AOD:DOA - Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Culling

Rhodes drove his green, 1997 Pontiac Sunfire toward Lake Ontario. His brakes squealed as he stopped at a red, and the traffic light immediately turned green. He pushed the accelerator carefully, but the front tires still slipped and screeched a bit as he took off.

He glanced at the gas gauge and saw that the needle was about to touch the orange zone near the ‘E’. He thought about his credit card and figured that there was enough room left on it for a full tank, but instead he would get just ten bucks worth after dropping off the book. That much gas would carry him around town for the weekend, as long as he did not go too far.

At one time, this thing got 40 miles per gallon, Rhodes lamented. No. Not 40 miles per gallon, he corrected himself, it used just 7 litres per 100 kilometres.

Now it had aged into what Rhodes called a P-O-C, or Piece-Of-Crap. He thought of his squealing brakes and balding radials.

Time for a brake job and new tires, or else off to the scrap dealer. He could already see the steel belts showing on one of the treads, and that was a perilous condition to be driving with. It was only going to get more dangerous with winter coming.

And I don’t want to be riding my 12-speed touring bike then, either. Walking was too slow for getting from the library to his other part-time job before his shift started. He reflected on the bus alternative for the hundredth time.

The bus is fine for work or errands, or if you are a teenager or already married, but it will not work for courting in my twenties. Can’t afford a car? Can’t afford to eat out. Damn. If I start taking the bus, I will never get a date with anybody ever again.

The bus meant sharing the ride with others, travelling on the bus’s schedule, and following a predetermined route, which did not extend beyond town. Also, the bus did not go as fast or as far as a car.

The bus would be warm, fast enough, cheap, and would allow me to read. It made perfect sense, so of course he did not want to take public transit.

Caught between the proverbial rock and a hard place. I can have safety and humility, or I can be a danger to myself and others. And any money that he saved by shedding the car was already spoken for. He had been putting off purchasing luxuries like clothes and shoes.

Pent-up economic demand, he called it.

Rhodes knew that lots of people used taxis to get around on social occasions, but a taxi cost five times what a bus did. Taxis were worth every penny, but Rhodes did not have those funds to spend.

He did not even contemplate trips on the train into venues in Toronto. Rock concerts, hockey games and musicals were out.

Maybe there is a lonely rich woman out there, just waiting to be my sugar-momma, he mused, but decided that all the rich women were already taken by rich men. Or by poor guys that had washboard abs.

Well I can’t live with danger and debt, Rhodes concluded, so I choose safety, humility and solitude, he condemned himself. Because he was in his early twenties, self-pity and a crisis of faith came easily enough. But because he had made a decision, heroism and romanticism also found him.

Buoyed by a surge of decisiveness, he reached forward and patted the dashboard of his old car. Well, I guess you’ve done what you were made to do, he told the vehicle, they don’t even make Pontiacs anymore. The end of the line it is. He decided to enjoy what little driving time he had left to him, and tried to explain it to his car. I’ll still travel around, but I’m going to be using something else to do it.

Having agonized enough over his choice, he returned his thoughts to the yellow-covered book he was transporting. It was in a re-useable cloth bag on the passenger seat. Naturally he connected it to the new library patron who had signed it out.

I guess I could have called her, and I would probably get to talk to her over the phone, but then I might not get to see her face-to-face.

He hated the thought that he might leave the book at the library for her to pick up. He was also terrified of calling and hearing a male voice that might belong to her significant other. Instead he enjoyed his ignorance a little longer, and imagined himself knocking on the door, followed by her answering it. He felt himself blush.

What if she’s not there? He became anxious, then wondered, And what if she IS there?

Then he realized that he had not planned further than making it to her house.

What am I supposed to say when I give it to her? he wondered, Is she going to think that I’m a stalker?

He considered whether it really bothered him on not. He shrugged.

By doing this, I probably get to see her again, he reminded himself, I’ll just play it by ear.

He looked out the windows at his surroundings.

There were no streetlights our here, and he had to turn on the high beams to check the 911 numbers on the blue signs at the side of the road. It did not yet occur to him to slow down to make reading the numbers easier.

And there’s the start of the three-hundreds, he told himself. At last he slowed down because he knew that he was getting close. He passed a few acres of wood lot, then spotted his objective, and signalled a turn.

