Angel Burn (27 page)

“OK,” said Willow. “Albuquerque it is.”

She gave him a smile, and Alex managed a rueful one in return, relieved that she wasn’t blaming him for his stupidity — he was blaming himself enough already for both of them. He started to head back to the car, already dreading the thought of trying to get the thing across the desert again.

“Wait — could we have a look around before we go?”

Alex turned to her in surprise. She was still standing at the fence gazing into the camp, the sun casting chain-link diamonds across her face.

“What for?” he asked.

Willow ran her finger along one of the chain links, and glanced back at him with a smile. “I’d just really like to see where you grew up.”

“This was the canteen,” said Alex.

They were in a long, low building with a counter on one side. The metal folding tables and chairs were still there, the chairs scattered about the tables as if everyone had just gotten up and trooped off to the rec room to play poker, or to the range for some target practice. Standing beside the counter, Alex shoved his hands in his back pockets, gazing around him. It was like seeing two scenes at once, one overlaid on the other: there were Cully and some of the other AKs, sitting laughing at a table.
Man, what is this crap?
Cully had demanded at practically every meal.
Where’s that lowlife cook, so I can shoot him?
Alex smiled slightly, remembering. There had been no cook; they’d lived off canned goods and stuff in plastic packets.

Willow drifted around the room. Her fingers trailed across the back of a chair as she passed. “What was it like, growing up here?”

“I don’t know. It just seemed normal to me.” Alex picked up an empty coffee mug from the counter and turned it over in his hands. “We didn’t have a TV because it would drain the generator, so I didn’t really know how weird it was. I mean, I sort of knew that the rest of the world didn’t live like this, but  . . . ” He shrugged, putting the mug back.

“How old were you when you moved here?”

“Five,” he said.

“God, so young,” she murmured. “Where are you from originally?”

“Chicago. I don’t really remember it, though.”

There was a light dusting of sand on the floor. It made a scraping noise under Willow’s sneakers as she moved to join him. “So what did you learn here, if you didn’t go to school?”

He laughed suddenly. “Hey, we had school. We did target practice, and we learned how to spot angels, take care of our weapons, read auras, manipulate chakra energy  . . . ” He raised an eyebrow at her. “I was probably busier than you were.”

Willow shook her head, looking dazed. “Yeah, you probably were. When I was five, I was still trying to color inside the lines.” She leaned against the counter beside him, taking in the empty room. Alex saw that her hair had slipped slightly from its knot, resting on her neck in a loose coil. Against his will, he found himself remembering the softness of it, the silkiness of its long strands as he’d stroked his hands through them the night before.

“And your father started this place?” asked Willow, looking up at him.

Glad for the distraction, Alex pushed himself away from the counter. “Yeah. Come on, I’ll show you the bunkhouse.” The sunlight dazzled the white buildings as they went back outside, nova-bright. “My dad worked for the CIA,” he said as they walked through the burning heat. “I guess he specialized in some pretty strange stuff — before he joined the CIA, he spent a few years in Asia, learning about human energy fields, how to work with them.”

Their shadows moved ahead of them on the concrete. Walking silently at his side, Willow glanced up at him as she listened.

“He traveled a lot when I was little,” Alex went on. “Then when I was five, his assignment changed or something, and he was home a lot more. And  . . .  that’s when he first found out about angels.”

They had come to the bunkhouse. The metal door was partly open; Alex pushed it with the flat of his hand and stepped inside. It was relatively cool in here, with shadows painting the walls. The metal bunk beds were still in place, though the mattresses and bedding were gone. “Here’s where I used to sleep,” he said, going over to the second bunk on the right. “My brother, Jake, always took the top bunk, and I got the bottom.”

Willow went still. “Your brother?”

Alex nodded, recalling a hundred fights:
“Jake, you jerk-off, you just stepped on my face.”
“Hey, you like my smelly feet, don’t you, bro? Here, you want ’em again?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Two years older than me.”

Willow came to stand beside him. She touched his arm. “Alex, I’m  . . .  really sorry.”

She already knew about Jake. Alex’s muscles tightened, and he kept his eyes on the bunk as images of the Los Angeles canyon flashed past like a deck of shuffled cards. Finally he said, “Do you know the details?”

Willow shook her head. “No. I didn’t see it when I read you. I just sort of guessed. I meant to tell you I was sorry before, but — well, I didn’t like you very much then.” She gave a small smile.

