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.
We huddle out of sight behind a large tree. I glance at Raffe crouched beside me. He is looking at everything but the soldiers, as if they are the one thing in the forest we don’t need to worry about. I’d feel better if he didn’t look so uneasy.
What spooks an angel who’s stronger, faster, and has keener senses than man?
The soldiers shift. The shape of their circle changes to a teardrop.
The men ooze nervousness as they back slowly toward the camp. Whatever had attacked them seems to be gone. Or at least, the soldiers seem to think so.
My instincts aren’t convinced. I guess not all the soldiers are convinced either, because they look so freaked out that the slightest sound might be enough for them to open fire, spraying bullets every which way into the dark.
The temperature is plummeting, and my wet t-shirt clings to me like a sheet of ice. But sweat trickles down my temples anyway and pools greasily in my armpits. Watching the soldiers leave is like watching the basement door close, shutting out the only light in the house and leaving me alone in the monster-filled darkness. Every muscle in my body screams to run after the soldiers. Every instinct is frantic not to be the lone guppy separated from its school.
I look at Raffe, hoping for some kind of reassurance. He’s on full alert: his body tense, his eyes searching the darkening forest, his ears perked as though listening in stereo.
“Where is it?” His whisper is so low I’m reading his lips almost as much as hearing his words.
At first, I assume he’s talking about the monster that could do such damage. But before I can ask how should I know, I realize he’s asking where the wings are hidden. I point beyond where the soldiers had been standing.
He silently runs to the other side of the circle of destruction, ignoring the carnage. I tiptoe-run after him, desperate not to be left behind in the woods.
I have a hard time ignoring the body parts. There aren’t enough bodies and parts to account for all the missing men. Hopefully, some of them ran off and that’s the reason there are fewer of them than there should be. I slip on the blood in the middle of the carnage but manage to regain my footing before I fall. The thought of falling face-first on a pile of human intestines is enough to keep me moving to reach the other side.
Raffe stands in the midst of the trees, trying to find one with a hollow. It takes a few minutes before we find it. When he pulls out the blanket-wrapped bundle of his wings, the tension leaches out of him, and he hunches his shoulders and head protectively around the bundle.
He looks at me, and there is enough light for me to see him mouth the words thank you. It seems to be our fate to continually pass our debt back and forth.