Angelfall (Penryn & the End of Days 1)

The wind rustles through the treetops. My blood pounds in my ears.

For a few heartbeats, everyone stares into the twilight with eyes wide as if waiting for a nightmare to come to life. Then, as though a command had been given, chaos bursts through the crowd.

Soldiers run to the trees in the direction of the scream, gripping their guns and rifles. Everyone starts talking, some crying. Some rush one way, others rush another. It’s a crush of noise and confusion bordering on panic. Like the dogs, these people aren’t as well trained as Obi would like.

Anita climbs off me, the whites of her eyes showing all around her irises. She takes off, running after the biggest crowd which is stampeding into the mess hall. I get up, torn between wanting to see what’s happening and wanting to hide in the relative safety of numbers.

Raffe is suddenly beside me, whispering. “Where are the wings?”

“What?”

“Where did you hide them?”

“In a tree. ”

He sighs, obviously trying to be patient. “Can you tell me?”

I point in the direction of the scream, where the last of the soldiers disappear.

“Can you tell me how to find it, or do you need to show me?”

“I’d have to show you. ”

“Then let’s go. ”

“Now?”

“Can you think of a better time?”

I glance around. Everyone is still scrambling to grab gear and run into a building. No one gives us a second glance. No one would notice if we disappeared during the chaos.

Of course, there’s whatever it is that’s causing the panic.

My thoughts must show in my face because Raffe says, “Either tell me or show me. It has to be now. ”

Twilight is sliding fast into full

dark around us. My skin prickles at the thought of wandering through the forest in the dark with whatever it was that caused an armed soldier to scream like that.

But I can’t let Raffe run without me. I nod.

We slip into the darkening shadows for the closest path to the forest. We half-tiptoe, half-run through the woods.

Gunshots fire in rapid, overlapping succession. Several guns fire simultaneously in the woods. Maybe this isn’t the best idea.

As if I’m not freaked out enough, screams echo through the oncoming night.

By the time we run across the camp and reach the hiding tree area, the woods are quiet. Not a single rustle, no birds or squirrels disturb the silence. The light is fading fast, but there’s enough to see the carnage.

About a dozen soldiers had run toward the scream. Now there are only five still standing.

The rest lie scattered on the ground like broken dolls tossed by an angry child. And like broken dolls, there are body parts missing. An arm, a leg, a head. The ripped joints are ragged and gory.

Blood splatters everything—the trees, the dirt, the soldiers. The dimming light has leached the color out of it, making it look like oil dripping off the branches.

The remaining soldiers stand in a circle with their rifles pointing outward.

I’m puzzled by the angle of their rifles. They don’t point straight out or up, the way they would for an enemy on foot or in the air. Nor do they point to the ground the way they would if they weren’t about to fire.

Instead, they point midway down as if aiming at something that’s only as high as their waists. Mountain lion? There are mountain lions in these hills, although it’s rare to see one. But mountain lions don’t cause this kind of slaughter. Maybe wild dogs? But again, the slaughter doesn’t look natural. It looks like a vicious, murderous attack rather than a hunt for food or a defensive fight.

The memory pops into my head of Raffe mentioning the possibility of kids attacking that family on the street. I dismiss that thought as soon as it comes. These armed soldiers would never be this scared of a gang of kids, no matter how feral.

Everything about the survivors looks freaky spooked, as though the only thing containing their panic is their paralyzing fear. Their white-knuckled grips on their rifles; the way they hold their elbows tight near their bodies as if to keep their arms from shaking; the way they move shoulder to shoulder, like a school of fish clustering near a predator.

Nothing natural could cause this kind of fear. It goes beyond a fear of physical harm and into the realm of mental and spiritual. Like the fear of losing your sanity, of losing your soul.

My skin prickles watching the soldiers. Fear is contagious. Maybe it’s something that’s evolved from our primeval days when your survival odds were better if you picked up on your buddy’s fear without wasting time to discuss it. Or maybe I’m sensing something directly. Something horrifying that my reptile brain recognizes.

My stomach churns and tries to reject its contents. I swallow it back, ignoring the acid burn on the back of my throat.