Nephilim Rising
Angelic Hosts Series, Book 4, Episode 3
Life is a battlefield…
Antonio paid the cab driver, offering a generous tip. He slung his duffel bag over his shoulder and turned to face the house on the corner of Cedar and Pereida Street. The wide front porch sagged like an old man’s legs bent at the knees with age, crippled with arthritis. The windows, usually aglow with warm lamplight, were dark. The silence surrounding him pressed in, sucking the air from his lungs. He took a deep breath and stepped onto the curb, approaching the rusted, chain-link fence. Lifting the latch, he walked through the gate, closing it behind him.
He still had his key for emergencies. Antonio looked down at the dulled metal in his hand. The emergency had come and gone before he’d even known about it. Being half a world away had rendered the key useless. Grief squeezed his heart, stopping him on the doorstep. He’d have to open the door at some point or else a neighbor would call the police to report an intruder. Looking over his shoulder, Antonio glanced up at the moon. It was almost full. The rock in the night sky seemed brighter than normal. It pulled at him, an odd feeling. He shook off the strange sensation and slid the key into the lock before his conscience could sway him from the task. With a click, the lock released, and the door swung open. The painful realization hit him that there was no one inside to welcome him home.
Stale air stirred with every step he took. The duffel bag slid off his shoulder, landing on the faded oak floor by the staircase. No loud, gruff voice greeted him. No arms reached around pulling him in close and ruffling his hair, not that he had any to ruffle. The crew cut replaced the wavy brown locks of his youth, long-gone after spending the last three years serving his country. Antonio admitted to himself that despite the very real danger overseas of Islamic extremists, after two tours, he had no clear idea on what exactly the American military was trying to accomplish in Afghanistan. Even Russia knew that continuous engagement with Taliban forces led to nothing but financial losses. It was not a war that could be won with weapons. They could kill the soldiers, but not the ideology. For every one they killed, ten more joined the cause, full of self-righteous belief, fueled by hatred, ready to kill westerners and all that they represent.
He’d met the locals in the surrounding villages. Tribes of people just trying to survive. Some were curious, asking lots of questions about what it’s like to live in the United States. When they discovered he was from Texas, they asked if everyone rode around on horses, wearing cowboy hats. Antonio had chuckled, explaining that the only horsepower people used in San Antonio was their cars. The villagers were in awe when they learned that so many people owned one or more vehicles.
The American military built a few schools in the provinces, making education possible for those interested, even the young girls and women who were generally forbidden to learn to read. For them, his presence along with his Marine brothers and sisters, was good, but the tribesmen were mostly against the occupation and interference by the Infidels. It felt, to Antonio, more a humanitarian mission rather than a military one, until he was sent closer to the border of Pakistan. That was the true threat – a nuclear-armed country that harbors terrorists while claiming alliance with the U.S. and accepting millions in arms and aid, arms that end up in the hands of the very Taliban terrorists he was charged with neutralizing.
He’d gained more knowledge of the world than he cared to know, and once known, could not be ignored. His Pops couldn’t make it better by patting his back, ruffling his hair, or taking him fishing. The only wisdom he shared came during his visit a year and a half ago.
“Mijo, you can only do what you can do, and the best thing you can do is always be kind. Remember, God is watching.”
Antonio sat down in the Navy-blue recliner with the gray flannel blanket folded neatly over the armrest. It was Eugenio’s spot, the place where he’d watched football games on Sundays, and murder mysteries during prime time while eating dinners on a TV tray. It even smelled like him, giving off the faintest hint of Old Spice.
Tears stung his eyes, welling up, and sliding down his cheeks. Now that he was home, reality sank in, piercing his heart. He was never going to see his Pops again. He was gone. It was too late to save him, too late even to say goodbye. Antonio sat in the dark, weeping. He felt broken to his soul, all alone now in this messed up world.
