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It wasn't surprising the Angel of Death came to Fondrique.
I didn't think he would have white wings. Wings with soft, downy white feathers, fluffy as a featherbed. Wings that said he was an angel all right, but didn't place much emphasis on the death part.
The satellite broadcast blared all over town, but it wasn't necessary. When the Angel of Death was floating over your town square, you flocked to see it. Must've been the whole town there with me, belly to the ground, hiding behind whatever they could and peering out, unable to look away.
The Angel of Death had spiky blond hair and blaring blue eyes that shone like headlights through the night. He hovered above us, wings spread, a great silver gun at his side. He came at Prime Time, as if he knew the schedule of the satellite stations. Hell, he was a damn angel, he probably did; he probably could know anything he wanted to know.
"I am here to bring judgment on this town of sinners," the Angel pronounced, his voice crackling like lightning. I could feel my body shivering uncontrollably. I was sure I was going to die. And for the first time in my life I was sure Hell was very real, and I was imminently headed there.
"Your livelihood, your very lives, depend on a caravan that transports slaves. The head of the caravan knows this, and milks it for all it's worth. Your mayor knows. He keeps his son from interfering by making him the only key to the city. His son feels guilty and wants to protect you from the death you deserve. Yes, your mayor uses his own son as key to the city and manipulates him, and you, for his own financial gain. How many of you know, and tolerate all this? How many of you are slave traders yourselves? How many of you own slaves?"
We all looked uncomfortably at each other. Yeah, I guess I knew the caravans transported more than just dry goods, and I never really thought about it. Wasn't any of my business, really.
And now that I thought about it, suppose it had stuck in my craw that we were supporting slavery. Okay, let's say all of us in town got together, threatened the slavers and maybe took some of 'em out until they quit the business and got the hell out of town. Then what? Slavery wouldn't end. If those guys didn't start up again, someone else would. Life was too short to worry about things like that. Mind yer own business, that was safe, I'd always thought. I was still thinking it now, but I was about to be struck down for it. That put my lifelong beliefs in a very different light.
Fuck, had I lived my life wrong?
Well, it didn't matter. I wasn't gonna get another chance to live it better. It wasn't fair, but neither was life.
I wished the Angel of Death would hurry up, strike us down already and get it over with.
A dark-haired, dark-skinned man in black stepped out of the shadows and stood beside the Angel. "I am Chapel the Punisher, his Gun, and I'm here to carry out his judgment."
The man was a priest, or at least wore a priest's suit. He carried a cross covered with fabric. With a dramatic flick he let the cloth fall away, exposing that the cross was made of metal. He opened it and pulled two guns from it. His damn cross was a gun rack. A Beretta in each hand, he surveyed the crowd, as if trying to decide who to kill first.
I was so terrified I pissed myself. *Get this over with already,* I pleaded silently to them, as if they could read my mind. Actually, angels could probably do that, and anything else they damn well wanted.
"Before I pass judgment, Is anyone going to speak up in defense of themselves or their neighbors?" the Angel of Death demanded.
I thought someone would say something, but no one spoke a damn word.
The Angel and the Priest exchanged glances. The Angel looked almost disappointed, the Priest grim and unsurprised. They turned aside a moment to speak.
"I wasn't expecting them to love their neighbor enough to put in a good word for them, but not to defend themselves? That's a confession of guilt right there," the priest said.
"What bothers me is no one spoke up for their children," the Angel said. "Even in Sodom and Gomorrah, someone tries to bargain with God not to destroy the city, and actually gets him to agree not to raze it if he can find ten righteous men there."
"Lot," the priest filled in automatically.
"Reminds me of you," the Angel said, his voice fond. "It's too bad. If there had been a Lot or a you here, I might've let them off the hook."
I wasn't the only one who heard. Most of those within earshot started gabbling, begging the Angel to protect their grandmothers, children, neighbors, best friends, husbands, wives, and so on.
The priest turned his back. "Too little too late." The Angel watched, stoic and unmoved.
"Very well," he said in a monotone. "Children, run far away until you get to the next town. Don't look back or you might meet your doom. I will now pass over this town and every person in it will be destroyed. Your town will enter history alongside Lost July, Sodom, and Gomorrah. Vash the Stampede has spoken."
I shivered still harder at the name. I thought Vash the Stampede was just a boogeyman used to terrify misbehaving children. My mom scared me shitless with stories about him when I was little. But apparently, he was here, he was real, and he was the goddamn Angel of Death.
The priest went to work.
I fled. So did most of the adults, along with the children. I saw some fall, shot in the back, and ran faster, despite the stitch in my side. I was sure the Priest would take me out at any moment, but what else could I do? Fish swim, birds fly, people run to stay alive. I guess in all the screaming and running, I was missed, and managed to make it out of town to tell the tale.
I didn't look back, but I did return a few hours later, driven by morbid curiosity.
I thought I'd see bodies lying among ruins, or maybe pillars of salt where people once stood. Instead, there was an empty space where the town used to be.
Just like Lost July.
It was as if Fondrique had never existed.
Let me tell you, I will never sleep a full night again.