The Angel
Session: 2026-06-24
May 7. Littleville. Still.
The house had been lived in. Family photos on the wall — a young woman, long hair, a couple of dogs. She was the one on the front step, shriveled under the motion sensor.
The Gent found fifty dollars in the side dresser, first thing, and pocketed it without comment. I didn't comment either. The house said what it needed to: nobody coming back, nothing worth protecting except the mattress in the master bedroom, which The Gent took. I made myself a corner with pillows and a folded coat. Enough. I've slept on worse.
Static took first watch in the recliner. Sergei organized rotations before anyone thought to argue. Rock stood in his corner — that mannequin stillness that isn't quite sleep and isn't quite anything else.
Around 1am I felt the floor move.
Light sleeper is the polite version. I'm someone who never fully goes under, which used to be a problem and is increasingly not. I was up before anyone finished turning over. Rock had already crossed to the window. Red glow, low on the horizon, north-to-south — western side of town. Not fire. Steady. The kind of light that doesn't explain itself.
Static started cataloguing. Scout drone or a human annihilator — both can track heat. I let him work. He knows machines the way I know rooms.
The tremors faded. The glow faded after them. The Gent said something into his pillow about going back to bed and was technically right, which is the most annoying version of right.
Rock tried the traffic cameras. Failed once, got in clean on the second pass — Barbie World playing on repeat for the duration, which I've stopped asking about. He pulled what the cameras had: Ellis and Main, roadway damaged, craters about ten feet apart. Church on Sonoma Ave, lit up. Abandoned cars, abandoned blocks, street lights still on at 1am.
He disconnected and told us what he'd found. Giant robot, he said — speculated, technically, but said it with the confidence of a man who has spent a lot of time living inside one.
The rest of the night was quiet.
May 7. Morning.
Church bells.
And then vehicles.
The town was not abandoned. That changes the math.
Water ran in the pipes, which I didn't expect. Sergei showered. The Gent made something edible out of what the tins had left. Outside, people were walking between the shops, keeping their eyes forward, doing what people do when they've agreed not to notice too much.
I noticed.
Jimmy's Auto Parts. Middle-aged, bald, orange-and-tan coveralls. First thing he did when all five of us walked in was spit on the floor.
We don't usually get this many strangers in at one time.
I introduced us. He confirmed the power surge — weird one, knocked out a lot of batteries, could get us a replacement tomorrow. Invited us to the church at eight, friendly as a man who knows he's being watched from somewhere.
The Gent and Static were already working out their reservations about Father Marcos before we reached the sidewalk. Static has spent years fighting machines and The Gent has a nose for leverage. Two of those instincts pointing at the same building is the kind of thing you write down.
We lost half an hour trying to get onto the Dollar General roof through a padlocked hatch while someone watched from across the street. The Gent whistled us down. I laughed when he called himself a law-abiding citizen on the way to the gas station, which probably surprised him.
The kid at the gas station had dead pumps and no batteries and a lot of enthusiasm about Father Marcos. The sky goes gold, he said. He was young enough that sounded like a good thing.
The fire station door was ajar.
Three firefighters inside. Decomposing. Neurocasters still on, still running. We turned the place over: two axes, a toolbox, a first aid kit. Kitchen food all gone to rot.
This happens all over the world, someone said. True enough to not argue with.
The Gent, standing in that dark, noted that the church had working electricity. I thought that was the right question.
The Church of the Angels was on Sonoma Ave — large lot, ash tree, cross lit up like it had somewhere to be. Jimmy Shute was in the parking lot and gave us a friendly wave as we passed.
Robot tracks in the road alongside it. Oval craters, ten feet apart, six feet deep.
I noted the placement. Filed it.
The used car lot had nothing but wrecks and a bad feeling Static couldn't place yet. I can usually tell when he's working something out. He hadn't finished.
Ramona's diner. Squat brick building. Open.
Green shirt, brown apron. She took our order without blinking and brought burgers for all of us. The local customers were gone before the food arrived — not leaving, signaling. Dustin and The Gent went outside to see where they went. Lost them in two blocks.
When I mentioned that we wanted to help, her face changed. Not far — she caught it — but it was there. She's afraid of the thing in the church. Most of the town calls it an angel.
The Dollar General's been closed five, six months, she said. Leaving is discouraged.
She wanted out. If we got the car running, she wanted to come with us. She put her address on the bill. No charge for the food.
I've known a lot of people who've learned to stop asking. She asked anyway.
We were still in the booth when the engine started outside — low and loud, calibrated to be heard.
Dodge Ram pickup. Raised body, large muffler. Jimmy Shute behind the wheel, rolling slow, the way a man rolls when he wants you to know he sees you.
He saw us.
We saw him.
I took a drink of water and waited for him to pass.