Read Nighthawks (Children of Nostradamus Book 1) Online
Authors: Jeremy Flagg
***
“
Jesus
fucking Christ, he did it,” a man said, thrusting his glass into the air.
“Salut,” they all said in unison.
“You asses act like it was never going to happen,” Conthan said with a grin.
A girl ruffled his hair. “You draw enough pictures of pretty women and somebody’s bound to notice.”
“Trish, you’ve hurt his feelings.” Sculptee said as Conthan pouted. “His work isn’t about pretty women, it’s about transcending the physical and embodying the beautiful held in each of our tattered and frayed souls.”
The room paused.
“I call bullshit,” said another.
Sculptee held his glass in the air. “In all seriousness, it couldn’t have happened to a better man. You’ve been with us since the start. We wish you the best.”
“Don’t forget us in your fucking memoir,” said another.
Conthan thrust his glass into the air, clanking with his fellow artists. They all slammed their booze. He sat down on a couch made from a repurposed bench seat of an old car and stared at the small fire in the middle of their gathering. The six of them had been his family since college. When they were close to graduating, they decided they couldn’t stomach the idea of corporate jobs. Instead of working in small coffee shops and living the artist cliché, they pooled their money to buy a large warehouse in a rough side of town.
The three-story high corrugated metal walls were supported with massive metal girders leading to a metal roof. The decor was a mix of industrial and abandonment, something they had unanimously agreed was perfect. The group of artists had taken over a small corner of the football-sized structure. They had built makeshift walls out of plywood, offering a little bit of seclusion from each other.
Conthan had to admit that much of his success was because of the people in the room. They frequently gathered on their mismatched furniture and drank while discussing the finer parts of art and the less than savory aspects of society. During his first critique, Sculptee, a self-proclaimed master of plaster, told him point blank his female nudes were passé. Trish, an installation artist, and her boyfriend Rocks, who Conthan wasn’t quite sure how to describe—something about taking apart cars and putting them back together in less traditional forms—had agreed. Yiyi, a street artist and fashion trending guru, had suggested he start looking for something edgier and less done to death. Ultimately it was Patches, a man obsessed with the descent of mankind and its ability to destroy the world around it, who suggested he revisit the drawings in his high school sketchbook.
“Who was the Child you were drawing? There was something dope about the way you captured the normalcy of her…” He thought for a moment, searching for the word to describe Sarah’s growths. “You showed how awesome she is by avoiding the obvious controversy in your subject.”
Gretchen was the last acquisition to their ragtag group of artists. Her father owned an extremely lucrative chain of hotels, and as a graduation gift, he bestowed an empty building to her. Instead of following in his footsteps, she decided to create a place artists could present their ideas to the world. As none of them had expected, she was very good at what she did.
Rock startled Conthan as he poured another shot. “If you’re not wasted before the night, I didn’t do my job, man.”
Conthan held up the shot. “For art.”
“Fuck art!” yelled Sculptee. “For the money!”
“Salut!” they all yelled, raising their glasses.
Yiyi plopped down on the couch next to Conthan. She blew the neon pink hair out of her eyes and took a swig straight from the bottle of vodka. “Glad one of us can pay the bills,” she said, passing it to him.
“Fuck you,” Rock howled at Yiyi. The man was chiseled, his muscles bordering on freakish. As a youth he had worked on cars with his dad, and somewhere along the way he found art. The muscles helped lift heavy things.
“Yiyi is the one with the clothing line at Macy’s. I’m pretty sure I saw her flashing a platinum credit card earlier.”
“That’s not art,” she replied, snatching the vodka back from Conthan. She took another gulp from the almost-empty bottle. “That’s me selling my soul.”
“I’d sell my soul for half,” said Sculptee.
“If only you had one,” came a voice from the steel door. Gretchen slammed it behind her and sauntered over to the group. “I need to interrupt this party to talk some business.”
“Boo,” Trish said. “If you kill my buzz, Gretch, I’m gonna slap the tattoo off your face.”
