Nephilim Rising
Angelic Hosts Series, Book 4, Episode 2
Bad news, a missing person, and destiny…
“Major?” Antonio stood at attention before his superior, Major Edward J. Randolf. It was uncomfortably hot inside the tent. The heat made everyone moody, drained their energy. The major usually presented as irritable, but today, another expression claimed his features, one he couldn’t pinpoint.
“At ease, Diaz.” The major held a sheaf of papers in his hand. On top was a telegram.
Antonio relaxed his stance, clasping his hands behind his back.
“Son, we’ve received some news.” Major Randolf stood and pointed to a chair in front of his makeshift desk. “Have a seat.”
Antonio hesitated a moment, suddenly feeling alarmed. On his best day, his superior barked out commands like an angry pit bull as a way of communicating. And that was when he was in a good mood. Hearing him speaking in a normal tone, calling him ‘son’, and asking him to sit down was downright terrifying.
The man stood a mere inch taller than Antonio’s own height of 6’3”, but even with his own muscular build, the major seemed larger than life. His shaved head topped a thick neck set above broad shoulders and a solid, husky frame. His green eyes could pierce walls like laser beams, and his rough, pock-marked skin, no doubt from teenage acne, lent itself to an overall ruggedness. Coupled with his bristly personality, military experience, and rank, it was like coming before both your strict uncle and high school principal all at the same time. Unpleasant didn’t begin to describe it, but this was new territory, and Antonio was worried.
The major came around the desk and sat on the edge, looking down. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.” He caught Antonio’s eye. “It’s your father…”
Randolf handed over the telegram and sat quietly as the young soldier read the contents.
Antonio felt his heart contract in grief and pain. He clutched his uniform over that spot on his chest as if it might help, but the feeling of having the wind knocked out of him refused to abate. While he’d slept through the night, back home in San Antonio, his father, Eugenio Diaz, had died unexpectedly. The telegram came from his father’s friend and neighbor, Hector Gonzales.
‘It was quick, Mijo. A heart attack. We were playing chess like we usually do on Tuesdays when he just stopped, clutched his chest, and fell forward. I called an ambulance, and they tried to revive him, but he was already gone. I’m so sorry, ‘Tonio. I’ll wait for your reply. Tell me what you want me to do.’ ~ Hector.
The major reached out, patting Antonio’s shoulder once before giving it a squeeze. “Your tour is almost up, Diaz. Command has issued an early out for you. They’re aware you’re an only child and know you’re needed back home for this, to make arrangements and handle your father’s estate. Know that we’re here for you. Take all the time you need, and if you should decide to re-up, you have my personal recommendation.”
Antonio swallowed. “Thanks, Major,” he whispered.
“There’s a transport out in one hour. Get your gear together. You’re going to be on that chopper.”
Dazed, Antonio stood, pulled himself together, and saluted. He waited until Major Randolf returned the gesture, then turned to leave the tent. Outside, his friend and brother in arms Diego Ortiz waited. Upon seeing the look on Antonio’s face, he paused.
“What is it? What did he want?”
Antonio blinked, holding back the emotions, and answered his friend.
“My dad, man. He…” The lump in his throat choked off his words.
“Aw, damn, man. I’m sorry.” Diego had heard every story about Mr. Diaz. He and Antonio had been friends since their first day at boot camp. By sheer luck, they’d been assigned to the same tour of duty in Afghanistan, and had stayed by each other’s side, had each other’s six since.
“I have to pack. There’s a transport incoming—”
“I’ll help you. Come on.” Diego threw his arm around Antonio’s shoulders, steering him back towards the barracks.
Antonio walked blindly, not seeing the people they passed. His focus was inward, on the memories of the last time he saw his father. If he’d known then it would be the very last time… He shook his head as a tear slid down his cheek and pain pierced his heart. Suddenly, his skin blazed with heat and prickled as an odd feeling swept over him. His vision narrowed, and he swore he could hear the blood rushing through his veins—just for a second.
Diego opened the door of the barracks and gave his friend a gentle nudge.
Blinking hard, Antonio sucked in air and blew out a breath. The feeling passed as quickly as it came on. He glanced at his watch. No time to grieve. He had less than an hour left to pack his gear and bug out.