He felt himself relax a fraction. Thank God; having her sympathy for how Jake had died would be like torture. “I don’t blame you,” he said after a pause. “I wouldn’t have liked me very much, either, if I were you.” Glancing down at her, he managed a wry grin.

Their eyes locked and held. Willow’s hand felt warm on his arm, slightly damp from the heat. All thoughts of Jake faded. Alex felt his pulse suddenly beat faster as he looked down at her upturned face. The moment froze, neither of them moving. All at once Willow seemed to realize how close she was standing, and she dropped her hand and stepped back, looking flustered.

Alex cleared his throat, his thoughts tumbling. “Thanks,” he said. “About Jake, I mean. It was a while ago, what happened, but  . . .  thanks.”

Willow’s cheeks were pink. “You were telling me about your father, and how he first realized about the angels.” She sat on the metal frame of the bottom bunk, leaning against the support post. Alex sat on the other end, careful to keep a few feet between them.

“Yeah.” Suddenly he didn’t feel like dwelling on this. His voice turned curt, impersonal. “See, my mom had been acting really distracted, leaving the house at all hours, that kind of thing. So my dad got suspicious. He thought she was having an affair or something. So one day he followed her when she said she was going running and found her in the middle of the path, just sort of standing there, smiling up at the sky.”

“Oh, no,” whispered Willow.

“He tried shaking her, slapping her — nothing. Finally, because of all the energy work he’d done, I guess he sensed something strange, and he moved his consciousness up through his chakras. And he saw the angel right there, feeding off her.”

There was utter silence around them.

“The angel was pretty startled when it realized it had been seen by someone it wasn’t feeding from. It turned on my dad and he managed to fight it, using his own energy. That’s not something we do anymore; it’s too dangerous. But meanwhile my mom was screaming and crying, telling Dad to stop, that he didn’t understand. She got in between them, and the angel just  . . .  ripped her life energy away, all at once.”

Willow’s green eyes were large. Her throat moved as she swallowed.

“The angel took off, and my mom had a massive stroke. She went into a coma and died the next day.” Unbidden, another memory came: himself and Jake, standing at the side of their mother’s hospital bed with their father behind them, gripping their shoulders. Alex remembered feeling more confused than sad, not understanding why she wouldn’t get up.

“Oh, Alex,” breathed Willow. “I am so sorry.”

He gave a brusque shrug. “Anyway, the CIA probably thought Dad was crazy when he started talking about angels killing people, but he’d been with them a long time, so they gave him some funding and let him do what he wanted. Nobody took it seriously, though, back then. Except for the AKs.”

“And  . . .  then the Invasion happened,” said Willow.

Alex nodded. He had one arm looped around the support post, and he rubbed its warm metal with his thumb. “Yeah. And suddenly the CIA was a lot more interested in whatever it was that Dad had been doing out here all these years. They took over the whole operation, like I told you. And I guess they improved it in a lot of ways. We got better weapons, better cars. And decent salaries for a change.”

Willow looked as if she knew how much he missed the old days, when the AKs had all worked together. “Where’s your father now?” she asked. “Is he still an AK?”

“He’s dead, too,” said Alex. “He died about five months before the Invasion.” He glanced at her, the corner of his mouth twisting. “Hey, aren’t you glad that you asked about all of this? It’s such a cheerful topic.”

Willow shook her head mutely, looking stricken. “Alex, I  . . . ”

“Come on, this is depressing,” said Alex. He stood up. “So, you want to see my English textbook?”

She hesitated, trying to smile. “You had an English textbook? I thought you didn’t do normal subjects.”

“Yeah, let’s see if it’s still here.” Alex went over to a metal bookshelf that stood against one wall. He squatted and scanned the rusty shelves. “Yeah, look. Here you go.” He held up an old Sears catalog.

Her smile became genuine. “You’re kidding!” She laughed.

“Nope.” Alex flipped through it. “This was English, math  . . .  there’s even a map in the back, so we got some geography. Plus the lingerie section was pretty cool. The only girls Jake and I ever saw were always wearing combat gear.” Standing up again, he tossed the catalog back onto the shelf.

“Were you two the only kids here?” asked Willow. She had turned on the bed to face him, drawing one knee up to her chest.