Gretchen reached into her pocket, took out a small ball the size of a marble, and placed it in the air. She let go, leaving it hovering as she reached back into her pocket for her cell phone.
“Okay, first.” She pressed a button. The ball shone, projecting an image of a man wearing a tuxedo. “We might have the most notorious art critic this side of the river attending the opening.”
Conthan felt his stomach turn. “I’m going to be sick.”
Yiyi scooted away from him. “Do not throw up on this dress.”
“Yeah, kind of a big deal,” Gretchen said, flipping through her phone. “But of course I can one up that.”
The image changed to a video playing. A man was standing in front of several news cameras. “The audacity of these youngsters, creating a media spectacle around the Children of Nostradamus, treating them like false idols. These abominations are not things to be celebrated, they are to be condemned and removed from the chosen race.”
“What is this?”
Gretchen held her finger up to Rock. “Just wait for it.”
“We will be at this gallery tomorrow, showing the owner we will not tolerate the wickedness associated with the Children of Nostradamus. Our flock will demonstrate the error of worshipping false Gods.”
Gretchen pressed the button. “Bitches, be impressed.”
Conthan closed his eyes and took deep breaths. “I’m going to be sick.”
Yiyi moved further away. “Gretchen, what are you going to do?”
“That’s the beauty of it. I’m not doing a damned thing. Who do you think alerted our favorite Reverend?”
“Whoa,” Trish said, leaning forward. She gestured toward the frozen image of the man on the screen. “He’s going to harsh the vibe, Gretch. Man has a reputation with the Children, he can’t be much a fan of the Fringe either.”
Gretchen licked her lips as she pressed the next button on her phone. The video switched to a woman with hair straightened in a row of foot-long, jet black spikes. The woman had seven obvious piercings and the left side of her face was covered in tattoos. “The keepers of the caste system have waged war on a people whose differences are presented to us, both literally and figuratively, in the Children of Nostradamus. Hate-mongering groups such as Humanity First have exploited and marginalized a segment of the population…”
“You didn’t,” said Trish.
“I’m with Trish.” Rock reached out, putting his hand through the video and pausing the stream. “Pops always said you don’t store the gasoline with the matches.”
Conthan rocked back and forth on the couch. Yiyi patted him on the head, but he barely noticed as he focused on the fire in front of him. “I don’t know about this,” he said between quickened breaths.
Gretchen threw her arms in the air. “You act like I’ve never done this before.” She held out her hand and the small sphere moved until it was firmly in her palm. She reached out and took the bottle from Yiyi and chugged until it was half empty. “What could possibly go wrong?”
Sculptee pointed at Gretchen. “You are so screwed now.”
Conthan tried to keep his stomach from tying itself into tighter knots. His first show was already shaping up to be on the front page of the newspaper. He was nervous with the exposure, but now he would be at the epicenter of controversy. His friends would be there. Gretchen would be running the show. He took a deep breath. It could only go so bad. It was more likely he would run his mouth to a critic and screw himself in the art scene. He felt his stomach clench again.
***
Sarah
knew the moment she opened her eyes this was a nightmare. She stood in the middle of her high school classroom. The colors were desaturated, leaving the room a variety of murky grays. The edges faded off into nothingness, an abyss of black.
It was the classroom she was called out of to be told she was a Child of Nostradamus. The desks were in the same rows, and books rested on top of them, apparently untouched for years. It was the room that haunted her dreams night in and night out. This was the room where her humanity was stolen from her.
“But so much more was given to you, Sarah.”
It was him.
The dream didn’t change, not until recently. Before she would try to escape the room, but the doors and windows were locked. Eventually she would be frozen by fear. Her pulse would race in terror and just as she thought she might wake, the door would open and two figures would escort her from the room. She would wake in a cold sweat, screaming at the top of her lungs.
Then
he
arrived.
