died
within fifteen minutes of each other on opposite sides of town, confirming what
we already suspected. Multiple angels.
With this many bodies and missing
persons, it’s likely a small group. Tarren surmises that they hunt
individually, spread out across the town, dropping victims like it was going
out of style.
All in all, it’s frustrating as hell.
Tarren doesn’t help anything by being even more unbearable than normal. His
eyes are flint gray, his face set so hard in a mask of determination, I’m
afraid it’s going to get stuck that way. He pushes us on and on and on, like if
we just trudge enough miles through the snow, the angels will give themselves
up and meekly allow us to shoot them in the face. I have to remind Tarren to
eat and force him back to the motel room to shower, thaw out, and catch a
little sleep.
In those few quiet moments when I’m
snuggled under the covers on the cot, allowed four hours of rest, I miss Gabe
so fervently. So utterly. If he weren’t currently refusing to answer any of my
texts, he could lift this heavy curtain of frustration with a joke. He’d also convince
Tarren to pace himself. Tarren will always pretend to rest for Gabe’s sake.
By the morning on the third day of
patrol, the storm is blowing itself out. The wind is hoarse, and the hail turns
into heavy, wet flakes. As the sun rises behind us, Tarren and I stalk the
downtown area on foot where some brave drivers slip and slide toward office
buildings and high-rise condos.
Three deaths have been reported in this
five block radius over the past two days. It’s the only sliver of a pattern
we’ve been able to discern. My brother’s mood has grown darker with each passing,
futile hour. We bicker. The newest objects of his ire are my mittens.
“You can’t shoot in mittens,” Tarren
says.
“I also can’t shoot if my fingers fall
off.” I glance down at my purple mittens, cutely decorated with gray
snowflakes. I purchased them at Target on the way from Farewell, along with a
matching scarf currently wound tightly over my face.
“Your coat is too restrictive. What if
you need to run?”
I touch my padded white parka
protectively. I’d bought Tarren a matching black parka along with gloves and
thermal socks on the same Target run. He might as well have burned them in
front of my face for all the appreciation he showed.
Today Tarren wears his usual – a thin
black jacket, zipped up to his chin, black skintight gloves, and heavy black
boots. The wind tousles his dark hair and turns his nose and ears bright pink.
“I look normal,” I inform him, my voice
muffled beneath my scarf. “You’re the one who looks out of place. You should
wear a hat.” I point to my pale pink knit cap decorated with a border of little
snowmen.
Tarren glances down at me, the usual scowl
in place. I can tell he’s absolutely miserable, but I think that’s half the
point. If he even gave an inch to any but the most basic creature comforts, it
would betray his image as the lone, suffering hero.
“You know, I read somewhere that you
lose 50% of your body heat through your head,” I continue.
“You can’t shoot in mittens,” he repeats,
stepping around a mound of snow that might be a fire hydrant.
“I’ll pull them off as soon as we find
some wings,” I snap back. “You wouldn’t happen to know where any are, would
you?”
Childish comeback, I know, but Tarren
has an uncanny ability to stoke even little sparks of annoyance into raging
flames. I’m pissed and tired and have no idea what we’re doing out here. Tarren
likes to pretend that we’re some kind of elite fighting force, but that’s a
joke. We’re just dumb kids fighting a scattered army of super humans on a
shoestring budget and a few helpful safety tips our mom made up. Most of the
time it feels like we’re just making things up as we go along.
I kick at the ice in front of me. We’ll
have to pack up tonight, get ahead of the storm, and try again farther
within fifteen minutes of each other on opposite sides of town, confirming what
we already suspected. Multiple angels.
With this many bodies and missing
persons, it’s likely a small group. Tarren surmises that they hunt
individually, spread out across the town, dropping victims like it was going
out of style.
All in all, it’s frustrating as hell.
Tarren doesn’t help anything by being even more unbearable than normal. His
eyes are flint gray, his face set so hard in a mask of determination, I’m
afraid it’s going to get stuck that way. He pushes us on and on and on, like if
we just trudge enough miles through the snow, the angels will give themselves
up and meekly allow us to shoot them in the face. I have to remind Tarren to
eat and force him back to the motel room to shower, thaw out, and catch a
little sleep.
In those few quiet moments when I’m
snuggled under the covers on the cot, allowed four hours of rest, I miss Gabe
so fervently. So utterly. If he weren’t currently refusing to answer any of my
texts, he could lift this heavy curtain of frustration with a joke. He’d also convince
Tarren to pace himself. Tarren will always pretend to rest for Gabe’s sake.
By the morning on the third day of
patrol, the storm is blowing itself out. The wind is hoarse, and the hail turns
into heavy, wet flakes. As the sun rises behind us, Tarren and I stalk the
downtown area on foot where some brave drivers slip and slide toward office
buildings and high-rise condos.
Three deaths have been reported in this
five block radius over the past two days. It’s the only sliver of a pattern
we’ve been able to discern. My brother’s mood has grown darker with each passing,
futile hour. We bicker. The newest objects of his ire are my mittens.
“You can’t shoot in mittens,” Tarren
says.
“I also can’t shoot if my fingers fall
off.” I glance down at my purple mittens, cutely decorated with gray
snowflakes. I purchased them at Target on the way from Farewell, along with a
matching scarf currently wound tightly over my face.
“Your coat is too restrictive. What if
you need to run?”
I touch my padded white parka
protectively. I’d bought Tarren a matching black parka along with gloves and
thermal socks on the same Target run. He might as well have burned them in
front of my face for all the appreciation he showed.
Today Tarren wears his usual – a thin
black jacket, zipped up to his chin, black skintight gloves, and heavy black
boots. The wind tousles his dark hair and turns his nose and ears bright pink.
“I look normal,” I inform him, my voice
muffled beneath my scarf. “You’re the one who looks out of place. You should
wear a hat.” I point to my pale pink knit cap decorated with a border of little
snowmen.
Tarren glances down at me, the usual scowl
in place. I can tell he’s absolutely miserable, but I think that’s half the
point. If he even gave an inch to any but the most basic creature comforts, it
would betray his image as the lone, suffering hero.
“You know, I read somewhere that you
lose 50% of your body heat through your head,” I continue.
“You can’t shoot in mittens,” he repeats,
stepping around a mound of snow that might be a fire hydrant.
“I’ll pull them off as soon as we find
some wings,” I snap back. “You wouldn’t happen to know where any are, would
you?”
Childish comeback, I know, but Tarren
has an uncanny ability to stoke even little sparks of annoyance into raging
flames. I’m pissed and tired and have no idea what we’re doing out here. Tarren
likes to pretend that we’re some kind of elite fighting force, but that’s a
joke. We’re just dumb kids fighting a scattered army of super humans on a
shoestring budget and a few helpful safety tips our mom made up. Most of the
time it feels like we’re just making things up as we go along.
I kick at the ice in front of me. We’ll
have to pack up tonight, get ahead of the storm, and try again farther
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