Out of Reach (2 page)

Looking John straight in the eyes, Z
replies, “Yes, there is. Someone’s spit in my food.”

Shock and anger war across John’s face but
he controls his voice with visible effort. “I assure you, sir—no
one at this establishment would do such a thing.”

Jumping to his feet, Z stares down the
nearly two-foot height difference separating John and himself, his
stormy grey eyes glowing with contempt. “You calling me a
liar?”

“No, sir!”

“Then take this back and try again,” Z says,
thrusting the offensive plate back into John’s hands. And that’s
when John reaches his limit. Everyone has one. There’s an undefined
amount of abuse we are all willing to take before completely
snapping.

A flick of the wrist sends the blue ceramic
plate flying into a nearby wall, where it shatters on impact. John
points his pasty white finger in Z’s face.

“Look, you ...
son of a bitch
. You want
another sandwich, make it yourself.” Looking back and forth between
the two of us, he continues. “You two need to leave,
now!”

“And who’s going to make us?”

Our scene grabs the attention of the few
remaining patrons scattered around the café. A waitress darts into
the kitchen, no doubt to alert the manager of the disturbance. This
stalemate needs to end quickly, before we draw more of a crowd, or
the authorities.

“Wanderer.”

Z turns at the sound of my voice and I shake
my head. Straightening to his full height, the hostility that was
rolling off his body in waves moments before vanishes, like a
switch has abruptly been flipped.

Clouting John on the shoulder, he
smiles.

“Well, we best be going, my man. No hard
feelings. Thanks for everything.”

Shooting a nod my way, Zafir stalks out of
the establishment and I beat feet to catch him, leaving a
dumbfounded John in our wake, mouth agape, chin quivering.

We don’t stop walking until we reach the
SUV—a nondescript white Yukon Denali, fully loaded. A comfortable
ride to be sure, but as boring and as unassuming as the other fifty
million white SUVs on the road these days.

The sound of slamming doors resonates
through the parking garage as we settle into our seats. Craning my
neck around, I check to see that the bags are still safely stored
behind the seats before engaging the engine and backing out. We
travel light, always stowing our luggage in the car. It increases
the risk of theft some but ensures we are ready to leave at the
drop of a hat, should the need arise.

“Well, that was a waste of time,” I say.

“Yeah, a total fucking nightmare.”

Pulling out of the garage we head to the
freeway, Z begins popping is knuckles and grinding his teeth. He’s
never been one for road trips. I turn up the radio, hoping to drown
out his annoying nervous habits with some classic rock.

“I’ll call it in the next
time we stop,” I tell Z, who nods before leaning back and closing
his eyes.
At least his fidgeting and foot
stomping have begun to keep time with the music
, I note.

Mile-markers flash by at consistent
intervals, and still the desolate interstate stretches out before
me. The monotony dulls the senses and my mind begins to wander. A
series of freak lightning storms is what originally brought us to
Arizona. Now, lightning storms are nothing out of the ordinary for
this region, but this isn’t the typical season for them. The
meteorological conditions that usually coincide with electrical
storms were also missing. So Zafir and I were dispatched to
determine if the root cause truly was Mother Nature or not.

During our first night in Phoenix, we drove
through the outlying areas where the storms had been sighted. By
retracing the path of the events and speaking with the locals of
the small community, we turned over a couple slim leads, hence the
time I spent trailing John Summers while Z checked out Wendy
O’Connell.

Wendy, an elementary school teacher, had
been visiting her sister during the events in question. John had
merely been passing through. He’d stopped for gas and coffee on his
way back to downtown Phoenix. The two humans have nothing more in
common than their brilliant copper locks, which nowadays is the
only identifiable trait that matters. Surveillance of the pair had
been a dead end, which leaves Mother Nature as the leading culprit
of the odd happenings—and the best outcome we could’ve hoped
for.

“Redheads,” I mumble to myself.

“Ain’t that the truth,” Z says, perking up
in the passenger seat next to me.

“Remember the good old days when you could
pick ‘em out with your eyes closed?”

