Another TV comes alive in front of the chalkboard.

An angel rushes in a half-limp, half-run along a field of asphalt. One white wing is off-kilter and dragging behind him.

“We got ourselves a lame bird,” says someone behind me. He sounds excited.

“What’s he running from?” asks Obi almost to himself.

The camera has trouble with its picture. It keeps switching from too bright to too dark. It settles on adjusting the lighting to
the bright background, making the details of the angel dark and hard to see.

As he gets closer, though, he turns to see whatever is chasing him, giving us a good look at his face.

It’s Beliel, the demon who stole Raffe’s wings. He’s in bad shape. I wonder what happened?

Only one of his stolen wings seems functional. It keeps opening and closing as though reflexively trying to fly while the other wing drags in the dust. I hate to see Raffe’s gorgeous wings abused like that, and I try not to think of the abuse they took on my own watch.

There’s something wrong with Beliel’s knee. He limps and favors it even as he tries to run. He’s moving faster than any injured human could, but I’m guessing that it’s still less than half his normal speed.

Even from this distance, I can see a vivid red stain seeping through his white pants just above his boots. Funny that the demon has taken to wearing white, probably since he got his new wings.

As he nears the camera, he turns his head again to look behind him. There’s the familiar sneer. Arrogant, angry, but this time, with more than a touch of fear.

“What’s he scared of?” Obi asks the question that I’m wondering.

Beliel limps out of the frame, leaving only a cross-section of the empty runway.

“Can we see what’s behind him?” asks Obi.

“That’s as far as the camera will turn.”

A few seconds tick by, and it feels like the room is holding its breath.

Then Beliel’s pursuer shows up on the screen in all his glory.

Demonic wings spread out above his head. Light glints off the curved hooks, sliding down the edge of his wings as he stalks his prey.

“Jesus H. Christ,” says someone behind me.

The pursuer seems to be in no rush, almost as if he’s savoring the moment. His head is down, with his wings shading his face, making the details even harder to see than Beliel’s. And unlike Beliel, he doesn’t turn his head to give us a good look at his face.

But I know him. Even with his new demon wings, I know him.

It’s Raffe.

Everything about him—his pace, his arched wings, his shaded face—is the perfect nightmare image of the devil stalking his prey.

Even though I’m sure it’s Raffe, my heart stutters with fear at the sight of him.

This is not the Raffe I’ve come to know.

Does Obi recognize him as the guy who was with me when we first came to the Resistance camp?

I’m guessing not. I’m not sure
I
would have recognized Raffe if I hadn’t known about his new wings, even though every feature of his face and body has been burned into my memory.

Obi turns to his men. “We’ve hit the jackpot! A lame angel
and
a demon. I want a hunting party on its way to the airport in two minutes!”

The twins are moving before the order is given. “We’re on it,” they say in unison as they run out the door.

“Go! Go! Go!” I’ve never seen Obi so excited.

Obi pauses at the doorway to say, “Penryn, join us. You’re the only one who’s been near a demon.” Everyone still thinks a demon carried me to my family when I was seemingly dead.

I shut my mouth before I can say that I don’t know anything. I run to catch up to the group stampeding down the hallway.

S
AN
F
RANCISCO
International Airport used to be about twenty minutes north of Palo Alto if there was no traffic. Of course, the highway is clogged now and driving sixty miles an hour is no longer feasible nor a good idea. But no one seems to have told Dee-Dum that. He takes open side roads in our SUV, weaving through abandoned cars and thumping over sidewalks like a drunken race-car driver.

“I’m gonna be sick,” I say.