He pulled into the driveway and stopped abruptly as he saw a closed gate. The treadless tires of his car ground on the gravel. His front bumper nudged the bars of the galvanized steel gate. Rhodes backed off a few centimetres.

It would not be a good start to damage someone’s gate.

He did not worry about having scratched or dented his front bumper.

He studied the location through the windshield. The barrier in front of him appeared to be chained and padlocked, and there were rusty metal letters welded to the gate: Golden Shore Farms. He looked through the spaces between the horizontal bars, and down the hill to a farmhouse that had some light coming from the windows. He could see that it was a short walk to get there.

Rhodes checked behind him, saw that his car was safely off the road, and turned off the engine.

Save gas and the environment, he told himself, and money. And parking this far from the house means she won’t get a good look at my crappy car before I can junk it.

He left the headlights on to help him find his way down the driveway. The car alarm came on, warning him that he was running down his battery. The engine was turned off, so no alternator was replacing the electricity that was powering the headlights. He did not like draining the battery, but he figured that he would not need it much longer anyway. As for the bing-bing-bing of the alarm, it still irritated him, as it was supposed to.

He opened the car door to get out, and the interior light came on. He looked down at the ground outside his door. The glow from the cabin roof brightened things up enough for Rhodes to recognize big yellow maple leaves floating on a puddle on the ground. He considered moving the car a little so he would not have to step in the puddle, but could not be bothered. He stepped out and closed the door, happy to muffle the bing-bing-bing. As he put a shoe in the puddle, the water came up through the hole in the sole, but he ignored the cold, wet feeling. Tomorrow he would just put a plastic bag over his sock before he put on the shoes.

The sound of waves crashing on the shore rose toward him, and the white noise rush of wind through the disrobing branches drew his gaze overhead. The wind billowed his jacket but could not touch his short hair. He squinted lakeward into the cool breeze, then turned back to the farm house. Wishfully, he considered the logistics of a relationship with Jericho.

How the heck would I ever be able to get out here without a car, especially in the winter?

Rhodes shrugged, figuring that it was probably hopeless anyway. He felt like he had little to no idea what to say to a member of the opposite sex. If he ever started dating Jericho, the relationship might last all of five minutes, but he had not yet given up.

Maybe she has a car. A hot one. SHE could pick ME up. He realized that he was toying with the rich, lonely woman scenario again. He checked for any vehicles parked outside the farmhouse, but there was nothing.

Maybe she’s not home.

He clung to the fantasy of a relationship a little longer, imagining what Jericho would say. Hey Rhodes. No ride? No problem. I’ll come and get you. Where do you live?

He gave his head a shake.

Yeah right.

Making sure he had the book in hand, he confirmed that the gate really was locked. He squeezed between the gate and gatepost, carefully stepping over the chain. He trotted down the driveway, ignoring the squishing sound of one wet sock and insole, and enjoying the fresh wind coming up from the water. As he got closer, he was startled by the sharp sound of breaking glass, as though every window in the farmhouse had shattered at once. He did not know it, but that was not far from the truth.

Was that an explosion? he wondered, not knowing that all the broken glass had flown into the farmhouse rather than out onto the lawn, Is this a meth lab?

He hesitated only a moment before lurching into a run. His legs carried him so fast downhill that he stumbled a few times but kept on his feet under him.

Looking at Jericho’s abode as he approached, he could see that on the second floor of the farmhouse, there were curtains blowing in the wind. On the main floor, the panes still looked intact. He did not think to check the basement windows. As he got to the front door, a blur of movement flashed in front of the windows on the main floor, and then those panes of glass also shattered and appeared to blow inward. He reached for the door handle.

* * *

Rhodes would have been pleased to know that, less than a minute before he reached the door, Jericho had been inside the house, thinking of him.

He knew where the books were on warfare, Jericho reminisced, and he knew that there was something different about me. I saw it in his eyes.

Jericho was sitting on the sofa, turned sideways, feet up on the cushions. Resting on the soft, worn settee was more like sinking into a bed of cotton balls than sitting on a piece of furniture. Jericho liked that. She figured that this was what it felt like for a baby in its mother’s arms.

