World After (Penryn & the End of Days 2)

I feel a flutter of unease. But I tell myself that they won’t capture Raffe. They can’t. He’ll be all right.

The two-way radio on the dash comes alive and a voice says, “Something’s going on at the old aerie. ”

Obi grabs the handset and asks, “What kind of something?”

“Angels in the air. Too many to hunt. ”

Obi takes a pair of binoculars from the glove compartment and looks toward the city. In most places he wouldn’t have a clear view, but we’re near the water so he has a shot at seeing something.

“What are they up to?” asks Dee-Dum.

“No idea,” says Obi looking through the binoculars. “There are a lot of them, though. Something interesting is going on. ”

“We’re halfway to the city already,” says Dee-Dum.

“He said there were too many to capture,” says Sanjay sounding nervous.

“True,” says Obi. “But it’s a chance to find out what they’re doing. And you wanted angel bodies to study. The aerie will be the best place to find them. ”

“I think it’s gotta be one place or the other, boss,” says Dee-Dum. “If we go to the airport, it’ll take everyone we’ve got to bag our targets, assuming they’re still there. ”

Obi sighs, seeming reluctant. He speaks into the radio. “Change of plans. All vehicles head to the old aerie. Approach with extreme caution. Repeat, approach with extreme caution. Hostiles have been sighted. This is now an observation mission. But if you get the chance, bring back a bird specimen. Dead or alive. ”

Chpater 7

THE ICY rain pelts my face as we race through abandoned cars in a sea of junk. Well, racing is a strong word for an SUV rolling at thirty miles an hour, but these days that speed is neck-breaking—literally, since I’m perched on the window and hanging on for dear life.

“Tank at two o’clock,” I call out.

“Tank? Seriously?” asks Dee-Dum. He strains his neck to see above the debris cluttering the road. He sounds excited even though we both know that the angels would hear a tank from miles away.

“I kid you not. Looks dead. ” My rain-soaked hair drips down my neck and traces a finger of ice down my back. It’s a light rain, as most San Francisco rains are, but enough to seep through everything. The wet chill freezes my hands and it’s hard to hang onto the grab-handle.

“Bus at twelve o’clock,” I say.

“Yeah, that I can see. ?

??

The bus lies on its side. I briefly wonder if it got tilted by one of the earthquakes that shook the world when the angels came, or if it was picked up and tossed by avenging angels when the Resistance hit their aerie. My guess is that it was tossed, since there’s a long crater in the road near the bus with an upside-down Hummer in it.

“Uh, giant crater—” Before I can finish my sentence, Dee-Dum swerves the car. I hang on tight as I’m pitched to the right. For a moment, I think I’m going to smash into the asphalt face-first.

He does a crazy zigzag maneuver before he straightens the car.

“A little forewarning would be nice,” says Dee-Dum in a singsong voice.

“A little smoother driving would be nicer,” I say mimicking his tone. The hard metal of the car door presses against my thighs, bruising my muscles as we bump onto the sidewalk.

As if that isn’t bad enough, I haven’t seen a single hint of batwings attached to an Adonis-like body anywhere along the way. Not that I expected to see Raffe.

“That’s it. Glasses or no, it’s Sanjay’s turn. ” I slide down from my perch and sink into the back seat as Sanjay climbs up to sit in the open window on his side.

We’re approaching the Financial District from a different direction than Raffe and I had a couple of days ago. This part of town looks like it wasn’t the nicest part to begin with, but a few buildings still stand with only their edges singed.

Colorful beads are splashed over the sidewalk in front of a store with a sign reading Beads and Feathers. But there’s not a single feather in sight. The bounty that someone has put out for angel parts must still going strong. I wonder if all the chickens and pigeons have been plucked? Their feathers might be worth more than their meat if they could be passed off as angel feathers.

My stomach feels full of ice as we near the disaster zone that was once the Financial District. The area is deserted now, with not even scavengers looking for bits of usable supplies or scraps of food.

“Where is everybody?”

The Financial District still stands, or at least a few blocks of it does. In the center, there’s a gaping hole in the skyline where the aerie used to be. A couple of months ago, it was a high-end, Art-Deco hotel. Then the angels took over and turned it into their aerie. Now it’s just a pile of rubble from when the Resistance crashed a truck full of explosives into it.

“Oh, that’s not good,” says Dee-Dum, looking up into the sky.

I see it the same time he does.

A funnel of angels swirls from the place where the aerie used to be.

“What are they doing here?” I whisper.