***
Blanca Ramos grabbed her purse from her locker, punched out on the clock, picked up her plastic bag containing two cheese enchilada dinners with a bag of tortilla chips and two small containers of the house salsa, and headed out the door. Rosario’s was known for its salsa. People flocked to the downtown restaurant every day, mostly native San Antonians, but also tourists seeking to try the local flavors of South Texas. Tonight had been particularly busy, and after waiting on tables for eight hours, she was tired and hungry. Worse, she stunk like cumino, chilis, and fajitas. The odors saturated her hair and uniform. The scents embedded themselves into her nostrils, and only after walking a block south on St. Mary’s, and then east on Pareida did she begin to notice other smells.
By the time she reached the one-hundred block of Leigh Street, the scents of Magnolia trees, honeysuckle vines, and bougainvillea filtered in, filling her with a sense of calm. The night grew quieter the further away from downtown she walked. This was not the best section of San Antonio to be walking alone, especially late at night, but she was known here, and Blanca knew no one would try to cause her harm. The last person who’d tempted fate ended up with a great deal of pain and a black eye for his efforts. That was Alejandro, a neighborhood drug dealer trying to dog her for her phone number while spewing lewd suggestions for the entertainment of his friends. He was surprised when the petite Latina balled up her fist, swung, and connected with his face before grabbing his arm and spinning around, using his own momentum to handily throw him over her shoulder. He landed on his back, hard, cracking three ribs on his left side.
His flunkies had laughed. One of the two knuckle-draggers hooted, “I told you so, homie! She don’t play.”
Alejandro’s fixation shifted to a darker place after the incident. He didn’t say anything to her anymore. Instead, he watched her come and go, and sometimes followed, slowly stalking her to and from work with his flunkies Joker and Sam trailing, but never approaching. It worried her, more than she would admit, seeing the tall thug with tattoos up and down his neck and arms casually smoking a cigarette as he focused on her movements. But there was no one to tell, no one in her life outside of her little brother she could go to for help. She’d begun carrying pepper spray in her purse as a precaution.
After that incident, Blanca Ramos earned a reputation. They called her la Cabrona, (the mean girl). At five feet, two inches tall and barely one-hundred-five pounds, she seemed too small to be any kind of a threat, but that was her best advantage. With her short, wavy, dark-brown hair and large brown eyes, she resembled a Mexican pixie. People underestimated her. Her strength came from the fact that she’d grown up mostly on her own, going from one foster home to the next.
Raising herself was hard enough, but she had a little brother, Roberto, two years her junior for whom she took on the responsibility of care. It was never easy. Most of the time, it was downright terrifying. Two of their foster families didn’t want to take them both, and one wanted to adopt Berto, but not her. She’d caused a big stink then, including her little brother in the tirade enough to get them both yanked out and placed elsewhere—together.
It wasn’t easy at all, but she managed to prevent the foster care court system from splitting them up. Their last foster parents, Darius Jones, a Baptist preacher on the east side of San Antonio, and his wife, Thelma, let her stay with them until Berto graduated from high school. Blanca had only managed a GED, opting to work as many hours waitressing in local, hole-in-the-wall restaurants as she could instead of studying. She’d dropped out in ninth grade, causing no end of havoc for their previous foster family, the Millers, a cold couple of faux-Christians who withheld food as punishment for disobeying their orders. When Blanca and Roberto failed to live up to their ever-changing and twisted values, they went hungry. Berto never complained though. He was always quiet, nose in a book, or outside trying to save stray animals. It was his thing. Wherever an injured bird, starved cat, or abandoned dog appeared, somehow, they managed to find her brother, and he gave up the little bit of food the Millers doled out to feed them.
It broke Blanca’s heart. She could deal with being hungry, but she’d be damned if she let her little brother go without, so she began skipping school and found a job nearby at a taqueria. She’d lied about her age, giving herself one more year in order to be hired. She worked for tips, which meant hustling her butt off. It paid off enough for her to purchase snacks that she always kept hidden in a box under her bed, and she brought home leftovers from each day’s menu. If nothing else, she kept them fed. Blanca saved what little money she had left after that, stuffing the crumpled dollar bills inside her Teddy bear, a remnant from another life.
