Ash & Flame: Season One by Wilson Geiger

Maybe he could lose—
    Something hard slammed into his ribs, and he heard a crack. He gasped, squeezing his eyes shut against the sharp pang in his side, tumbling over in the air.
    He blinked and looked over his shoulder.
    Too late he spotted the dark shape careening towards him out of the corner of his eye. He caught sight of a powerful thrust of wings, and then Abaddon was on him, the collision sending another wave of agony through his ribs. He hissed as vice-like fingers dug into his shoulders, and together they spun to the earth.
    The spear flashed in his grip, and he drove the shining point forward. Abaddon caught the shaft in his hand, and bared his teeth, the veins on his neck bulging as he pushed the spearpoint away. Ithuriel flexed his hand, the spear popping out of sight. He started to close his hand into a fist, willing the spear back into his grip, but too late.
    Abaddon's other hand closed around Ithuriel's throat, fingers clawing, squeezing his neck. He pressed in, and glanced over Ithuriel's shoulder, his smile twisting into a sneer.
    Ithuriel looked back. Too late, he knew, as the trees loomed before them, and the Malakhi rushed to meet them.
    He squeezed his eyes shut and set his jaw, his hands gripping Abaddon's wrists, struggling to break free.
    Too late.

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
    EPISODE THREE
     
    Brad crouched, leaning back against the thick bulk of a tree trunk. He paused there, listening to the surrounding woods, scanning past the tree line.
    A thick layer of clouds obscured the sun, the dark cover casting long shadows into the clearing ahead. The sharp, angular silhouette of the small, two-story farmhouse cut across the yard, the roof sagging over the front porch, windows cracked and dirty. A rusted truck sat in the driveway, and Brad caught the glint of a tall pole standing on the far side of the driveway, the metal rim and backboard of a basketball hoop leaning to one side.
    Amy had always wanted to live out in the country. But Brad had that great job in metro St. Louis, and he hadn’t liked the idea of a long commute. Traffic was already bad enough, he’d told her, and he hated the idea of tacking on another thirty minutes to an hour. But, like with everything else, he couldn’t refuse her, and he’d finally given in.
    Eventually he’d gotten used to the idea of living in the rural area southwest of the city. They’d gone about their lives, and it wasn’t until the world had fallen apart that he realized just what a mistake it had been to give in.
    Maybe if he had stuck to his guns, and they’d stayed closer to his work. And maybe if he had left the office just a little bit earlier that day, or called in sick. Or if he’d driven faster, weaving through the chaotic traffic with everyone fleeing the red haze that swept over the city. Maybe if he had been more desperate.
    Too many maybes, though. He wished he could get them all out of his head. It wasn’t his fault.
    Even if it felt like it every time he thought of her.
    Brad swore to himself. Knock it off, you got a job to do . Haven needed food and supplies. He wasn’t here to reminisce.
    He wrapped his hand around the pendant hanging from his neck, and glanced back over his shoulder at Rachel crouched by a bush several paces back. He caught the glint in her eyes, and flashed a quick signal over his shoulder, pointing towards the farmhouse’s porch.
    Rachel nodded, and returned a thumb’s-up.
    Brad acknowledged the sign, and forced himself to focus. He leaned his head around the tree and checked again for any signs of trouble past the farmhouse. The breeze picked up, the cool draft chilling his bare arms, eddies of ash swirling over the front yard of the house.
    He let out a quick breath and scrambled ahead, ducking behind a row of shrubs that lined the edge of the driveway. He counted to ten, and moved behind the bed of the truck. He paused and peeked past the rear bumper.
    The front porch stood only a few paces away, the white,