An hour passed before he pulled himself together. Looking up, he checked the time on the old clock on the mantle. It amazed Antonio that the old thing still worked, ticking away. It had been on that mantle for as long as he could remember, housed inside a carved wooden casing with intricate swirls. The burnish on the wood had long faded to a dulled brown, the copper edging the central clock face now green with age. Pops would wind it up every night before bed. He figured Hector must’ve done the honors, knowing he was expected to arrive. He stood and walked to it, noting it was nearing twenty-three hundred hours. His stomach grumbled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten anything in the last seven hours besides airline peanuts. Rosario’s was just around the corner and would be closing soon. He might just make it in time to grab some takeout. He picked up his keys and after turning on the living room lamp, headed out, walking down Cedar, and hanging a right onto South Alamo.
He could smell the scents of Mexican seasonings on the air. His feet moved forward following his nose. Shoving his hands deeper into the pockets of his gray hoodie, he ignored the unusual feeling tugging at his insides, attributing it to hunger and grief. He stopped once, looking over his shoulder and scanning the area, a habit formed from both training and living in constant danger inside hot zones in a war-torn country for the last three years. At twenty-three, he felt like a man twice his age. The pursuits of young men in the states didn’t include obsessively checking over one’s shoulder and peering suspiciously around corners for possible ambushes. It didn’t include stifling the spike in adrenaline every time a loud noise burst into the silence or a vehicle backfired. It also didn’t include living with perpetual anxiety, but his life did, and he didn’t know how to turn it off, so when his instincts told him something wasn’t right, he heeded them. In this case, they were screaming. But when he checked, there was no one there. Still, the feeling of being watched nagged at him, all the way to the restaurant.
***
The corner house located midway to her job was a haven for low-lifes. It belonged to Alejandro, the dealer she’d humiliated by throwing him to the ground, the same one that stalked her since. She had no idea why she felt drawn to the scumbag’s abode. It wasn’t as if Berto had ever hung out with him. Quite the opposite, actually. Berto seemed to instinctively sense the bad in the man although she’d never told her brother about her own run-in with him. Even so, a thought pricked her subconscious; Alejandro hadn’t followed her tonight. Her walk home proceeded without incident. There was no tingling sensation of awareness, no lifting of the hairs on the back of her neck. If he hadn’t followed her as had become his habit, then why? What was he up to?
The dilapidated Bungalow-styled home combined with a touch of Greek Revivalism leaned slightly left on a shifted foundation. Blue paint, faded over years in the South Texas sun, peeled from corners in large chunks while the once white trim had turned a hideous shade of yellowish gray, resembling rotted teeth. The surrounding yard was littered with trash where visible and covered with broken-down cars rusting away in overgrown weeds. The front door was open. Loud rap music blared out into the street reaching her ears as she stood on the other side of the road.
As she watched, two men came from around the backside of the house. She recognized them. Joker and Sam, Alejandro’s moronic sidekicks. Sam puffed a joint and handed it off to Joker. Joker, who stood barely two inches taller than Blanca, but was as round as he was tall, choked on the smoke, launching into a coughing fit. Sam, just a few inches taller than Joker, maintaining a muscular build, laughed. He slapped the shorter man on the back.
Joker bent over, sucking in deep breaths, and when he stood up again, caught sight of her.
“Hey, it’s la Cabrona!” He pointed.
Sam turned his head, finding her in the half-light of the nearly full moon. “’Jandro!” he shouted.
A shadow crossed the door, and Alejandro came into view. He looked at Sam who stood pointing across the street. His gaze shifted as he reached behind him, pulling a gun from his waistband. His eyes found her, and a sinister smile spread across his lips.
He stepped out and walked down three steps to the dirt pathway.
Blanca looked him over from the wife-beater t-shirt he wore to the low-hanging blue jeans barely held up by his belt; the saggy-pants style reaffirming his criminal status in her mind. White sneakers completed his ensemble along with two gold chains around his neck and a gold watch that only drug money could buy. She noticed he still held the gun in his right hand, a subtle threat.
His gazed raked her from head to toe in return. “Looking mighty fine tonight, Blanca. You lookin’ for me?”
“Where’s my brother?” Blanca stood with her feet apart, hands at her sides; strong, yet defiant.
His lips twitched at the corners. “What makes you think I would know that?”
“Don’t play games with me. He’s not home. He knows he’s supposed to tell me when he goes out. You’re always watching, Alejandro. Either you know where he went…”
His smile disappeared. He glared at the young woman. “Or?”