Or a woman in her lover’s arms, she thought, surprising herself. She shivered and tried to focus on the job. When Rhodes got here, she could not be a schoolgirl mooning over a crush. But it was a seesaw battle between virtue and temptation. She actually glanced down at her clothing.

Cargo pants and a plaid shirt, she lamented. Her canvas satchel, hiking boots and oilskin coat lay on the floor at her feet. Work socks. All very practical, and not particularly attractive.

She wished she was wearing something more feminine but still modest. The yearning did not go unchallenged for long.

Vanity, she chastised herself, my worth is in myself, not my possessions. Anyone who would care about me would not be bothered by my clothing.

She paused. Rhodes would probably be here tonight or tomorrow night. He had her book and her address. She checked the door again, anxious that it was not barred and bolted. We cannot appear besieged when he arrives, she reminded herself. In any event, the windows were not armoured or warded. Secrecy was the protection for this location. Fortifying the door was pointless. She looked at the phone across the room.

He could call at any time. But what am I going to say to him? How do I explain who we are and what we have done?

To focus her mind on her assignment, she selected the best reminder that she had. She picked up a leather-bound book from the coffee table and flipped open the cover. The inscription on the heavy stock read:

“To Jericho. Love A.”

She actually smiled. It could have been ‘G’ or ‘J’ or ‘Y’ or almost any other initial, and the message would have been from the same source. She did not know why ‘A’ pleased her the most, but she was sure that A knew why. She flipped to the first page.

Rule #1: Do not use any more force than is absolutely necessary to resolve the situation.

That one always bothered her. It wasn’t that she felt constrained by it. She always used as much force as she felt was necessary to win the day and no more. What rankled was the need to be told. She turned the page.

Rule #2: If you get angry, refer to Rule #1.

The smile stayed on her face. This book had been written just for her. She was sure that similar instructions had been given to the others, but the wording and the order and the emphasis would be different for them. She felt like she was reading a letter from a friend rather than a book from a prolific author. She knew what was on the next page, but she turned it anyway.

Rule #3: It is okay to growl.

This was her favourite rule. She had been in combat many times, and knew the feeling that came with the charge into battle. Even a prodigy like Jericho had taken a long time to break her pre-disposition to pure good. Rule 3 allowed her to be intense in her vocation without committing a sin. She turned the page and began to read.

Rule #4: On your guard.

This one made her eyebrows crowd together. She was sure that Rule #4 had been about working as part of a team rather than as an individual. She could not even count the number of times that she had read Rule #4. Then she felt the sweat and the ache. She carefully closed the book and set it back on the coffee table, watching the doors and windows rather than where she placed the tome. She heard glass shatter both upstairs and down, as if every window on the second floor and in the basement had broken simultaneously.

She reached to the music instrument case next to her, flipped up the two catches, and lifted the lid. Inside the case was a long, metal horn. Overhead, she heard many feet thudding on the bedroom and hallway carpet, converging on the stairs. In the basement, she heard the softer slap of bare feet running across concrete. They had her covered above and below. She knew what was next. Following her training and experience, she remained calm and kept her movements smooth and careful.

Jericho grabbed the bronze horn with her left hand and lifted it out of the case. She seized the mouthpiece of the shofar with her right hand and raised it to her lips. She jumped to her feet, finding her footing on the over-stuffed cushions.

Jericho inhaled deeply and glanced at the stairs. Silhouettes jockeyed for position as they came rumbling down the steps. In the time-slowing clarity of combat, she noticed that the intruders had left the lights on up there. It would not matter for long.

She only had to hold her breath for a heartbeat before the windows on the main floor shattered inward too, making her twitch despite her readiness. Dark human-sized shapes streaked into the room, blurs of claws and fangs, carried on bat-like wings.

Jericho blew on the horn just as the windows shattered, and everything slowed down until it appeared in crystal clarity. The grotesque humanoid shapes that were breaking into her safe house were now suspended in a cloud of glass shards and wood splinters. The flying creatures and their flying debris were still. Jericho marvelled again as the misshapen attackers hung there, suspended in mid-air, surrounded by a glittering haze of shattered windowpane.

Her eyes were drawn to the manacles that every one of them wore on their wrists, and the shackles that some wore on their ankles. All had metal collars about their necks, and there was a variety of chains trailing from some of the restraints, like dark, rusty streamers.

