roommate. Same upturned
nose and long neck. Rachel must be in class right now. Listening. Studying. Not
being a monster.
The girl on the computer screen is not in class. Her picture
on the screen accompanies her obituary.
“Did you, uh,” I try to be cool about this. “Is this an
angel you, uh…” They do kill people, I remind
myself. Lots of people .
“No, not us,” Gabe follows my gaze. “But someone did, or
something. Obits are how we find them. Angels.” He nods to the computer screen.
“Google alerts are the greatest thing ever except for Keira Knightley.
Basically, I set specific search terms, and Google trolls through all the news
and sends back anything that matches.”
“And you look for dead people?”
“Right-o.” Gabe spins his chair around, so that he faces me
again. “Mostly heart attacks between the ages of 15 - 45 but also radiation
poisoning and, of course, unexplained causes as the catch all for the rest.”
“That’s a lot of obits…wait, radiation poisoning?”
“Failed angles. Not everyone survives the infection process.
It wreaks havoc on your body, screwing up your DNA, no offense. For some
people, their bodies give out. Radiation is a strong component of the process.
Sometimes the coroner can’t figure out any other cause of death, so they say
radiation poisoning. Wha-la, failed angel. And where there’s one dead angel…”
Body on fire. Turning, twisting,
contorting into something else entirely. Every cell exploding in my veins.
Bones shattering like glass. The fear of not knowing what is happening or if it
will ever stop.
“Oh,” I say when Gabe raises his eyebrows. “Uh, where
there’s one angel, there are bound to be others.”
“Bingo, Yahtzee and Connect Four.”
“And heart attacks?”
“Iced. Angels kill by absorbing a victim’s energy. It’s what
they feed off of. As the angel is sucking up the energy, the victim’s heart
just gives out. It’s what actually kills the person. Heart attack.”
But Ryan had such a strong heart. I
would lay my head against his chest and…
I swallow. “You said ‘iced’?”
“Oh yeah, well angels suck away body heat with everything
else. Victims are ice cold. That’s how I tell a regular heart attack from an
angel. Autopsy will show a way low body temp at death.”
Ryan cold and dead and alone. Frozen on
the pavement while I fly away. Warm breath stolen. Hot lips chilled.
Gabe continues, “If I find a heart attack where I shouldn’t,
say a healthy 30-year-old athlete, I look for other unexplained or strange
deaths in the area or a spate of missing persons. That’s how we find them.”
He clicks a tab on the middle screen to reveal a map of the
United States smattered with multi-colored pins.
“Google maps are the shit. Google should just take over the
world, seriously,” Gabe says. “This map is totally interactive. I load on all
my suspicious obits — those are the red pins — and look for patterns.” His mouse
grazes across the screen, and each pin lights up with notes. Names. Dates.
Modes of death.
“Most of the angels move around a lot,” Gabe continues.
“It’s the only way not to get caught. By following a wake of bodies, we can put
together a crude trail. If I confirm angel, the pins turn white, and we load up
the car and go.”
I don’t know how to be cool or good about this, so I just
tell the truth. “That’s really creepy.”
Gabe shrugs, “I just kind of zone out while I do it, you
know,”—here he makes quotes with his fingers—“compartmentalize.” There’s a note
of bravado in his voice while he offers this explanation, and all of this is so
wrong, so dark and twisted. How can two guys living out in the middle of
nowhere be fighting a war?
Here’s the part where I would have asked all about Grand and
all about Diana and what happened to Tammy and all those other big, mean,
skittish questions — I’m sure of it — except that Tarren walks through the
door. He’s
nose and long neck. Rachel must be in class right now. Listening. Studying. Not
being a monster.
The girl on the computer screen is not in class. Her picture
on the screen accompanies her obituary.
“Did you, uh,” I try to be cool about this. “Is this an
angel you, uh…” They do kill people, I remind
myself. Lots of people .
“No, not us,” Gabe follows my gaze. “But someone did, or
something. Obits are how we find them. Angels.” He nods to the computer screen.
“Google alerts are the greatest thing ever except for Keira Knightley.
Basically, I set specific search terms, and Google trolls through all the news
and sends back anything that matches.”
“And you look for dead people?”
“Right-o.” Gabe spins his chair around, so that he faces me
again. “Mostly heart attacks between the ages of 15 - 45 but also radiation
poisoning and, of course, unexplained causes as the catch all for the rest.”
“That’s a lot of obits…wait, radiation poisoning?”
“Failed angles. Not everyone survives the infection process.
It wreaks havoc on your body, screwing up your DNA, no offense. For some
people, their bodies give out. Radiation is a strong component of the process.
Sometimes the coroner can’t figure out any other cause of death, so they say
radiation poisoning. Wha-la, failed angel. And where there’s one dead angel…”
Body on fire. Turning, twisting,
contorting into something else entirely. Every cell exploding in my veins.
Bones shattering like glass. The fear of not knowing what is happening or if it
will ever stop.
“Oh,” I say when Gabe raises his eyebrows. “Uh, where
there’s one angel, there are bound to be others.”
“Bingo, Yahtzee and Connect Four.”
“And heart attacks?”
“Iced. Angels kill by absorbing a victim’s energy. It’s what
they feed off of. As the angel is sucking up the energy, the victim’s heart
just gives out. It’s what actually kills the person. Heart attack.”
But Ryan had such a strong heart. I
would lay my head against his chest and…
I swallow. “You said ‘iced’?”
“Oh yeah, well angels suck away body heat with everything
else. Victims are ice cold. That’s how I tell a regular heart attack from an
angel. Autopsy will show a way low body temp at death.”
Ryan cold and dead and alone. Frozen on
the pavement while I fly away. Warm breath stolen. Hot lips chilled.
Gabe continues, “If I find a heart attack where I shouldn’t,
say a healthy 30-year-old athlete, I look for other unexplained or strange
deaths in the area or a spate of missing persons. That’s how we find them.”
He clicks a tab on the middle screen to reveal a map of the
United States smattered with multi-colored pins.
“Google maps are the shit. Google should just take over the
world, seriously,” Gabe says. “This map is totally interactive. I load on all
my suspicious obits — those are the red pins — and look for patterns.” His mouse
grazes across the screen, and each pin lights up with notes. Names. Dates.
Modes of death.
“Most of the angels move around a lot,” Gabe continues.
“It’s the only way not to get caught. By following a wake of bodies, we can put
together a crude trail. If I confirm angel, the pins turn white, and we load up
the car and go.”
I don’t know how to be cool or good about this, so I just
tell the truth. “That’s really creepy.”
Gabe shrugs, “I just kind of zone out while I do it, you
know,”—here he makes quotes with his fingers—“compartmentalize.” There’s a note
of bravado in his voice while he offers this explanation, and all of this is so
wrong, so dark and twisted. How can two guys living out in the middle of
nowhere be fighting a war?
Here’s the part where I would have asked all about Grand and
all about Diana and what happened to Tammy and all those other big, mean,
skittish questions — I’m sure of it — except that Tarren walks through the
door. He’s
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