His presence had taken away the fear of the nightmare. As she awoke from one dream into another, she could feel a moment of panic, but it passed. She knew she was asleep in a small cement room. She was lying on top of a sterile mattress, wearing a white prison uniform. The nightmare lost its power over her. However, as the dream became less frightening, the voice speaking to her became more direct.
His voice had started as a whisper, a sultry, seductive voice she tried to ignore. She had feared her nightmare was uncovering new methods of terrifying her. The whisper grew louder, talking to her, befriending her in this horrific location.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“I am here to help you, Sarah.”
She shook her head, trying to force herself to wake. She felt the pressure of hands resting on her shoulders, a presence pressing up against her backside. “I can help you, Sarah.”
The word was faint, barely audible as she spoke it. “Yes.”
The grip on her shoulders tightened as a black liquid crawled along her feet, enveloping her legs. She caught herself on the window frame as the darkness crept up her body. She pushed at it. She tried to shake it off, but it was clinging to her like a second skin, climbing her torso.
She stared out the window, surrendering to the icy grip. Outside there should have been a massive tree, and beyond that, the student parking lot. Instead of the familiar high school surroundings, an empty blackness dominated the view. Far off in the distance a small figure shone brightly, warding away the darkness. As she submitted to the voice, she watched the figure reveal itself, wings spread out wide. Her vision blurred until the angel vanished. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, she felt at peace as the darkness consumed her completely.
May 16th, 2032 9:02PM
She placed her hand on the glass of the building next to her. She examined the window and had to assume it was a business office of some sort. Inside would be cubicles. Offices had fridges, and if she was lucky, water coolers that hadn’t run dry. Her belly grumbled at the thought of food. She hadn’t eaten since the morning before they were loaded into the truck. She had decided to avoid the supply depot from orientation.
Reaching into the Snoopy backpack, she grabbed a small Tylenol bottle and opened the cap. She took two pills and chewed. Despite their bitter flavor, they would alleviate her headache and the act of chewing gave her stomach false hope. When the sun rose, she would have to make food a priority.
She approached the glass doors and noticed the massive white X’s spray painted on them. She had found these throughout every city block she explored. She assumed it was a method of tracking buildings that were pillaged so as not to waste time later. Much to her dismay, it meant another place with no food and most likely no water.
“I wish I could find a library,” she said aloud. She flinched as lightning flashed overhead. She counted like her grandmother had taught her. Two Mississippis later, thunder shook the ground. Her thoughts returned to the library. If she could find one, she bet it would have something that could help her. Her mother had told her everything she ever needed to know could be remedied with a trip to the library.
“I bet I could find a book about plants I could eat. Maybe a way to hunt.”
She had found that scavenging was effective as long as she thought to look in awkward places. The backpack she discovered in the back of a minivan. Her hoodie she pulled out from under a bed in house just outside the city. The Tylenol and lighter were underneath one of the registers in the back of a small restaurant. She had hoped to find cans of food, but they were all gone. She began to notice these empty buildings were covered in giant white X’s.
She was determined to survive.
The smoke was visible only a few city blocks away now. She hadn’t seen another living person since last night. The smoke could be a natural fire, but she decided it was worth taking the chance to see if there were other people alive. The people on this side of the fence were criminals; she couldn’t trust they would be like her, simply trying to survive. Her stomach growled.
They may have food
, she thought.
Lightning crashed again, quickly followed by a thunderous clap. She bolted across the street, staying low to the ground. As she reached the canopy of a drugstore covered in giant X’s, she could hear a sound like pebbles smacking against the ground. The air changed as the sky opened up and the rain came down in in a deluge.
She stepped out into the wet and let it soak through her clothes. She pulled off the hoodie and let the rain saturate the cotton garment. She held it over her mouth and began to squeeze. She gulped. The rain tasted disgusting. It took her a moment to figure out that the bitterness could be caused by some sort of fallout. She enjoyed the reprieve while she could, but decided it would be best to wait until she could uncover what other residents did for drinking water.