“Yes,” I reply.

“These days, all that’s left of the old
powers is that fucking hair and a righteous temper,” Z says.

My laughter rolls like thunder, filling the
cab. Even when my chest heaves and I struggle to catch my breath, I
can’t stop laughing. “You mean the righteous anger of the angels,
Z?”

“Yeah, the reds’ genetic short fuse.”

God, I wish the angels were around these
days. I would love to witness Z boiling down the legacy they’d left
their descendents to nothing more than a genetic short fuse. The
extent of what he’s saying is true, though. The once mighty
Nephilim, offspring resulting from the pairing of angels and the
daughters of men, are no more. The bloodline has become so diluted
the only traits that continue to endure are the lustrous red hair
and the legendary temper. But it wasn’t always so.

In the beginning, the blood of angels made
the Nephilim strong. They were larger in stature and fairer to
behold than their human brethren. They also possessed differing
degrees of supernatural abilities, which usually manifest as
control over the elements. A tiny fraction developed the ability of
foresight, an eternal plague of dreams and brief glimpses of what
would come to pass.

Throughout mankind’s recorded history, the
Nephilim have worn many names. The ancients called them demi-gods
or heroes, their legendary deeds passed down and exaggerated
throughout the generations. Those cursed with foresight most often
bore the title “oracle” and were equally worshipped and feared.
Sorcerer, mage, witch, and warlock—every society on earth has
branded them something different. Nowadays, in a world where
science has largely replaced superstition, Nephilim would probably
be considered mutations, or mutants.

In the last hundred years, I am the only one
of the twelve of us who has witnessed a Nephilim exhibiting the old
powers. It was a decade ago and happened so fast that, although I
recall the details with perfect clarity, I must admit even now, in
the recesses of my own mind that I question if what I saw was
real.

Chapter 2

“If you take your shoes off, I will put you
through that window.” I glower at Zafir to emphasize my point.

His internal debate is visible on his face
as he weighs his odds of out maneuvering me in the small space of
the cab.

“You have my word, Z—you won’t like the
outcome.”

“Fine,” he huffs, crossing the trees he
calls arms across his chest before resuming scowling out the
window. Conversation the last few hours has been light, thankfully.
Being introspective by nature, I thrive on quiet times to think. I
usually don’t get many of those around Z. The guy isn’t so much a
conversationalist as a one-sided monologue. When you talk with Z he
literally does all the talking.

“Pull over.”

“What, why?”

Turning a vicious eye my direction, Z says,
“Because I have something in my shoe.”

“What are you, a child?” I admonish.

“Look, you have to stop soon anyway to make
a report. Do it now so I can stretch my legs.”

Taking in his bowed shoulders and incessant
foot-tapping, I admit to myself he looks pitiful—well, as pitiful
as a brick shithouse can look.

“Alright, next exit.” Half a mile later we
pull off the freeway and into the first gas station we see. Tossing
Z the keys I head back behind the building, seeking a little
privacy for the phone call I’m about to make.

Tapping the phone against my thigh, I
hesitate, kick a rock across the pavement, and run a hand through
my hair. Punching the contact, I wait. Glancing behind me I see
Zafir in his socks shaking out his boots and choke off a laugh as
the line crackles to life.

“Kade.”

“Adil ... Phoenix was a bust. There’s
nothing happening there.”

“I’ve heard nothing new. Makeen and Rashid
are tracking a potential candidate in London. Maybe they will have
better luck.”

Gazing at the clouds, I release a deep
breath slowly. “Yeah, maybe they will.”

“Where are you headed now?”

“Back to San Diego.”

Adil’s unease is palpable through the phone.
“Still chasing that lead, brother?”

“It’s not your concern, brother.” Dropping
the phone into my pocket, I trek back across the parking lot,
pausing only to fill the Yukon up with gas. Zafir heads into the
convenience store.

“I forbid you from buying Funyuns, Z!” I
shout. Rolling his eyes and shaking his head he shoves his way
through the front doors. Slamming the nozzle back into its resting
stand on the gas pump, I grab my receipt and climb into the cab to
wait.

