World After (15 page)

One of them falls right into the water. It flounders there, screeching.

Another scorpion swings down too low to the fallen one. I can’t tell which scorpion grabs which—whether the one in the air tries to help its buddy or the one in the water grabs the one in the air—but either way, the second one splashes into the water, too.

They thrash and try to climb on top of each other. Each fights for a few more seconds of air by trying to be the one standing on the other. But the winner only gets enough air for one final screech before they both sink.

The first time I saw these things in the aerie basement, they were suspended in tubes of liquid. But I guess they must have had some sort of umbilical cord, or they changed when they were “born,” because now they’re clearly drowning.

Footsteps make me spin and crouch lower. Mom and Clara hunker down beside me behind a broken crate.

There are so many shadows along the pier’s old shopping area that an army could be marching toward us and I wouldn’t see them. We huddle deeper into the darkness.

More footsteps. Running now.

People dart in and out of the shadows and dash into the open where the moonlight exposes them. A small stampede of people desperately running from something.

A couple of them glance behind them with a look of terror as they run.

Aside from their pounding feet on the buckled wooden planks, they don’t make any other noise. No screaming, no calling out to each other.

Even when a woman falls, obviously twisting an ankle, she makes no noise other than the soft thud of her impact. Her face contorts in pain and terror but no sound comes out of her mouth. She gets up and hobbles as fast as she can in a hop-run, frantically trying to keep up with the rest of the stampede.

Their panic echoes in my chest. I have the urge to run even though I have no idea what they’re running from.

Just as my leg twitches from indecision, the things chasing the crowd come around the corner.

There are three of them. Two scorpions hover low to the ground, buzzing on their insect wings. In the center limps an angel who looks like he’s been on steroids.

The huge angel has snowy wings.

Raffe’s wings.

Beliel.

E
VEN
IN
this dangerous situation, my heart twists at seeing Raffe’s beautiful wings on the demon Beliel.

The last time I saw Beliel, he was limping with an injured wing. Someone must have sewn the wing back into place on him after Raffe ripped the stitches. Must be nice to have evil doctors on hand. Beliel’s limp is noticeable but not nearly as bad as it was when Raffe chased him at the airport.

He also has fresh bandages wrapped around his stomach where Raffe sliced him with his sword the first time I met him. It’s good to see more evidence that angel sword wounds don’t speed-heal like other wounds, just like Raffe said.

The scorpions fly leisurely, swinging back and forth, dipping low enough to look into the windows. One smashes a window—probably the last intact window on the pier.

The shattering noise is immediately followed by a panicked shriek. A family with kids darts out of the shop’s door and joins the group running from the monsters.

There’s something about the way the scorpions are moving that raises red flags in my head. They’re not chasing to catch.

They’re flushing out prey.

Before my mind can form the word “trap,” lights blaze on and a fishing net drops from the sky.

That’s when the screams start.

One, two, five fishing nets, as big as house tents, fall from the dark sky.

Darker shadows dive down from above. They land on all fours, scuttling along the ground like real scorpions before standing up on human-shaped legs.

Two of them actually slam into the broken dock face-first, as if they haven’t quite got the hang of landing yet. One of them shrieks its fury at the trapped people, showing a mouth full of lion’s teeth. It viciously yanks the edge of the net, making it whip into people’s ankles.

There are dozens of humans trapped under the nets, clawing and squirming, trying to find the edge of their snare so they can escape. A few jabs of the scorpion stingers cause people to crowd together in the middle of their traps. They cry and scream, all their previous silence gone.

Gunshots ring out from one of the trapped groups. A nearby scorpion goes down, screeching.

As if a dinner bell rang, a bunch of scorpions dive onto the netted group where the shot came from. Stingers lash up and down, repeatedly stinging until blood drips from the tips. Their monster heads latch onto the victims to suck on them.

The screams and thrashing quiet after a minute, leaving only a pile of shriveled bodies twitching beneath a shroud of mesh.

I don’t know if anyone else has a gun, but after that, no one dares to shoot.

A boy of about eight was separated from his father. They reach for each other under different nets. The kid is crying for his dad but it’s the father who looks ashen and utterly terrified at being separated.

The scorpions corral them, half-dragging their nets, half-keeping them moving by threatening with their stingers.

We crouch down farther into the shadows, hardly daring to breathe.

The monsters march the captives to a metal shipping container—the kind that trucks, trains, and ships carry. It’s not far from us but with all the debris strewn around, I hadn’t even noticed it.

They open the container door. A metal-lattice rollup gate is behind that.

And behind the gate, people cluster together as far from the entrance as they can get.

Half the container is already crammed full of men, women, and even a few children. They’re terrified and huddling together like the helpless victims that they are.

The scorpions roll up the metal gate, lifting up the nets. The new captives scurry away from the monsters and into the container.