The time-frozen scene might even have been beautiful if the faces and bodies of the fallen angels had not been so horrific. She avoided looking at them too closely, although it was not because they were ugly.

Then Jericho noticed something unusual. The Fallen carried a wide range of weapons, but the distribution was atypical. She expected swords and spears and tridents. Instead, many of them had clubs and sticks with loops of metal on the end. Her anxiety level crept up a notch as she realized that this mob were prepared to capture her if possible, rather than just kill her.

That is not going to happen, she promised, and concentrated on her shofar.

Jericho changed her note and looked to the ceiling. The plaster flaked away and fell at a rate that seemed normal to her. The beams shook and then groaned, drawn toward the floor by Jericho’s tune. She adjusted the note one more time and the whole of the structure began to shake and tumble inward. She used a free hand to grab her book, then shifted her position into the sweet spot, and made the last note.

Jericho watched the whole house start to collapse on the hell spawn, then caught some unexpected movement out of the corner of her left eye. She was understandably surprised when she looked over at the front door to see Rhodes standing there. He was watching everything, his mouth agape. His movements seemed to be in sync with Jericho rather than slowed down by the music of her horn. Then Jericho recognized Rhodes’s peril.

Rhodes was standing on the threshold, not the outside front step. Directly above him was a triple brick exterior wall of the old farmhouse. It was three solid layers of masonry, weighing many tonnes, and would have stood for another hundred years but for Jericho’s horn.

She wanted to save Rhodes, but she had already blown the final note. Even if she could stop the collapse, she would have to fight off dozens of demons in hand-to-hand combat, and she did not have her sword. Protecting Rhodes from every possible assault would have been impractical, even with Jericho’s speed. And there was no time for her to push him out onto the lawn or bring him in to join her in the sweet spot. His fate was sealed.

Rhodes was looking straight at Jericho and staring. She realized that she was not wearing her sunglasses. The last thing she noticed was that Rhodes was holding a yellow-covered library book in his hand.

All according to plan, Jericho thought ironically, but not quite according to schedule. With the understanding of a project manager, Jericho realized that the scope had remained the same, but the schedule had changed, so the cost had to change as well.

Jericho was used to seeing things clearly, so she was startled when her view of Rhodes blurred. Her impression was one of looking through a rain-covered windowpane. Then Rhodes was blocked from Jericho’s sight as the door jam and the triple-brick wall above it collapsed on him, and the rest of the house fell on everything else that was inside its foundations. As the walls and floors collapsed, the lights went out.

* * *

That music, Rhodes recognized the trumpet sound that he had imagined in the library a short time ago when he had looked at Jericho’s face. He saw the musical instrument that she held to her lips, Of course.

And her eyes, Rhodes marvelled, her eyes are gold.

In appropriately romantic fashion, the last thought that went through his mind was how beautiful and sad Jericho looked.

* * *

As the echoes of her horn blast faded, Jericho stood in the middle of a cloud of dust. The wind intruded, carrying away the fine particles, and revealing Jericho’s perch. She stood stock still at the pinnacle of the pile of debris. Her music case was at her feet. She held her shofar in one hand and her book in the other. She heard footsteps crunching on broken brick, and turned to see Hastings approach.

“Here. You can have this now,” Hastings greeted her, handing over the sword and sheath, “Nice demolition work.”

“Rhodes is in there,” she reported soberly, her gaze resting on the spot where he had stood. She keep looking there as she set the shofar in the instrument case, closed the lid, and laid the book on top. She took the sword, sheath and belt from Hastings, then strapped them on. She then looked down at the ruins beneath her feet. Hastings wanted to respond to what Jericho had said, especially because the things that he wanted to say right now were truthful.

“I saw,” he admitted.

“You saw and you did nothing?” she accused him.

“I was carrying your sword. There was no way I was going to let it out of my possession. If I had intervened, the Fallen would have smelled it and fled. As for the horn, any of the Fallen that caught the scent of it just now have been Banished. They’ll have to learn it all over again if they are Returned.”

Jericho paused and listened. She heard the squeals of some of the Fallen as they struggled to remain corporeal. The ruins of the house pressed down on their battered bodies. She was glad that she could not see them before they expired.

One by one, the Fallen succumbed. Each passing was marked by a soft thump of implosion followed by a black wisp of brimstone. The foul vapours crawled up through the wreckage, only to be dispersed by the wind. If their burial was shallow, the debris would settle a small amount when they vanished.