“Yeah. And every so often, someone would realize,
Hey, these boys aren’t in school. We better educate them!
And the catalog would come out for a few days. We liked target practice a lot better.”

Willow started to say something but abruptly fell silent. They both heard it: a vehicle approaching.

Immediately, Alex’s expression turned taut, alert. He drew the gun out from the waistband of his jeans. “Get behind the door,” he ordered in a low voice.

Willow did so without argument, hurrying across the room. Keeping close to the wall, Alex edged toward the open doorway, flanking it on the other side. He listened intently as the vehicle came to a stop. There was the slam of a car door. Only one.
Good,
he thought, pressing against the warm wall. If one of their friends from the panhandle had somehow caught up with them, then they were in for a surprise.

Slow, uneven footsteps were approaching; they seemed to hang in the air. At the sound of them, Alex frowned in surprise. If he didn’t know any better —

“All right, who the hell’s here?” bellowed a familiar voice. “I don’t like unexpected visitors, so you better come on out and show yourself. ’Cause I’ve got a gun, and I am not happy.”

Alex’s shoulders relaxed as joy and relief leaped through him. “It’s
Cully,
” he said to Willow. “Cull!” he called through the doorway, putting his gun away. “Cull, it’s me, Alex!”

Cully was peering into what used to be the rec room, a rifle held at the ready. He wore a sleeveless T-shirt and a pair of jeans that hid his prosthetic leg. At Alex’s voice, he spun awkwardly, surprise overcoming his broad features. At first he simply stared, looking startled  . . .  and then he started to smile. “Alex? Goddamn, it
is
you!”

Leaving the bunkhouse, Alex strode toward him, smiling broadly. He and Cully embraced, pounding each other on the backs. Even after the accident that had cost him his leg, the big southerner was as muscular as ever. Cully squinted his blue eyes as the two pulled apart, pretending to appraise Alex. He shook his head. “You’ve gotten even uglier. How is it possible?”

“Hey, I’m just trying to be like you,” said Alex with a grin. “Cully, what are you doing here? We thought —” Suddenly he remembered Willow. Turning back to the bunkhouse, he saw her standing in the doorway, watching them with an uncertain expression on her face.

Cully turned, too. His eyebrows flew up. “Well, looky here,” he drawled. “Who’s
this
pretty little thing?”

Willow came forward with her arms crossed over her chest, blinking in the sunshine. “Hi,” she said, lifting a hand. “I’m Willow Fields. It’s nice to meet you.”

“
Willow Fields
 . . .  now, isn’t that a pretty name,” said Cully. He glanced appreciatively at Willow’s figure. “You sure have got yourself a looker here, haven’t you, boy? Now, ma’am, what are you doing with this reprobate? He’ll lead you down the road to ruin, I promise you.”

Alex felt heat creep across his face. “We’re not —”

“We’re friends,” said Willow. Her smile looked slightly forced. Remembering her concerns about the AKs hating her, Alex wasn’t surprised.

“Friends,” repeated Cully, nodding his head as if tasting the word. “Gotcha. Well, in that case, why don’t we three friends go and sit down for a while, have something cool to drink?”

“Great,” said Alex. “You got one of the generators going, then?”

“Yeah, I’m staying in your dad’s old place,” said Cully as they started down the road. He walked stiffly, swinging his prosthetic leg with every step. “Can’t really be seen from outside the enclosure, even when I’ve got my truck inside.”

“How come you’re out here on your own, instead of training new AKs somewhere?” asked Alex. “We thought the place was abandoned.”

Cully’s rifle hung from his hand, moving in time with his steps. “It’s seen better days, and that’s a fact,” he said. Walking beside Alex, Willow remained silent, her arms still crossed over her chest. As Cully spoke, she turned her gaze to him, studying him.

“As to what I’m doing out here, me and the CIA don’t get along,” Cully went on. “So I’m just holding down the old fort. Somebody’s got to.” They reached the house that Alex’s father had lived in — one of the smallest buildings in the enclosure but the only one offering any real privacy. Cully opened the door and switched on the light. Alex stepped inside the main room. It was like stepping back in time; the place was exactly the same as it had been the last time he’d seen it — the scuffed table and chairs; the beat-up sofa that doubled as a bed. His father’s maps on the wall were still the only decoration, with red pins showing suspected angel locations from over two years ago. The generator hummed faintly in the background.