Headlights(79)

The shadows have all turned to the agents.

But before I can do or say anything else, the shadows are up and moving.

Two groups of them—four or five each—rush to the male agents on either side of the chapel. They smother them, pile on top of the men, each a writhing, black mass.

One agent chokes, falls to his knees, grabbing his throat. The other is shoved up against the wall, held up above the ground by the shadows.

Josie yells, confused. Eyes frantic. Garcia’s head swivels between each of the other agents. No one grasping what is happening.

The shadows are real. They’re doing this. Garcia and Josie can’t see them, but …

They’re real.

HELP. THEM.

He meant help us. He was talking to the shadow congregation.

Garcia rushes to the agent up against the wall, says his name, tries to get to him.

The shadows take her to the ground.

Josie watches all of it, trying to understand. And I can see a glazed look in her eyes, the incense starting to hit. To the side, the shadows swarming Garcia, pushing her down to the floor. Covering her body.

Josie yells, “What is happening? What’s happening to them?”

She starts to move, shaking her head and trying to push through the fog of the incense. I don’t think she sees the shadows, her attention never moving to the ones still in front of her in the seats. The ones she is inches from. She doesn’t see them turning, fixing their attention on her, standing from their chairs, moving.

“Josie, stop!” I yell.

And she does. Just at the edge of the shadow congregation. Maybe some last vestige of marital trust, maybe old habit. But she looks at me with an incredulous expression, and then her eyes go glazed and roll back in her head.

She falls to the floor.

I look to Hannah. She’s already moving through the center aisle toward the door. Both of us released. The shadows make no moves toward her. I follow, say, “Wait, just a second.”

I bend down beside Josie and feel her pulse, touch her forehead. She’s unconscious but alive. The shadows have returned to their seats, the other agents passed out on the floor.

Behind us, Theo Wharton / Father Sky says in his own smooth voice, “Going already?”

I don’t turn back. I have more questions. Too many. But …

“There are more agents out there,” I say to Hannah. “We need to run. Fast.”

She nods, and I brace myself for whatever this ends up being. Somehow, the incense isn’t affecting me anymore. I don’t think Hannah either. We can move normally. We can do this.

I glance back once. One final time to catch Father Sky, watching both of us with that wolfish, furious smile. Dangerous. Every part of him. I know it, feel it. Hatred on his face.

Hatred maybe for me.

“See you soon,” he says.

We throw the doors open and run.

I take it all in. The field, the squad lights no longer flashing.

To our right, two agents. To our left, a squad car and of course Nat fuckin’ Tillman, looking up at the sky. We’ve got about a hundred meters between us and the red Wagoneer.

We run.

Shouts, on the right, one of the two male agents. Both of them rush toward us.

One of them is big, not as fast. But strong. The other, smaller than me, is fast.

“Guys, I don’t want to fight you!” I yell. “Don’t do this.” They don’t slow down.

The smaller one is almost on us, ten feet away. I swear.

“Don’t stop!” I yell to Hannah, and I see her run past me. As I wheel on them.

Small guy is going for the tackle, running at me full force. My mind, body calm. I enter that other-state, the one I’ve lived in so many times in my life, more than I should have. The fighting quiet. Everything slows down. I don’t let myself think about how bad this is, how bad it looks. How royally fucked I will be in every court of law. We just have to get out of this.

I bend my knees, lower my center of gravity, angle my body so he can’t make total direct contact. Half a second away. I can see his chest heaving, the breaths he’s pushing out. The look of focus on his face. Have to anticipate the moment of contact, when the tackle will come, have to use his momentum, have to— He jumps, flies through the air. I sidestep, but not fast enough to avoid the hit. His right shoulder collides with mine, knocks me back a step, his arms moving to surround me.

Before they can, I shove my left elbow into his solar plexus and throw my right fist beneath his chin in an uppercut at the same time as my right leg swipes behind his. He’s thrown backward, lands on the ground, the hit hard enough that he’s still, for the moment.

I look up just as the big man closes in from my side, twenty feet away. He’s reaching for his gun, slowing him more. I hold my hands up in surrender. I can’t turn to see where Hannah is, or Tillman. The big man takes his time walking toward me. Talks, says that I shouldn’t move or he’ll shoot, all the normal things. But I’m not listening. I’m watching. I don’t hear any of the words he says, but I know he wants me on my knees. I do it, lower myself down. He’s going so slow, so fucking slow, as he steps toward me.

I need him faster, need him to move.

Come on, come on, just a little closer.

I put my hands behind my back, and he steps around behind me. He’s tall. I sit all the way low so he has to bend down, down, down. My hands almost as low as the ground.