She took a deep breath. “Or you have him.”
The man squared his shoulders and pointed the gun in her general direction as if pointing a finger. “Why don’t you come over here, then, and have a look.” He waved the gun towards the house.
Sam and Joker exchanged glances. Joker turned, entering the house. Sam remained outside, taking up point behind Alejandro.
Blanca stood stock still rooted in two shades of fear. One was for her brother, the other, for her own safety. The first fear was stronger, and she stepped off the curb.
Alejandro’s smile increased, like a croc showing his teeth.
Blanca felt her heart racing in her chest as adrenaline zinged through her veins. She gripped the pepper spray cannister hidden in her jacket pocket, her fingers already in position to launch the irritant at a moment’s notice.
She edged past Alejandro who stepped back and executed a mocking bow. She noticed Sam’s eyes narrowed when she glanced sideways as she tried to keep them both in her peripheral vision. Her entire being was on red alert as she ascended the three steps onto the sagging porch, stopping just shy of entering the wide-open doorway. Blanca leaned in, letting her eyes scan the interior. The faint tungsten lighting from a small lamp next to a torn-up gray couch cast eerie shadows across the floor and up the stained walls. She felt the presence of the two men at her back, her skin prickling with warning. As she looked deeper into the living room, she caught sight of a dark mass huddled in the far corner. The mass moved forward, entering into the weak light. Berto’s face came into view, covered in bruises.
She rushed in.
“Berto! Oh my God!” Blanca raced to her brother who reached for her with hands bound at the wrists by a red bandana. He tried to speak, but a cloth gag rendered his words unintelligible.
“Mmnn oomph!” Roberto howled.
Blanca struggled to untie his hands, tears stinging her eyes and blurring her vision. “I’m going to kill him,” she whispered.
“What was that?” Alejandro spoke from inside the door. “I didn’t quite hear you, Blanca.”
She threw a furious glare over her shoulder. “I said I’m going to kill you, you scumbag!” She loosened the bandana enough for Roberto to slip his hands free. Cautiously, he removed the gag from his mouth.
“Don’t antagonize him, sister. He’s dangerous.” Roberto whispered the words close to her ear. “That dude ain’t right in the head. He’s loco. We just need to get out of here.” He slid his feet under his body, balancing in a squat. Slowly, he inched forward, putting himself between his sister and Alejandro. He kept his eyes on the thug and the flunkies now standing on either side of him. “We’re going to leave now. You got what you wanted. You scared us, okay? She’s scared now. Let that be the end. We won’t call the police, Alejandro. We’ll just go on about our way.” Roberto stood cautiously as he spoke, reaching behind himself to protect Blanca. Pain wracked him from the beating he’d sustained, but fear for his sister’s life drove him past it.
Alejandro laughed. “What makes you think I got what I wanted yet?” He looked past Roberto at Blanca who, instead of appearing frightened, looked angry. “I don’t think she needs your protection, boy. I don’t think she wants it. But I know what she wants.” He stood with his feet spread, gun in hand, tapping the steel against his thigh.
Sam and Joker chuckled.
“Yeah, she wants it, ‘Jandro,” said Joker.
Alejandro looked at Roberto, but spoke to Sam. “The boy can leave now. I don’t need him anymore. Make sure he finds his way out, Sam.”
“No!” Roberto shouted. “You’re not touching my sister, you freaking thug!”
“What did you call me, little boy?” Alejandro moved quickly across the room, his thick frame dwarfing the eighteen-year-old.
“No, Berto. Go! Get out of here!” Blanca stepped between them. “Don’t worry. I know how to handle this.”
“Yeah, son. She knows how to handle herself without you. Run along.” Alejandro grinned, but it was an evil smile. “Sam,” he directed.
Sam grabbed Roberto’s arm, dragging him across the floor to the door.
“No! Blanca! I’m not going to leave you! No!”
As Alejandro watched Roberto being hauled out, he laughed, forgetting the young woman standing before him.
Blanca braced her feet, reached up, and sank her fingernails into Alejandro’s upper arms. Before he could blink, she slammed her knee into his crotch. Then all hell broke loose.
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