Shoving the hoodie into her backpack, she pushed against the pharmacy door. A piece of wood covered the broken glass on the lower half of the enclosure. She began kicking, knocking the wood down, and then clearing the remaining glass. She crawled through the door into a dark room. She stood reaching out, guiding herself in the darkness behind the counter. She tripped and fell to one knee and froze, making sure nothing was broken.
She stayed on the floor, reaching around behind the counter to see if she could find any identifiable objects. She pulled out a plastic baggy from her backpack and fished around for the lighter. Flicking the flint several times, she had to blink at the brightness of the little flame. She hovered the light along the counter, looking for anything she could use. She had to hold back a cheer. She reached underneath, toward the back, and grabbed a bottle of Sprite and a bag of beef jerky.
“Thank you God,” she whispered.
She listened for the crack on the seal as she opened the bottle. Lightning illuminated the entire store for a moment. She was shocked to see so many shelves completely emptied. Thunder followed, loud enough that it echoed in her chest. She took her first swig of Sprite. It was flat, and fairly disgusting, but as the liquid filled her stomach there was a satisfying sensation. She let out an, “Ahhhh,” as she set the half-emptied bottle down.
Her attention turned to the package of jerky. She ripped the bag open and took her first bite. The hard, savory meat instantly brought saliva to her mouth. She rationed out the food, eating half of it now. She pressed the seal on the wrapper shut and stashed the rest in her backpack. She had no idea when she would find food again, so she didn’t dare give into her instincts and eat it all. The Sprite she continued to sip on, savoring each drop of the liquid.
Lightning. Thunder.
She froze at the sound of an engine revving outside of the pharmacy. There was a light outside the glass doors and voices shouted back and forth. She cursed. She was in one of the most important resources on this side of the fence. If she were them, she would check the pharmacy despite the giant X. There was no point in being cautious when it came to having drugs to ward off disease.
“Stupid,” she whispered to herself.
She dropped low to the ground and scurried toward the broken door. She peered through the shattered window and saw a pickup truck. One man was driving while another was in the back and a third walked alongside the slow-moving vehicle. The driver hit the brakes and pointed in different directions, barking at the other two. She fell backward as his finger ultimately pointed and held at the pharmacy door.
Lightning. Thunder.
There was more hollering and she jumped at the sound of gunfire. She pulled herself back to the window to see one of the men waving a small gun in the air. There were only two of them now, the third one nowhere to be found. She yelped as a body fell from the sky, landing on the roof of the truck. The two men screamed to get out of there. The driver slammed the gas, but before the truck could move, another figure dropped out of the sky, landing in front of it.
It was the angel.
The angel grabbed onto the front of the truck and leaned in, digging its feet into the pavement. The vehicle slowly pushed the figure backward as the men continued yelling. The angel jumped onto the hood and grabbed the man in the back. Wings open, it launched itself into the air for a few feet. It came down hard on the pavement, crushing the man into the ground. As the angel’s feet touched the ground, it spun around, slinging the man back at the truck.
She gasped at the strength of it. She had seen augmented guys who didn’t have the same impact the winged figure did. The wings were magnificent, she thought. As the lightning cracked again, she was amazed at the wingspan of the figure. The bright white feathers attached to the back, just like the pictures she had seen in Sunday school. She could make out the face and realized the angel was a female. She had assumed because of the ferocity of its actions it was a man.
She crawled through the hole in the door so she could get a better view. The angel was running back toward the truck. She leapt, sending herself airborne, and sailed into the back of the pickup truck. The truck turned the corner and vanished.
She stepped out from under the awning, her backpack slung over her shoulder. She could feel the rain soaking through her clothes again.
She waited, letting minutes pass by. She couldn’t hear the truck over the sound of rain hitting the ground and waves of water gushing into the sewer grates. She didn’t know if she should run or wait for the angel to return. The decision was made for her as the figure lowered itself in front of her. The wings flapped hard, slowing the woman’s descent to the ground. She landed hard enough it put her down on one knee.