Once upon a time, they had an old aunt who took care of them, the sister of their mother, Diana, who’d passed away giving birth to Roberto. She didn’t remember her mother, but she remembered, fondly, her Tia Marta. Marta was diagnosed with lung cancer when Blanca was only five years old. She lived only one year after that, passing away in her sleep after suffering through the debilitating pain of a disease that laid waste to a once vibrant woman with laughing brown eyes.
There was no one after that, and the state took over their care, placing the siblings into foster care with brief stints in between housed in Boysville, an orphanage for boys and girls. Why the heck they called it Boysville was beyond her understanding, but Blanca preferred it there rather than with some family just trying to collect a check from the state. At least the people who worked at Boysville had been kind to her and her brother. But that was then.
Now, she worked fifty hours a week or more to afford the rent on a tiny two-bedroom house on Leigh Street, a home of their own within walking distance to work at Rosario’s. She’d done everything she could to get Berto enrolled into college courses at the Texas A&M downtown campus, working with his guidance counselor to obtain Pell Grants to pay for his tuition. He took the bus to classes during the week and worked part-time on the weekend bussing tables at the restaurant.
Blanca smiled to herself. Roberto was going to be a veterinarian. He had the intelligence, the good grades, and the disposition to work with animals. She was proud of her brother, and prouder still that she’d managed to keep them going long enough to make it this far, to keep them both off the streets.
She pulled out her keys and unlocked the front door. Stepping through, she announced, “Hey, Berto. Food’s here!” She closed and locked the door behind her, walking to the small eat-in kitchen, and setting the bag down on the cheap, folding card table where they ate. She kicked off her shoes and sat down to rub her feet. The ache was familiar, a reminder of the long hours of hard work serving hot plates of food to picky customers. It was also a reminder she’d earned money, some of which was shoved into her pockets. Blanca pulled out the crumpled dollar bills and laid them out before her, smoothing the paper and stacking them by value. Ones on the left, the largest pile, followed by a few fives. There was even some change which she automatically tossed into the pink piggy bank that sat between the salt and pepper shakers. They were fancy, those shakers, lifted from her one venture inside the dining room of the Hilton Palacio Del Rio Hotel. She wasn’t proud of that, but it was already so long ago, and she figured they could afford the loss. They were pretty, cut glass with sterling silver toppers, and an H prominently painted in silver on the front. At the time, the H stood for ‘help yourself’ as far as she was concerned.
She’d finished counting out her tips, one hundred twenty-six dollars total, before she realized the house was quiet and she was still alone. Roberto hadn’t come out of his room.
“Berto!” she shouted, rising to walk down the short hallway. Standing outside of his door, she knocked once before opening it. “Hey, dinner’s on the...” Her words trailed off as she peered into the empty room.
It was almost ten. He knew he was supposed to let her know if he was going out. It was her one rule, that, and studying hard and staying out of trouble.
Worry seeped through her veil of fatigue and sent her straight to the backyard where her brother kept his pigeons. The coop was silent. All the birds were asleep on their perches. Hercules didn’t even crack an eye at her, and he was usually easily startled. Blanca supposed he was just used to her, probably knew her by sight and scent or some such. She didn’t understand birds, but Berto did. He had an uncanny affinity with all creatures, large and small, furred and feathered. They loved him. But he wasn’t out here.
Her worry turned to anger. She stomped back inside, pulling her cell phone from her back pocket, and fired off a text.
‘Where are you? You better call me back right now!’
She waited. No answer.
Beside her on the table, the food grew cold, forgotten. After three long minutes passed without a return call, Blanca slipped her sneakers back on, grabbed her purse and keys, and headed back out the door. She had no idea where to look, but as she locked the front door, she glanced over her shoulder at the street eyeing the shadows. They reached out ominously, covering everything in darkness in between the weak filter of two corner streetlights. Her right hand fingered the cannister of pepper spray dangling from the key ring before closing around it in a tight grip. With a final prayer, she set out back down the street, retracing her steps.
“When I find you, hermanito, I’m going to whip the tar out of you!” she muttered beneath her breath.
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