A few minutes later Z emerges from the
convenience store sporting a lopsided grin, arms full. Z pompously
ambles across the parking lot. Rolling down the passenger window, I
lean across the center console and shout out the window, “Really,
at your age?”

Dumping his cornucopia of Hostess crap onto
the passenger seat, he steps back, stretches his arms wide, and
shrugs his shoulders. “What? It looks great.”

“Seriously, you’re
thousands of years old.” Unable to look any longer at the red,
brazen beer logo taking up real-estate on Z’s skull, I rest my
forehead against the steering wheel. Still full of himself, Z
relocates his stash and swings himself into the cab, pulling the
trucker’s hat down tighter to his head as he does. In the air
between us hangs a big
no
comment
.

Straightening up, I stare ahead through the
bug encrusted windshield. A random thought teases a wry smile out
of me.

“Do something about the glass. I can barely
see to drive,” I say.

“Uh huh,” Z replies, exiting the vehicle
again. Biting back my laughter, I watch as what can only be
described as an olive skinned-redneck-wrestling-trucker wields a
modern day magic wand to scrape the corpses of dead bugs off our
windshield. I completely lose it when a poorly calculated fling of
the squeegee slops dirty water all over Zafir. Adding the dynamics
of a wet t-shirt contest to the ridiculous display in front of me
is just too much.

Grumbling, Zafir stalks back to the car
door, rips off his graphic tee, tosses it over the seat, and climbs
into the cab.

“Without that shirt, all you need is a
mullet, brother,” I say, convulsing against the steering column.
The well-placed right hook I’m expecting never falls.

Instead Z barks, “Drive!” His voice is
dripping with venom. No further prompting is necessary and we hit
the freeway in a flash.

“What did Adil say?” Zafir asks a little
while later.

“Makeen and Rashid are working a possible
lead in London. Nothing new has crossed his radar.”

“We’re headed back to san Diego,” Z states
as fact, not a question.

“I know what I saw, Z.”

“I’ve never doubted you. I’m not going to
start now.”

The unwavering conviction in his eyes is
more overwhelming than his verbal declaration. I break eye contact,
deeply humbled.

“Thank you, my brother.”

Z’s faith in what I saw that day has never
wavered. My belief is enough for him. I can’t say the same for the
rest of the twelve, who view my continued stay in San Diego as a
waste of time. After all our fruitless assignments, like this one
to Phoenix, Z always returns with me to San Diego without
complaint. I am undeserving of his devotion.

We both fall silent and the monotonous
rhythm of the SUV as it hums down the highway soon lulls my partner
to sleep, leaving me alone with my thoughts. Emotions
unintentionally dredged up by Z have me reliving a scene long since
past.

Wanderer business had me posing as a college
student in San Diego. Not ready to call the operation a complete
bust, I took it upon myself to scout out the other Nephilim around
campus, hoping to find one with the old powers.

I was ensconced on one of the observation
decks in the library, people watching, when I saw her. Hair the
color of sunset cascaded down her back like a river of fire. Tall
and lithely built, she was exquisite. Bright eyes some
indistinguishable shade of green entranced me. I was halfway down
the front steps of the library before I realized I was following
her. She had picked up a blonde shadow along the way and the two
headed in the direction of the science buildings across the quad. I
trailed the duo, but hung back a ways, careful to camouflage myself
from view. Their destination was the chemistry building. Stealthily
I pursued, following them to a large lab located on the second
floor.

Three other people were already present and
they seemed to be working on some group experiment. Circling around
the hallway outside of the lab, I observed the group through the
tiny rectangular windows cut into the lab’s many entrance and exit
doors. Seizing an opportune moment when everyone was distracted, I
slipped inside and hid behind one of the lab benches.

Evidence supporting my suspicion that this
group had been here for some time was strewn about. Chemical
reagents, lab apparatus, empty pop cans, cookies, and fast food
containers littered the surfaces adjacent to the experiment in
progress. Tempers were high and, in my assumption, the red-haired
beauty was close to snapping.