The angel stood. Lightning. Thunder. As her wings pulled in tight to her body, they seemed to vanish from sight. The moon cast just enough light that she could make out the collar of the robe, high enough to hide the winged figure’s mouth.
“Twenty-seven,” the angel said. The convict grabbed her arm, her fingers touching the carved numbers in her forearm. She had thought about her new identity and how the branding was like a signature to her new life. She had thought about calling herself by the number, but she had yet to say the words out loud.
“How did you…”
“We need to be away from here,” the angel said. Before Twenty-Seven could ask why, the angel responded, “There are more of them on their way. You’re not safe.”
“Where do we go?”
The angel held out her hand. It was the first kind gesture Twenty-Seven had seen since entering the Danger Zone. “I have friends nearby that can provide asylum.”
“What about them?” she said, pointing to the corpses on the ground.
“Their thoughts are far from pure.”
“But…”
“Trust me,” the angel said. Twenty-Seven took her by the hand. She had no idea why, but she trusted the figure in front of her. Trusting her meant survival. She squeezed the angel’s hand. She would survive the Danger Zone.
***
He
stood in the park across from the gallery, his last chance to turn around and avoid the scene unfolding in front of him. Across the street, the crowd gathered just outside Gretchen’s art gallery. His shoulders tensed at the circus. He had expected a modest turnout—Gretchen had a knack for getting a crowd—but the scene before him was more a spectacle.
The crowd that collected outside of the building was frightening, screaming back and forth over several policemen. Some held picket signs while others pumped their fists in the air. One of the signs read ‘Kill the Freaks,’ hoisted high above the protestor’s head. An angry man shouted into another man’s face, his spit visible from several feet away.
Conthan took several steps closer. He could see there were police wedged between the two opposing sides. The other side was just as vocal, holding their own signs, ‘God Loves All,’ and chanting their own ridiculousness at the opposition. The police had donned their riot uniforms, helmets and tactical vests. Each of the officers held a shield, which they used to push the crowds apart.
He started to walk forward again when he saw two of the policemen wearing glasses instead of helmets. He could tell by their demeanor that they weren’t there for riot patrol, they were there with a mission. He didn’t need to see their badges to know they were part of the Corps. Beneath the exterior of normal human flesh was a labyrinth of wires and surgical implants, enhancing their abilities and making them borderline superhuman. Their eyes were enhanced, able to see in the dark and receive readouts fed to them by some unseen computer. He had watched a news feed last night that was acquired through the live feed of a Corps member’s eyes. The man who was projecting the image had punched through a metal safety door.
“Gretchen, what have you gotten me into?”
He pushed his hands into his pockets and moved forward. He reached the crowd, astonished by how loud the bullhorns were. A flesh and blood officer helped him along, pushing people back as Conthan reached the building. The door was opened and he was shoved inside while the policeman went back to his job.
There were easily another two hundred people in the gallery. It wasn’t exactly crammed, but it would take a while to navigate through the crowd to reach the back of the room.
“Name please?”
He turned to see the receptionist in the lobby. He looked at the young girl, her blue hair sticking straight up in spikes. Her body was covered in tattoos, a lion eating a dragon wrapped around the torso of a naked man and so many others.
“Your name, please?”
“Uh,” he stammered, “Conthan.”
“The Conthan?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Because there’s more than one Conthan on the list?”
She gave him a dirty look and waved him in. “Gretchen will find you.”
“What is going on?” he mumbled to himself.
He dodged his way through the crowd and lifted a glass of champagne off a tray from one of the several servers circulating the room. He rounded a white wall in the middle of the gallery space and got his first chance to see one of the other painter’s pieces. Conthan stared for a moment and then began to fall into his schooling.
Examine the work. Absorb the work. What did the artist want you to see? What did you feel?
He explored the black vortex of paint on the two-by-two-foot canvas. He could see the liberal use of the palette knife and sloppy delivery of the medium. He felt dark looking at the piece, as if he were looking into an abyss. He leaned back and attempted to unravel the possible messages being delivered by the artist.