T
HE
SCORPIONS
do a surprising thing. They take off into the night sky, leaving Beliel alone to roll down the prisoner’s chain gate and lock it.

He takes his time doing this as if to tease the captives. When he’s done, he hangs the key on one of the lamps beside the container.

The mesh of the rollup gate is woven loosely enough to put an arm or foot through an opening, but even a kid couldn’t get out.

The old prisoners are quiet but the new ones make a fair bit of noise with their crying and panicked questions.

“What’s going on?”

“What are they going to do to us?”

Beliel limps around shutting off the tripod utility lights on the dock. His knee seems to be bothering him more than before. He leaves the lights on only near the shipping container. The circle of light is bright there and I’m glad we’re still hidden in the shadows.

As if the fear and hysteria of the prisoners weren’t enough for him, Beliel rattles the container gate, then slams his open palm on the metal side. The loud clang echoes through the pier.

Everyone cringes and the crying gets louder. The terror and hopelessness come in such big waves that they swamp me.

Beliel shoves his face into the chains of the gate. Everyone backs away even more. He hisses and growls at them. Then he grabs the edge of the container and shakes it.

Now, even the veteran prisoners are screaming.

What’s he doing?

I’ve seen him in a rage when he’s been totally out of control. This is different. There’s no passion in what he’s doing. It’s just a job.

He’s on edge, though, and sneaking glances up at the sky.

Is he being watched? Maybe this is more training for the scorpions? Maybe they’re still around, watching somewhere? For what purpose?

I look up into the darkness and the remaining rooflines, suddenly feeling exposed.

I see only the beams of light near the container prison. The lights are a beacon from the bleak landscape of twisted buildings and the lifeless night.

I still can’t make sense of it.

Then, a darker silhouette appears against the sky.

Menacing demon wings.

Broad shoulders.

The shape of a Greek god gliding through the sky.

Raffe.

Every nerve in my body comes alive and pulses.

My mind cries trap, trap, trap!

This is why Beliel is alone, making all this noise. The noise would both attract attention and disguise any noises that the scorpions would make. The scorpions are out there. Hiding. Waiting.

Without thinking, I instinctively spring and open my mouth to scream a warning to Raffe.

But vice-like hands grip my arm, knocking me off balance. Hands clamp down over my mouth and all I can see are the huge, terrified eyes of my mother. She looks at me like I have gone insane.

My brain finally catches up to the rest of me.

She’s right.

Of course she’s right. How bad are things when your clinically insane mother is more rational than you are?

Raffe.

I nod to show that I’m sane again and shift so I can see what’s going on. Mom lets me go.

Raffe lands silently. His wings don’t fold all the way. The scythes on the edge of his wings unsheathe and he whips them out. They’re retractable. I hadn’t realized that before.

I frantically run through my options. What can I do? Yelling will get all of us in trouble. Besides, Raffe thinks I’m dead. Yelling to him might only put him in more danger by shocking him.

The prisoners scream when they see Raffe with his demon wings. It’s painful to see that people prefer a bad guy who looks like an angel to a good guy who looks like a demon.

Beliel feigns stage shock like a clown. “Why, it’s Raphael! Oh, how will I defend myself from the great Wrath that is the fallen echo of what once was?” He drops the act. “Seriously, Raphael, there’s nothing sadder than a broken wreck of a has-been obsessed with trying to relive his past glory. Have a little dignity, will you? You’re embarrassing yourself.”

“Shall I rip off your arms and legs first and then tear off the wings? Or the other way around?” Raffe’s voice is full of raw violence in a tone I haven’t heard before. He sounds like he wishes he could have it both ways.

“Why do you want to go back so badly, Raphael? What was so great about being part of the angelic host anyway? So. Many. Rules. I’d forgotten just how many. Maybe you have, too.”

Beliel is stalling. Keeping Raffe in place until the scorpions can descend on him. I’m dying to call out a warning to him. It’s all I can do to stay quiet.

“All this theory about how a master warrior race can only survive if every little infraction of the rules is punished in the extreme.” Beliel motions his hand in a gesture that says,
Whatever
. “It might have made sense once upon a time when there were only a few rules, but now, things have gotten out of hand, don’t you think? We, the Fallen, on the other hand, have proven that a master warrior race can survive just fine with the opposite system. No rules. You do what you want. To whoever you want.”

Raffe advances on him, the harsh lights emphasizing the shadows on his face. He looks like the Angel of Death. Or maybe the Angel of Vengeance. Someone I can’t imagine approaching.

“You would have saved yourself so much hassle if you had listened to reason and joined us,” says Beliel. “That little Daughter of Man who died in your arms? She could have been yours. No one would have said no. No one would have dared to try to take her from you.”

With a vicious growl, Raffe attacks.