The Banishments were easy for Jericho and Hastings to perceive, but Jericho was straining to sense something else. Hastings guessed what it was, and decided to cut it off.

“We have got to get out of here,” Hastings urged, “This was a coordinated attack. Everything that could fit in the house joined in the assault. They could have a mop-up squad ready out there, or a pursuit team ready. We do not have another house to drop on them. We must leave now before the rest of the Fallen realize what has happened.”

“He’s still alive,” Jericho protested. Hastings looked at the debris and judged.

“Not for long,” he replied.

“We should stay and comfort him.”

“He’s unconscious and is going to stay that way. Even if we could get to him in a corporeal form, he wouldn’t know that anyone was there.”

“I would know,” Jericho protested. Hastings stifled a curse. Instead he tried more reason.

“We’ve done good work here tonight, Jericho, but this location is compromised. We have to move.”

Jericho bowed to the facts. She bent to pick up her hiking boots. She shook off the dust, and put the boots on. She grabbed her oilskin jacket next, gave it a shake too, and donned it. She left it open at the front so she would be able to unsheathe her sword more easily.

Hastings watched Jericho intently. It was a struggle to look away and check for other possible attackers. Jericho put her book in her satchel, shouldered the bag, picked up her music case, and stood up straight. She gave herself another shake to throw off more dust. Hastings finally got a good look at her face, although she refused to look at him.

The dust had placed a fine coating of powder on her skin and hair, turning her into a vision. She was captivating. Then he saw the wet lines on her cheeks, spoiling the continuity. He realized who the tears were for, and felt the jealousy bubbling up in him. It made him glad that Rhodes was dead, or at least dying and nearly dead.

Jericho dug out her sunglasses from a coat pocket, opened the arms with a flick of her wrist and put them on. For Hastings, the moment was now completely gone.

Jericho turned and dragged her feet across the rubble. Hasting was not done prodding her, but it was a struggle not to overdo it.

“Jericho, we’ve lost men before.”

“But they always knew that they were combatants. Rhodes didn’t.”

“Then let’s honour his memory by surviving to fight another day.”

There was a scratching noise behind them. Jericho stopped, put her hand on the grip of her sword, then turned and looked at the debris. She noticed it moving in places. Some of the Fallen, or some parts of some of the Fallen, were close to the surface of the wreckage.

Hastings could see the wheels turning in Jericho’s head. Jericho took a step forward, intending to dig out one of the Fallen before they all expired, so she could demand a truth from it.

“We don’t have time for this, Jericho,” Hasting insisted, working to keep the tone of anxiety out of his voice. He kept glancing around, willing the struggles of the Fallen to cease so that Jericho would not be tempted to remain. He looked at her, and again had to stop himself from being too insistent.

If they could be sure that they could control the battlefield indefinitely, then they could stay and indulge in search and interrogation. They might only dig out one or two of the Fallen before they expired from their injuries anyway, but even one truthful answer could be damning. Hastings did not want Jericho believing that they could hold this position. He resumed surveying their surroundings, hoping his posture would heighten her concern to the breaking point.

At long last, Jericho nodded to acknowledge the logic, and started to walk downhill. Hastings glanced back at the driveway, but the Sunfire was already gone from the gate. Hastings returned his gaze to Jericho’s back, and followed her toward the water. Jericho and Hastings walked south down the hill to the shore, then east toward Cobourg, avoiding any emergency vehicles that might respond if someone at the neighbouring properties called 911. For the second time tonight, Jericho agonized as she walked away from an encounter with Rhodes.

Not just the second time, Jericho realized, but the last time. She puzzled at the implications of that finality. Why would we be sent to contact him, only to lose him in this way? she wondered. As usual, there was no immediate reply. She had learned from experience that sometimes the answers were a long time coming, if ever. The warning in her book before the ambush had been an unusually timely manifestation, and it had not been an answer to a question.

Jericho was so distraught with guilt at Rhodes’s death that she did not think about how Rhodes had travelled to the farm house, or what would happen when his vehicle was discovered. In contrast, Hastings had thought about the car, but not what he would say to Jericho about things if she ever thought to ask. These details would not occur to either of them for several days.

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