Everyone who isn’t shooting seems to be dodging bullets.
Angels are ripping off their dress coats at one end of the foyer, getting a running start to the front door and leaping into the air as soon as they get outside. But one out of every three comes down again in a bloody heap of feathers, as bullets find their marks. It’s a little like shooting angels in a barrel since there’s only the one big exit on this side.
Chunks of marble and light fixtures come tumbling down as something explodes.
Dust and debris shower us as the building is riddled with gunshots.
People scatter in every direction. Many of the women run in high heels, slipping and stumbling over broken glass. I swear some of the people who ran one way a minute ago are now running the other way. They’re having to step over people and angels who are lying limp on the ground.
Raffe is much more noticeable now with his new wings spread out to keep them from shredding us. Even in their panic, everyone stares at us as they run by.
More than a few angels stop and stare for a moment, particularly the warrior types. I see the light of recognition and shock in some of their faces. Whatever campaign Uriel is running against Raffe, it’s getting a major boost in the polls. Raffe and I are like a demonic campaign poster on legs. I worry about what will happen to him, how he’ll be treated if and when we get out of this madness.
I try to look for my family but it’s hard to see anything in this chaos when I still can’t move my eyes.
A number of angels decide to take their chances at being trapped indoors and run away from the front doors. They’re probably headed to the elevator area where they can fly up and out from a higher part of the building. It gives me some satisfaction to see the party literally disintegrating, to see these aliens stripping off their highbrow costumes and running for their lives.
What’s left of the front doors blows apart in an blast of shrapnel.
Everything sounds muffled after that. The floor is covered in shattered glass, and several of the people running in robes and bare feet are having a hard time of it.
I want to run to the doors and shout that we’re human. Tell them to stop shooting so we can get out of there, just like hostages on TV. But even if I could, there’s not a cell in my body that thinks the resistance fighters are going to pause their attack just so we can go free. The days of bending over backward to preserve life for its own sake have been over for weeks. Human life is now the cheapest commodity around, with one exception. Angels lie side by side with humans, like rag dolls strewn about the scene.
We move into the bowels of the building. Everyone gives us a wide berth.
At the elevator lobby, there is a carpet of discarded formal jackets and ripped dress shirts. They must be able to fly better without being bound by clothes, even if those clothes were custom-made for them.
Above us, the air is filled with angels. The majestic spirals of angelic grace are gone, and it’s a free-for-all of flapping wings.
Our shattered reflections flow along a wall of broken mirrors, making the scene seem even more chaotic. Raffe, with his demon wings and dead girl in his arms, dominates the lobby as he glides through the pandemonium.
Although my throat feels torn out, I can hardly see the red mark where the stinger pierced me. I’d assumed there would be bloody strips of flesh from where the stinger erupted, but instead, it looks no worse than a bad bug bite.
Despite the chaos, I start to see a pattern. The angels are generally running in one direction, while the majority of humans head another way. We follow the stream of humans. Like a zipper, the crowd opens up before us.
We push through a swinging door into an enormous kitchen full of stainless steel and industrial appliances. Dark smoke swirls through the air. The walls near the stoves rage with flames.
Smoke stings my throat and makes my eyes water. It’s a special kind of torture not to be able to cough and blink. But I take it as a sign that the pain from the stinger must be receding if there’s room for me to feel other sensations like smoke irritation.
At the far end of the kitchen, a stream of people shove through a delivery door. Several people move back against the wall, letting us through.
Raffe stays silent. I can’t see his expression but the humans look at him as though they are seeing the Devil himself.
Another blast rips through the building and the walls shift. People scream behind us in the kitchen. Someone is shouting, “Get out! Get out! The gas is going to blow!”
We burst through the door into the cool, night air.
The screams and explosions are even louder outside as we walk into the combat zone. All my senses fill with the rat-tat-tat of gunfire. The acrid smells of overheated machinery and gunsmoke fill my lungs.